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Reus, rain, rejection and Pisco Sour

“We had planned two whole nights in Tarragona just to soak up the Roman ruins — and then saw everything in one afternoon. Classic overachievers.”

With a day to spare and nothing left to conquer in Tarragona, we did what any self-respecting traveller would do: pointed the car at a dot on the map 15km away. That dot was Reus, the proud hometown of one Antoni Gaudí — and honestly, if you were born in Reus and grew up to design La Sagrada Família, we say fair enough.

Parking was painless, the old town was pleasant, and the covered market was lively. There were interesting buildings. We walked several kilometres. We admired things. It was, by all objective measures, a lovely morning stroll that absolutely did not require two nights of accommodation to justify.

Verdict on Reus: delightful, digestible, and done before lunch. Gaudí would have approved of the efficiency.

Back in Tarragona, the plan was elegant: amble down to the Serrallo port district, find the much-lauded recommended restaurant, eat gloriously, feel smug.

The universe had other plans, and they involved rain. Not polite drizzle. Rain. The theatrical kind. We walked downhill for thirty minutes in it anyway — because we are not the sort of people who let weather win — and arrived at the restaurant at 1:30pm, which in Spain is roughly the equivalent of showing up to a dinner party at 4am.

The restaurant was already full. Packed. Rammed. Every person in Tarragona had apparently received the same recommendation and had also decided that 1:30pm was their moment.

“Apparently I was not the only one to get a recommendation for the place.” — an understatement worthy of a Roman senator.

We pivoted to a neighbouring restaurant with the dignified flexibility of seasoned travellers. The food was, in the author’s own measured words, “quite mediocre.” But food was had. Drink was had. The rain softened to a drizzle for our walk back uphill, which — given the circumstances — felt like a personal apology from the sky.

We returned to the hotel in good spirits. This is either a testament to resilience of character, or evidence that the wine was better than the food.

The afternoon nap restored us to full cognitive function, which the author immediately deployed on extremely important research: finding a cocktail bar. 800 metres away, The Red Lab awaited — pleasant atmosphere, friendly service, excellent cocktail menu.

The drink of choice? Pisco Sour. Twice. Each sip apparently capable of transporting one directly to Santiago de Chile and the ghost of business trips past. A reminder that the best souvenirs aren’t things — they’re drinks that taste like memories.

Dinner was skipped entirely. Some evenings, two Pisco Sours and a good cocktail bar are a complete and satisfying meal. No one can prove otherwise.

The Red Lab: 10/10, would dodge a mediocre lunch again just to deserve it.

And so ends Day 22: a day that began with Roman ruins, passed through mediocre fish, climbed a hill in the rain, and finished with Chilean cocktails on the Costa Daurada.

More kilometres tomorrow. The car awaits.

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Rain, Romans and refusing to go to bed like a sensible adult

We woke under a blue sky. I say “blue sky” — it lasted roughly the time it takes to drink a coffee and feel optimistic about life. By the time we’d checked out of the apartment we’d called home for three weeks, packed the car, and pointed it northward toward Tarragona some 440km away, the heavens had clearly reviewed our itinerary and decided: absolutely not.

Within 30 minutes, the rain arrived. Not the polite, European drizzle kind. The biblical, God-has-had-enough-of-you kind. Visibility dropped to somewhere between “squinting helps” and “are we underwater?” I aquaplaned. Twice. The car briefly became a submarine with wheels and ambitions above its station. I won’t say my life flashed before my eyes, but I did think very warmly about the underground car park waiting for us in Tarragona. When we finally glided into it — damp, rattled, and deeply grateful for concrete ceilings — I may have whispered a small thank you to the parking gods.

First order of business: the covered market across the square, where a tapas stand and a large cold beer restored my faith in the decision to leave the apartment at all.

Tarragona, it turns out, has the good sense to have been built by Romans — people who, unlike me in a rainstorm, clearly knew what they were doing. Founded during the Second Punic War, Tarraco became Rome’s gateway to the Iberian Peninsula, and they left their calling card in the form of a rather spectacular amphitheatre, a forum, an aqueduct, and roughly 400 plaques explaining how impressive everything is. We walked. And walked. And then walked some more, as one does when confronted with 2,000 years of history and a map that keeps suggesting there’s “just one more thing” around the corner.

By evening, we had earned dinner. La Botifarra — a proper Spanish bar, packed to the rafters, loud, cheerful, and entirely indifferent to our need for a table. No matter. We sat at the bar like seasoned locals (or people with no other choice), ordered beers and wine, and worked our way through a couple of tapas that were unusual enough to raise an eyebrow and good enough to immediately order again.

