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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.
I do it my way 