This island is fair getting your narrator down. The locals snivel and look for a way to rob you, dusky Frenchmen patrol the market places looking for a way to con you, and ruby cheeked transvestites look for a way to bum you.
Jean Baptiste has said nothing for four hours which, in a way, is a blessing as showers of saliva usually follow his attempts to vocalise consonants. Perhaps if he fails as a tour guide, he can gain a career from being a lawn sprinkler. Set his dial to Norwegian and the little Gallic shit will have your laburnums blooming by April.
We haven't eaten for a day save some mouldy pistachios and some bitter tea. Connie is looking a little better and is attempting to walk unaided. Perhaps that mysterious Vet has plugged her up with cow valium and taken the edge off the pain.
Uncle Francis Merriweather Gooselane is complaining like a hairy bearded child about missing the sea. I suggest sardonically that he stand a little closer to Baptiste and ask him to spell Mississippi. He frowns and mubbles something which sounds very like "Suck my sea faring scrotum". I really hate that mermaid killing old spunk bag.
We have entered the borders of the Niolo region, a strange and extremly hostile environment which flits between scorching parched rock paths and snow capped mountain peaks.
Baptiste has assured us that we can expect a night of rest at a villa near the town of Lozzi.
At the minute we are resting between a dusty set of barren crags. My rambling head should be enjoying this, but I fear we may be walking into an Auchteraide style trap, and I cannot sit still. The incandescent heart of this country is filled with mystery and death. All around is nothingness. Baptiste's joyous tales of spectral devils roaming this barren land only adds to the glamour. Prick. I try to get some well needed sleep---
"Bon-n-n-n-n-njout-r-r-r-r-r-r M-m-m-m-m-m-on-n-n-n-n-n-nsieur-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r. Ee-e-eeeee-e-e-ett-t-t-ttt-t-t- es ti-i-immme to mmmma-a-a--kkeee-e a m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-mm--oo-v-v-v-e."
We rise and get our things together. The path through the mountains must be traversed before we reach the Villa Du Feesh Feengre. Even this does not warm my heart, as I fear I shall be on guard the full night. I don't trust Baptiste. His stammering, mumbling and odd coloured eyeball do not serve to ease my mind. I have noticed his sly, brutish glances at Connie when she changes the dressing on her leg. I have his card firmly marked. The spitting frog bastard.
And so it's onward rambling soldiers. Into the heart of darkness. Into the vast gorges and plateaus of the Corze Du Belle Onde and whatever else beyond.
02/09/06
Niolo Region