And then — in what I can only describe as a personal record and mild character deviation — there was no nightcap. None. I, a man who has never met an after-dinner drink he didn’t befriend, went straight to bed at a reasonable hour. Two episodes of Netflix, and I was gone. Flat out. Dead to the world.

Five hours in a car through a monsoon, a Roman route march, and bar stool dining will do that to a person.

Tarragona: highly recommended. Getting there in a deluge: less so.

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The great unravelling

They say all good things must come to an end. They also say you never truly know how many charging cables you own until it’s time to pack them.

Departure day for the younglings and their entourage. For us — the wise, battle-hardened veterans of this three-week Spanish expedition — it was clear up and pack day, with our own getaway scheduled for the morrow. We had, of course, travelled light. Laughably, smugly, virtuously light. And yet. Somehow, in the manner of all holidays everywhere since the dawn of the wheeled suitcase, an entire ecosystem of wires, plugs, EarPods, and mysterious adaptors had colonised every flat surface of the apartment like a very boring coral reef.

Where do they come from? Nobody knows. Nobody ever knows.

As if on cue — and really, you couldn’t script this better — the rain arrived. Three weeks of glorious Iberian sunshine, and the sky chose this morning to finally crack. Fitting, really. The universe has always had a flair for the theatrical, and a light weeping from the heavens felt like entirely appropriate accompaniment to the general mood of departure.

After a frugal lunch at home (the fridge, now resembling the aftermath of a student flat clear-out, offered limited options but no complaints), it was time for Airport Run Number Four. Yes, four. At this point I should apply for some kind of honorary badge from the terminal. The round trip, including the ceremonial ten-minute kiss-and-fly drop-off — that peculiar institution where love is expressed in under 600 seconds or you’re getting a ticket — clocked in at a tidy hour. Efficient. Professional. Slightly emotional.

Back at the apartment, I channelled my inner Tetris champion loading the car, finished packing, and rewarded myself with the sacred afternoon nap. Some traditions are non-negotiable.

Evening descended with the unhurried pace of a Spanish Thursday, which is to say, beautifully slowly. And what better way to mark it than logging on for the weekly Virtual Pub Quiz with our Devon friends? Loyalties tested, general knowledge embarrassingly exposed, camaraderie thoroughly maintained.

And then — a discovery of almost poetic perfection. A rest-of-him lurking in the bottle. Enough gin. And, funny enough, just enough zero tonic to construct not one but two respectable G&Ts. The holiday, it turns out, was not quite done with us yet. It had one last small gift to offer: a quiet Thursday night, a quiz, and a gin in hand.

There are worse ways to spend a penultimate evening in Spain. There are far, far worse ways indeed.

Tomorrow: the road in the direction of home

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What can I say about today? Well, as it turns out, quite a lot — most of it involving wind. The Costa Brava, never one for subtlety, had apparently decided that Day 18 was the perfect moment to audition for a role in a disaster film. Not the dramatic, photogenic kind of disaster. The annoying, hair-in-your-face, napkins-taking-flight kind.

“The wind was not so much a weather phenomenon as a personality trait — relentless, uninvited, and absolutely convinced it was the most interesting thing in the room.”

🌊 Act I: The Beach, Against All Reasonable Advice

And yet — and this is where it gets interesting — none of this stopped us from packing up the kiddies and heading to the beach for a couple of hours late morning. Parenting, as I understand it, is largely the art of doing things that make no meteorological sense while maintaining an expression of cheerful authority.

The waves kept coming with great theatrical commitment. The sun, bless its optimistic heart, was “trying” to come through — and I use that word deliberately, because the sun was very much trying and not entirely succeeding, filtered as it was through a veil of sea mist whipped up by the very same wind that was stealing everyone’s sunhats. The effect was, I have to admit, quite dramatic. Turner would have painted it. We just sat in it.

The water was cold. The air was surprisingly pleasant. And the beach was, in its windswept, mist-shrouded, wave-crashing entirety, completely, utterly, gloriously empty — save for us. I found myself wondering why we were the only ones there. I suspect the Spanish, who have the good sense to have been born in Spain, simply looked out of the window and said “no.” We, being on holiday and therefore impervious to logic, said “yes, obviously.”

🍳 Act II: The Revolutionary Home Lunch

For a change — and I stress for a change, because this is apparently the sort of event worth noting in the chronicles of a family holiday — we had a home-cooked lunch in the early afternoon. The kiddies were fed. The adults ate. No menu was consulted. No waiter appeared with a basket of bread that costs €4. It was, in its quiet way, magnificent.

