Sunday Market

We woke to blue skies. At the end of the marina a market was spread along the walkway in front of the restaurants.

Market Stalls

Shoe shops, leather goods, sparkly jewellery and ladies clothing in a variety of man made fabrics lined up to receive a stream of bargain hunters. The cafes were doing a roaring trade and it was standing room only in the jazz bar. We wandered along one side and down the other and then spotted more of it across the roundabout. I was tempted to buy some tiny brightly painted pots, and then we retired into one of the restaurants to watch proceedings over a coffee. John’s phone graphics showed more thunder and lightning to come and we watched as a stall holder with a Dustin Hoffman look set tenting his emporium of ladies tops with plastic sheeting, as his glamorous assistant valiantly sold on.

Anxious to go to the supermarket before the weather broke we paid and emerged to see black clouds piling up over the mountains. Our rush round the supermarket was somewhat thwarted by the mammoth queue to pay, but finally we headed back to Lyra and just made it over the gangplank as the first large spots began to fall. We unloaded our goods as the rain fell and thunder sighed in the distance. When all was quiet John poked his head out and all trace of the market and its’ custom had vanished.

We have now come down to the much quieter jazz bar and I am busy publishing like mad, but the bandwidth will still not support pictures.

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