Last week I went on a relaxing family holiday to the Costa Brava with my wife, Wortha, and Gavin, my faithful manservant cyclops. The hotel was adequate and the foreign food bearable, but by the end of the second evening the lack of adventure was growing tiresome. Fired up by a jug of sangria Gavin and I ventured out into the mountains to seek some excitement. It seemed like our foray was destined to end fruitlessly when a piercing shriek broke the silence of the cool night air. It was me. My foot had fallen down a pothole. On closer inspection, though, this was no ordinary pothole. It seemed to me to be the doorway to a magical kingdom. So I instructed Gavin to get out his trusty shovel and dig. Soon he had broken through to a vast cavern stretching for as far as our eyes could see. We made our way, gingerly, along the intricate maze of pathways hewn into the rock, by hands immeasurably older than ours. Indeed, the whole cavern was permeated with a sense of ancient mysticalityness. As we passed further and further into that dark place we both knew that something very special was about to happen...
Anyway, to cut a long story short, we found a lost race of Spanish Elfdings, were worshipped as gods due to our appearance fulfilling some ancient prophecy or what-not, got caught trying to steal their sacred crystals and had to flee for our lives. We made it back in time for the buffet on Wednesday evening and Wortha hadn't even noticed we'd been gone. Said something about Jordi, the Hotel's resident musician entertaining her all night long. I saw his show on the thursday night but must admit to not thinking it that effective.