🎵 Act III: The Nap, the Balcony, and the Great Playlist Era

The kiddies and their parents, recharged and restless, departed in the afternoon in search of a decent playground — a quest that, on the Costa Brava, tends to require the determination of a small expedition. I, exercising the ancient and sacred rights of the retired grandparent, seized the opportunity to enjoy my daily nap. I say daily as though it is routine. I say it with no apology whatsoever.

Post-nap, I settled into what I can only describe as a long and extremely productive session on the balcony: music playing, the wind doing its thing, the sea doing its thing, and me doing mine — working on my playlists with the focus and dedication of a man who has his priorities absolutely sorted.

 I even started a new playlist titled “The Best Slows Ever” It is, I’m told by no one yet because no one has heard it, a masterpiece in the making. A monument to the slow dance. A gift to humanity.

🥃 Act IV: The Crisis

As aperitif hour approached — that golden, civilised ritual I look forward to with the enthusiasm most people reserve for Christmas morning — I made a discovery of some horror. The whisky was critically, dangerously, almost offensively low. This was not a minor inconvenience. This was an emergency requiring immediate and decisive action.

I walked to the local Dia supermarket. I remedied the situation. Order was restored. The balcony could breathe again.

🌙 Act V: The Denouement

The evening unfolded in much the same agreeable fashion as the one before: a light dinner, the kiddies bundled off to bed with the efficiency that only grandparents and small dictators can muster, and then a couple of large nightcaps consumed in the easy silence of a day well spent. And once again — as if there were any doubt about how this story ends — I was the first one in bed.

Some might call it an early night. I prefer to call it what it is: the confident exit of a man who has had the best day on the balcony, saved the whisky supply from certain extinction, and launched what may well become the definitive slow-dance playlist of our generation. There is nothing left to prove.

Until tomorrow. When, presumably, there will be more wind.

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Wind :1 – Everyone else :0

A grey day, a heroic nap, and the Lego booby traps that keep the empire running.

There are mornings that greet you like a standing ovation, and then there are mornings that greet you because you went to bed at 9pm and have therefore had more sleep than a hibernating bear. Day 17 was, emphatically, the latter — and it was glorious.

The children, infected by whatever mysterious energy transfers through eight hours of unconsciousness, were fully charged. Buzzing, practically vibrating. The adults, one of whom had voluntarily joined the 9pm bedtime club without shame or apology, were cautiously optimistic about the day ahead.

“The beach plan evaporated faster than a puddle in Seville — except today, there was no sun to do the evaporating.”

Then we looked outside. Grey Breezy Suspicious. Spain, it turns out, did not get the memo about what a summer holiday is supposed to look like. The sky wore the expression of a disappointed uncle. The beach — that sandy paradise we had mentally reserved — was demoted to a scenic backdrop. Lunch al fresco? Reconsidered. Lunch on sand? Cancelled. Lunch at all? Still negotiable.

In the meantime, the floor had been weaponised. Lego bricks — scattered with the strategic precision of a medieval moat — covered approximately 80% of walkable surface area. For a barefoot wanderer, this is not a minor inconvenience. This is warfare. The children, oblivious to the psychological damage being inflicted, were delighted. The Lego bought us what every parent on holiday truly craves: twenty uninterrupted minutes.

We used those twenty minutes wisely. First: lunch destination. The beach restaurant was out; the one across the street — a fifteen-minute walk away — was in. A sensible choice, made by sensible adults, with sand-free shoes. Second: hotel booking for the September leg of the holiday, because apparently one holiday is merely a planning session for the next one. Very efficient. Very adult. Very vacation.

“The kite surfers, bless them, saw the same weather and thought: perfect.”

And there they were — a small tribe of wind-worshippers launching themselves into the grey with an enthusiasm that was frankly embarrassing for the rest of us who had retreated indoors. They surfed. All afternoon. Into the dark. They were, in every sense, the heroes of Day 17, and they deserved every gust.

The afternoon passed in the warm domestic haze of entertaining small people, which is its own extreme sport. It was punctuated — punctuated, mind you, not dominated — by a small, dignified, entirely necessary nap. Aperitif hour arrived like a kind friend. Dinner was frugal (the hunger gods were apparently also resting). And then, before the wind had even finished its shift, another early night descended.

