I’m on the beach with Coleridge.

He’s bitching about Crowley. “Always late with the stuff” he says. He’s been to Palermo on the train to get supplies. Heroin. Coleridge prefers opium.

“More natural,” he sneers.

There are no albatrosses here, but Coleridge is certainly carrying something on his back today.

“Where are the women?” he asks.

I tell him they are shopping for food. Crowley has given them a list of what he wants: spirits and wine, food and vegetables. Maybe a live chicken or two.

I turn over on my blue-and-white striped beach towel and close my eyes.

And all the ships stand still.

Paul Conneally
8th October 2026
Cefalù, Sicily