Saturday night, the sky opens up with feathers. We are in the city street. Angels spin and fly above us on ziplines. It’s a summer evening, but these feathers come down like snow. Strangers take to playing in the street, chase each other and dump armloads of feathers on each other’s heads. Everywhere I look people are laughing, unweary, unwary.
Sunday, we ride around the island. Everything salty and bleached. We stop at one beach after another, sometimes swimming, sometimes looking out at abandoned osprey nests, the remnants of a shipwreck, the small dugite slithering into the underbrush, innumerable birds.
I get sunburnt. Let no-one say otherwise - the Australian sun is brutal.
Even now, I find feathers in my hair, in my bag. One sticks to my eyelash as I sleep. I know I left some on the island.
Tight forearms from Saturday climbing, weary legs from the Sunday cycling.
The best way to carry the weekend with you is on the body.