Day 17 did not have a plot twist, a dramatic sunset, or a spontaneous flamenco performance. What it had was 💨 wind — relentless, magnificent, the undisputed star of the show. The kite surfers knew it. The grey sky confirmed it. And the highlight of both the day and the night was, without contest, the wind.

Some days the Mediterranean delivers golden magic. Other days it just blows really, really hard. Both are, in their way, unforgettable.

Filed from somewhere warm, indoors, having survived the Lego minefield with only minor injuries to dignity.

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Enter the grandkids (cue the sitcom laugh track)

Spain woke up moody today. Cloudy skies, cool breeze, and a general vibe of “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.” We powered through with a quick breakfast and a mission to the shop for essentials—which, let’s be honest, means things we absolutely needed plus one or two items we emotionally needed.

Late morning, I transformed from Relaxed Holiday Person into Airport Dad. Off to Alicante Airport I went to collect our youngest son, his wife, and—let’s be real—the real VIPs: the two grandkids, aged 5 and 3.

Their flight from Bremen was on time (a small miracle), and within 30 minutes of touchdown, they were through. Another 30 minutes later, we were home, doing the scenic tour of Alicante like proud locals who have mastered all the traffic lights.

Meanwhile, Grandma—tragically benched due to “insufficient car seats” (the great logistical villain of family life)—was waiting at home like a contestant on a reality show finale. Today, of all days, was Grandmother’s Day. The timing was so perfect it felt staged. Tears were narrowly avoided. Hugs were not.

From this moment forward, the household officially entered Child Rule Mode™. Our previous routine? Gone. Our new schedule? Dictated by snack times, mysterious negotiations about shoes, and sudden sprinting for no reason.

After a late lunch (by our standards; by Spanish standards it was practically breakfast), we braved the cool wind and went for a long walk along the beach. The kids made a beeline for the climbing frames we’d clocked earlier in the week—apparently these are the real landmarks of Spain. The fresh air did wonders: it tired the kids (mission objective #1) and made the adults thirsty (mission objective #2).

Which meant… aperitif time. And somehow the gin & tonics tasted exceptionally good. Was it the sea air? The joy of family reunion? Or the fact that I had bought some suspiciously fresh, juicy limes? Science demanded a second gin & tonic to confirm the hypothesis. Peer-reviewed by me. Conclusion: yes, it was the limes. Definitely the limes.

Dinner was simple, picnic-style, which is code for “easy, cheerful, and nobody complained loudly enough to cause concern.” The afternoon walk worked its magic: the kids went to bed without staging a protest, and—according to next day intelligence—slept all night. A parenting unicorn.

I celebrated this rare alignment of the stars with an early nightcap (whisky, obviously) and followed the children’s example by heading to bed at the wildly rebellious hour of 9pm. I, too, slept all night.

An unusual day indeed.
Spain, with kids involved, is a whole new season. And I’m here for the chaos 🍹

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When the sun clocked in late and I clocked out early

Dear Diary (aka my blog),

Spain woke up today and chose light cloud blanket. Rude. I didn’t get my usual “blue sky meets blue sea” postcard moment until about 10am. The sea breeze also decided to audition for the role of Surprisingly Chilly Villain, so the beach and I mutually agreed to see other people this morning.

Luckily, my balcony on the 8th floor remains undefeated. With the window bays flung wide open and the wind politely minding its own business, I lay there like a well-fed cat, basking in the sun, staring at the beach and the sea, and letting my favorite music soundtrack my very serious job of doing absolutely nothing. Honestly, is there anything better? Don’t answer that. There isn’t.

Lunch arrived faster than my willpower disappeared. A quick wardrobe change (goodbye dignity, hello shorts and T-shirt), and off we went to the nearest beach restaurant for—surprise—yet another paella. At this point, the local rice farmers and I are basically on a first-name basis.

The afternoon beach attempt was… ambitious. The wind was technically “feeble,” but emotionally “icy.” After a brief and dramatic surrender, I retreated to my balcony fortress, where the setting sun and I resumed our long-term relationship. Protected, warm, and smug.

Evening followed its familiar, comforting ritual: aperitif, a bit of TV, and for me, the final episode of Drive to Survive on Netflix. High-speed drama on screen, low-speed living in real life. Balance.

Somewhere between sips and screen time, we also did the responsible adult thing and organized the apartment for the imminent arrival of the two grandchildren and their parents. The calm before the toy-strewn storm.

I polished off the bottle of whisky like a hero completing a quest, climbed into bed feeling absurdly content, and realized: another day, another month, wrapped up neatly with sunshine, seafood, streaming, and spirits.

