Spanish Adjustments

Apart from the short break we took to Bologna in early November for Gill's birthday, last autumn was the first we had spent in the UK since we retired. We feel this in our bones and aching joints as well as a general lack of fitness resulting from being stuck indoors for weeks on end watching the rain come down.

It was simpler in previous years to fly back to the motorhome parked in Málaga or Catania and re-join a trip half competed rather than start one from scratch on January 4th. Hopping onto the 199  bus from Buxton to Manchester airport then catching a budget flight to some spot in the Med is a straightforward proposition compared to the rigmarole of the past six days, involving a nauseating 30 hour sea voyage, three car park sleepovers and one camping stop in sub-zero conditions in the frosty grounds of Hotel Regio in the unprepossessing outskirts of Salamanca. 

Now finally we have arrived on the southern coast of Spain. What was six hours, door to door, by plane took six days by land and sea. Still, it was great to wake up this morning in the far corner of Andalucia, and realise I had no need to drive anywhere else. However, the effect of the last few day's has left me feeling a tad bamboozled and mightily knackered. 

Consequently things seem slightly odd and other worldly. For example, we decided to cycle to the supermarket then go to a small place for a tapas lunch that Gill had found with good reviews on Google. On the way Gill stopped to take a photo of the estuary.

This is the place where the inshore fishermen who specialise in catching shellfish anchor their small boats. The big commercial tuna vessels are moored in the main harbour on the other side of town. Both places tend to be a hive of activity - net mending, tackle fixing and  fiddling about with recalcitrant engines. 

The promenade by the estuary, in the morning especially, is also a social hub. By the look of it, it seems retired fishermen gather here in small groups to gossip and observe their younger compatriots busily messing about on the river. Presumably they are busy keeping an eye on them to make sure standards of boat tinkering have not slipped in recent years.

As Gill parked her bike one of the older men turned his gaze from the tackle tinkering to stare at us instead. I had the uncanny sensation that his face was familiar - thin and somewhat craggy with a deep set eyes and a straggly black beard edged with grey. After a moment or two it struck me why I thought I had seen him before, staring from a gallery wall somewhere - he bore an uncanny resemblance to a painting of St Francis by Zurabán. Spain at its most modern has the knack of suddenly surprising you with  moments that feel timeless or slightly exotic.

Similarly, a little later, as we pushed our bikes, panniers laden with groceries from Mercadona, down a narrow pavement towards the café, our process was halted mometarily by two elderly women who had stopped for a chat. The one directly in front of me stepped aside with a smile. She too had a beautiful old face and equally could have gazed at me from some picture by a Spanish old master. However, that is where the resemblance ended, for she was dressed quite stylishly in lycra leggings and a striking tangerine quilted jacket which matched perfectly with the orange stripes on her trainers. Perhaps she had been to the gym. The 'exotic' moment came when she made sweeping gesture with right hand signalling that we might pass by. A small cheroot dangled between her fingers, l caught a whiff of its spicy aroma as I squeezed through.

In fact this was our second attempt of the day to arrive at this café. Our first, about 45 minutes ealier, proved that we had yet to adjust to the rhythm of local life. It was 12.50am when we first presented ourselves and attempted to order tapas. The waiter explained patiently that the kitchen would not be ready for least another half hour. So we headed off to Mercadona to do some shopping. When we returned most of the tables on the narrow pavement had filled up, but luckily there was still one vacant. It was busy with locals and doing a brisk trade in take-aways too - a good indication that the food on offer would be excellent.

The price of the 'small plates' ranged from €2 to €3. We shared a 'tuna a la casa', some meatballs, prawns deep-fried in breadcrumbs and a similar dish filled with Iberico ham in a creamy sauce. .

The final bill for the four plates, accompanied by thin chips, a small bowl of crunchy salted chickpeas plus a glass of white wine each was a mere €14. No wonder the place is popular and gets positive reviews.

However, value for money isn't the thing that gives such places their charm, it's the fact that they provide a social hub for the entire neighborhood. Three generations of the same family had lunch at the small table next to us, they ran a kind of rotation system with Grandma as the hub. She stayed throughout as various grownup offspring, their partners and their children dropped by, either for a drink or snack. All the while friends who were passing stopped to shake hands, children were kissed, people hugged; it was lovely to watch.

I tried to calculate the total amount of time we have spent in Spain since we started our travels in 2014. I figured it must be a week or two short of a year. We have seen the sites, admired its magnificent landscapes, tried as best we could to enjoy even the more concreted costas, but it is not these things that draw us back. It is Spain's open, social culture, enacted often outdoors, at times mysterious, but always inclusive and happy to welcome strangers. Of all the places we have travelled, we have encountered more acts of spontaneous generosity and kindness here than anywhere else.

Altogether it has been a day of mundane delights. I think it is the accretion of intruiging moments, the extraordinary everyday that feeds our travel bug, not the must see sites, jaw dropping landscapes or bucket list highlights. Though getting here has been challenging, it is good to be back in the van with two months of simply wandering about in prospect.