I watch Richard head up the plaza and disappear before making my way over to Pedro"s café. La Cacharra is alive with patrons; remarkable for a Thursday morning, and almost all the outdoor seating is taken. I spot a free table set to one side of the café entrance, nestling beneath the boughs of a laurel tree, deeply in the shade.
I sit with my back to the restaurant wall and remove my sunglasses, grateful for the solitude. Richard is a draining companion at the best of times but when he"s endeavouring to contrive a plot, he"s insufferable. At least I managed to provide him with a modicum of inspiration. It continues to amaze me that he knows so little about Lanzarote.
The bustle of the café, the familiarity, the oasis of the plaza with its exotic laurels and eucalypts, there is nowhere on
