My suitcase stinks of red wine...

No, it's not a euphemism nor a coded exchange between secret agents; my suitcase does actually stink of red wine.

Whenever I come to Fuerteventura, I always stay at the same hotel and for the last few stays they've left me a bottle of red wine as a form of thanks. This is on top of the free bottle with which they greet every guest. There's only so much red wine a man can glug (and I can glug a fair bit).

After my evening run and swim I settle down with a vodka and coke to write this blog. As much as I like red wine, it tends to mess me up for the next day and I don't see the point of flying all the way to the Canaries for some winter sun, only to spend the day in bed with a hangover. So vodka wins the day.

Anyway, long story short; last night I decided that I'd put the red wine in my suitcase so that I didn't forget it. Whilst it's not a great red, it's certainly drinkable. As I righted the case I heard the shattering of glass and red liquid running out onto the floor. Upon opening the case, it was littered with shards of glass and saturated with red wine. I put it on the balcony to dry out and I swept up the glass as best I could.

Today was a strange day weather wise. It started out quite promisingly but by mid afternoon the sun gracefully conceded defeat to the clouds and I wended my way back home from the beach. I think I know why my leg muscles have been so tight the last few days; I believe it's all the walking on sand I'm doing - some 4km a day (not a huge distance but if you're not used to walking on sand...).

My run tonight was enjoyable under the overcast sky. Yes, my leg muscles ached but now that I knew the cause it was less of a concern. When I got back to the hotel, I dived into the pool and luxuriated in the cool water knowing that this was doing my aching muscles a power of good.

It was when I returned to my room after my swim that I noticed that my suitcase stank of red wine - in fact, the entire room stank of red wine. I could smell it the moment I opened the door; that stale and fruity mix with the vinegar top notes. Clearly, I couldn't take my clothes home in it; customs at Cardiff would think that George Best had arrived.

I opened the case. Put it in the bath and turned on the shower. The case is now drying on my balcony. The clouds have cleared and, as I write this (sat on my balcony with my vodka), the evening is a splendidly sunny one. And there's not a whiff of red wine to sniffed anywhere.