Sarah booked us into El Portal restaurant In Tossa de Mar the last time we were here. It enjoys an international reputation for enhancing traditional Spanish tapas by introducing 'small plate' cooking techniques from Japan, Korea and South America. As one reviewer on TripAdvisor noted, you get Michelin three star quality without the hefty price tag.
We promised ourselves a return visit. It should have been simple, Tossa de Mar is only 3km from Cala Levado. There is a coastal footpath but it's a tad precarious for us these days. In summer there is a half hourly service between Lloret and Tossa, passing the junction to the site. It's a steep 800m walk up to the bus stop, but doable. No-one in reception could tell us whether the bus times taped to the door were still current.
We decided to give it a go anyway. We huffed and puffed up the hill to the main road and stood on the scrap of waste ground in front of a restaurant that we discovered last time served as Cala Llevado's secret bus stop.
In the following 35 minutes many interesting things occured: a swarm of large red admiral butterflies gathered around the fetid ornamental pond in front of the shuttered restaurant; a white van parked in the gateway of the ruined commercial building opposite, two men and two spaniels alighted, unlocked a heavily chained gate and strode, somewhat furtively we felt, towards a scrap of scrubby bushes (from their satchels and shifty demeanour we concluded they were truffle hunters); preceded momentarily by deep throated roar, a gleaming white Audi convertible, hood down, man at wheel in shades, inevitable blonde beside him, rocketed over the brow of the hill from the direction of Lloret, pulled out imperiously to overtake an ancient Seat hatchback just as a tipper truck full of scrap metal lumbered around the bend from the direction of Tossa. They missed each other by a fraction of a second. 'Well, that almost brought his mid-life crisis to an untimely end', I mused. So many interesting things passed before us, but sadly not the bus.
We walked back down to the campsite. It was difficult to feel too downhearted, the hibiscus in the hedgerows shouted out 'look at me I am very pink!'. The light was stunning.
We had a late lunch outside the van, made the usual fatuous comments about not being able to do this back home in mid October, then speculated which of us was going to be concussed first by one of the dozens of large pine cones dangling precariously above our pitch (answer: Gill, late afternoon the following day).
We did really want to go to El Portal though. Gill had a second attempt to talk to the receptionist about the bus times. She was French and equally skilled at looking professional and exuding a positive demeanor while managing to avoid saying or doing anything that was remotely helpful. I stared at my phone, usually Google maps' bus information is good, but in this case seemed to be saying the only way to travel tomorrow by bus between Tossa and Lloret (12km) was via Girona involving a change half way and a journey time a few minutes short of three hours. This was utterly nonsensical, but in a miniscule font, snuck in after the conditions of carriage in Catalan and Castillian was a link to the bus company website. Mystery solved. After 1st October the service reduced to an hourly one. We had simply waited in the wrong half hour slot, if we presented ourselves tomorrow at around 10 past the hour a bus that had left Lloret 15 minutes earlier should appear at the stop by the fetid pond. Which it duly did.
It took no time at all to get to town and the fare was less than €2.00. What happened next was a re-run of the palaver with the buses but this time concerning tapas places. We had checked out El Portal on-line and it opened at 11.30 am. When we turned up about three quarters of an hour later it was still shuttered. A different link on TripAdvisor stated that on Tuesdays and Wednesdays it was closed in the low season. Bollocks!
We wandered around the streets of the old town wondering what to do. There were plenty of places open but most were geared up to serve a full lunch and we wanted somewhere that more informal than that specialising in tapas.
There followed a confusing half an hour's trek around the empty streets looking for places that had scored highly on TripAdvisor for tapas. The places listed as 'open now' tended to be closed, but quite a few of the tapas bars listed as closed were actually open. We were not alone in our befuddlement. After a while we began to recognise other couples wandering about staring at their phones looking vaguely perplexed. Burly bloke with waif-like woman, bob cut girl with serpent tattoo and gorgeous companion, there they were again!
Eventually we found ourselves back more or less where we had started by the old town gate - next to, as you might expect, El Portal. Previously we had dismissed another small place down a side street. El Celler del vi Restaurant did have a tapas menu, but it was empty, in shadow and looked a bit gloomy. We can do better we had decided. Now, half an hour later, the place had filled-up, it looked more lively and inviting and there was one table unoccupied on the pavement. We sat down, glad now to have at least found somewhere. In fact the tapas we chose were fine, not outstanding, but just what we needed.
Goats cheese croquettes on tapenade style base, a crunchier texture though, compared to the Provençal original.
Another iteration of patatas bravas, the piquant sauce used as a filling, maybe using some sort of fondant technique, Gill speculated. The 'mini-tortillas' were underwhelming, more of a bog standard omelette than the Spanish variety, which when done well is a delightful thing, a small piece of culinary magic. Gill judged it unworthy of being Instagrammed, though it did make an appearance as an extra in my accidental action shot of my beloved mid-munch.
Serpent girl and gorgeous companion arrived, perused the tapas menu board, conferred momentarily then decided to eat inside. Gorgeous companion halted momentarily scrabbling in her shoulder bag for a mask. Glancing towards me she flashed a wry smile as if to say, well it was inevitable we all ended up here. The older you get the more invisible you become. On crowded streets people simply push past as we toddle along at sub-optimal Fitbit speed. Occasionally a kindly twenty-something might offer you their seat on a bus; you thank them, inwardly realising that you must look much older than you feel. However, to be smiled upon, unprompted, by a beautiful stranger, that happens very rarely these days. I felt quietly blessed.
The waiter arrived and asked if we wanted to look at the desert menu or order a coffee. We asked for the bill. Our table was in shadow and since we arrived the chilly breeze had strengthened, indeed by pure accident Carrer del Pont Vell happened to be perfectly aligned with the blustery north-easterly and had become a wind-tunnel. Every so often fellow diners would leap from their chairs and attempt to catch their napkin as it pirouetted down the street. No wonder the beauteous one and serpent girl had gone inside, especially as the art gallery on the latters' left side required a skimpy vest top to achieve maximum impact.
We recalled a cafe down by the beach where we had a drink last time we were here. It would not be out of the wind but at least it would be sunny and have a Mediterranean view. It also sold Lavazza which is one of the few products where we espouse 'brand loyalty". Our cortados came in paper cups, appropriately logo-ed. The barrista was very apologetic, explaining that after today they would be closed for the season. Quite how that prevented them from washing crockery I am unsure. Anyway the blue and white paper cups on the white table with the blue sea in the background composed itself before me as an impromptu piece of product placement, so I duly obliged.
Afterwards we took a short walk to the promontory below the castle, the bay of Tossa de Mar spreads out before you, it's an attractive small resort that has resisted over-development.
Like l'Escala, hereabouts is days away from winter zombification. By early November almost everything will have closed. Under normal circumstances we would be chasing the warmth southwards. However, tomorrow we start our journey home. This time next week we will be back in Buxton, but only for two days. Then we will be heading straight back down to London to transport Matthew and his possessions back home for a few weeks until his new apartment is ready. I enjoy driving, but there does come a point where doing it day after day, for hours on end becomes exhausting. Nevertheless, we have proved we can get to the Med and back within twenty days and still have fun. The upside is that twenty days in Europe this autumn gives us seventy early next year, from late January to early April. Olé!
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