Spain, you’re doing great. Keep it up.

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Clouds, cocktails & questionable life choices

Woke up to a sky that looked like it hadn’t had its morning coffee yet. The weather station promised the clouds would clear by 10am—and, shockingly, it told the truth. Temperatures dipped a couple of degrees, which was all the excuse we needed to postpone beach duty. Sunscreen stayed unemployed; public transport got the call.

We crammed ourselves onto the tram to Alicante, which was doing its usual impression of a human sardine tin. Swift journey though, so points for efficiency. We hopped off at Mercado (because getting off one stop early makes you feel like a local, even if you are, in fact, a very obvious tourist) and marched our way down the avenue like explorers who had accidentally discovered… another tram terminus. Naturally, we turned left toward the port, strolled along the boardwalk, admired boats we absolutely cannot afford, and pretended we could tell yachts apart.

Right on cue, the familiar beacon of hope appeared: Samoa Café Del Puerto.

Since it was officially aperitif o’clock (a sacred time zone), we performed our civic duty and ordered cocktails. With spirits lifted (literally), we crossed into the old town in search of lunch and landed in tapas heaven at Titi Gourmet.

Everyone else sat outside; we chose indoors because warmth is a lifestyle choice. The tapas were… exactly what you’d expect tapas to be: dangerously moreish and absolutely capable of ruining dinner plans. No regrets.

The afternoon mission: culture. We headed back to the port for the Ocean Race Museo—free, fascinating, and alarmingly good at triggering big ideas.

The The Ocean Race is starting from Alicante in 2027, and suddenly I was plotting a future where I’m dramatically waving at elite sailors while pretending I know knots beyond “the annoying one in headphones.” Research will happen. At least one keen friend will be peer-pressured.

Then it was tram home, followed by the sacred daily nap (honestly, the true MVP of the trip) and another evening aperitif because consistency is key. Later, I binged a few episodes of Drive to Survive on Netflix—still more thrilling than actually watching last season’s Formula 1 races. I rounded off the night with a couple of generously sized whiskies and a solemn mental note to restock ASAP (future me is going to be furious).

Early bedtime for once, and just like that, week two of the escapade signed off. Clouds cleared, cocktails delivered, ambitions upgraded. Not a bad Day 14. 🍹

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Beach, beats, betrayal (by waiter) and pub quiz glory

Today we bravely attempted a radical new routine known as “doing almost the same thing, but with sand.” At 10am sharp we crossed the road to the beach, where the sun was doing that smug Spanish thing of being warm without asking permission.

I planned to dive back into La Guerre des Gaules and emerge two hours later speaking fluent Latin and commanding imaginary legions. Reader, I instead put on my AirPods and let Deezer Flow decide my emotional journey for me. And honestly? The algorithm knows me better than some members of my family.

Post-beach, we did a quick change at the apartment and marched back toward the Londres area, lured by two powerful forces:

1. the tyranny of the 10,000-steps target, and
2. the memory of a previously excellent meal at Il Fornello.

Sadly, nostalgia is a liar. The charming, efficient waiter from the other day had vanished into the great hospitality void, replaced by someone whose vibe could best be described as “I’m here, unfortunately.” The food also seemed to have lost some of its former sparkle. Same menu, different energy. Like a band reuniting without the lead singer.

Speaking of waiters: post-Covid, finding hospitality staff back home in France has been a saga. Spain, however, appears to have gone full international remix. We’ve been served by people from Cuba, Chile, Ecuador… basically a Spanish-speaking Avengers team. They blend in so well that unless you’re doing waiter genealogy at the table (which I do not recommend), you’d never know. Globalisation, but make it tapas. Win-win.

After lunch: heroic walk back, followed by my sacred one-hour nap. This is not laziness. This is advanced athletic recovery. Then off we went again to Carrefour for a “last shop before the visitors arrive,” a phrase history has proven to be a filthy liar. Back home as the sun began to set, perfectly timed for aperitif, because we are nothing if not professionals.

Being Thursday, it was virtual pub quiz night with friends in Devon, courtesy of Zoom. Modern technology is wild: I can be in Spain, lose a quiz question about 1990s boy bands, and still feel personally attacked in real time by people in England. Beautiful.

Quiz done, whisky poured, I rounded off the evening with an old French favourite, Le Cœur des hommes. Emotional, nostalgic, and the perfect companion to a reflective nightcap.

I retired to bed deeply satisfied with my day: sun in my skin, music in my ears, mild resentment in my heart toward one particular waiter. Balance.

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