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The triumphant return (and the case of the Sahara in the car)

And just like that, we reach the final day of the trip. The last kilometres. The last Spanish petrol station. The last opportunity to pretend that life consists mainly of sunshine, tapas and long coastal walks.

First priority of the day: fuel.
Not just because the tank is almost empty, but because petrol in Spain remains noticeably cheaper than in France. Even after the recent price increases linked to the latest bout of geopolitical idiocy somewhere in the Middle East.

But this blog is a strictly politics-free zone. We only discuss the important things in life: fuel prices, food and holiday logistics.

With the tank full and morale high, we start the drive north. It is a route we know very well and could probably do blindfolded—though the insurance company might have a few objections.

But today’s journey is even better than usual because, about an hour into it, we stop at my cousin’s home in Ortaffa for a pre-arranged lunch.

And what a lunch it is.

The main course is a magnificent homemade Veal Marengo, rich, comforting and clearly prepared by someone who takes the concept of hospitality very seriously. This is followed by an impressive selection of cheeses—because in France a meal without cheese would be considered suspicious.

Then comes the dessert.

Œufs à la Neige.

One of my absolute favourites and something you rarely encounter these days. A glorious cloud of meringue floating on custard like a sweet meteorological event.

Sadly, in my role as Designated Driver for the entire 2,200 km expedition, I abstain from wine. Heroism comes in many forms.

We spend a pleasant time catching up on family news, stories, and the small but essential gossip that keeps family life properly lubricated. Coffee is served outside, the weather is kind, and for a moment the trip seems to pause gently between two chapters.

At around 2pm we reluctantly say goodbye and head for the final stretch.

One hour and thirty minutes later we arrive home.

The car is emptied with the efficiency of a military logistics operation and parked in the underground garage where it will soon require a serious cleaning operation. Somewhere along the journey, a small quantity of Sahara sand managed to infiltrate the interior.

Apparently the desert wanted to come home with us.

Still, it feels good to be back. This was a wonderful trip: a lot seen, a lot done, and many kilometres covered in a relatively short time.

Will we do it again?

Almost certainly.

Although next time I am seriously considering the train. Alicante has an excellent tram network that we used quite a bit, and frankly a car there is not really necessary.

Also, trains have an enormous advantage: the driver can drink wine.

And speaking of comfort… I must say that my first night back in my own bed was absolutely excellent.

There is nothing quite like coming home.

Except perhaps coming home with Serrano ham and several bottles from the Wine Palace.

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The strategic retreat (with supplies)

The good news: today’s drive is only 240 km.
The bad news: it means we are getting dangerously close to the French border and therefore to reality.

We leave fairly early after the classic hotel breakfast of champions: a quick coffee and a croissant inhaled somewhere between the lobby door and the car. The sky cannot quite make up its mind—some clouds, some blue—but there is no real rain and the motorway is so empty it feels as if Spain has temporarily closed for maintenance. It is Sunday after all.

By early afternoon we arrive in L’Escala, our final Spanish outpost before re-entering the land of higher prices and administrative complexity.

But before any sightseeing, cultural enrichment or even checking into the hotel, we execute the most important operation of the day.

The Wine Palace.

This is not a shop.
This is an institution.
A temple.
A place where wallets open spontaneously and bottles leap enthusiastically into shopping baskets.

The selection is enormous: wine, spirits, and all the local delicacies that make doctors sigh heavily. And the prices! Roughly half what we pay in France. Economically speaking, it would actually be irresponsible not to buy anything.

So naturally we perform our civic duty.

Into the basket go the mandatory bottles of Gin, Whisky, Vodka and Casanis, accompanied by vacuum-packed Serrano ham, which is clearly an essential survival item for crossing the Pyrenees.

Another charming feature of northern Spain: almost everyone speaks excellent French. This is extremely convenient when explaining complex international purchasing strategies involving alcohol.

Mission accomplished, we drive a couple of kilometres into town, park the car and walk down to the seafront where several bars and restaurants are waiting patiently for us. After a careful and highly scientific evaluation process lasting about twelve seconds, we select El Canigó for aperitif and lunch.

We sit on the terrace facing the sea. A shy sun appears. It feels wonderful… although it is possible that the Caipirinha is contributing significantly to this sensation.

Check-in at our apart-hotel is officially at 3pm, but it is only 2pm when curiosity gets the better of us. We try the entry codes we received earlier.

Miracle: it works.

The building is an old house that has been completely renovated. Only six rooms spread over three floors, and ours is on the second floor. The result is superb: tasteful, spotless, modern but full of character. In short, an absolute bargain and a perfect place to spend our final Spanish night.

But rest must wait. We decide to take a long walk along the coastal path which leads to the Ruins of Empúries. The site is spectacular. We visited it years ago and will certainly do so again one day. Standing there, looking at Greek and Roman ruins beside the Mediterranean, one cannot help thinking that those ancient civilizations also probably stopped here for a drink at some point.

By the time we walk back, it is officially nap time. And like responsible adults, we take this duty very seriously.

Later in the evening we decide to explore the port on the other side of town, assuming there must be some nightlife there. After walking fifteen minutes we can still see the port… but it appears to remain stubbornly far away.

At this point we take the wise decision to turn around and return to the area we already know works: the one with bars.

Excellent strategy.

We end up at Bar 1869 where I order a couple of Piña Coladas and accompany them with what can only be described as a heroic attempt at healthy eating: a salad.

The walk back to the apartment takes two minutes, which is exactly the right distance after two Piña Coladas.

Soon we are tucked in bed, each watching completely different series on Netflix—me on my laptop, my wife on her tablet—modern marriage at its technological best.

The bed is perfect, the temperature ideal, and within minutes I am asleep.

I like L’Escala. It is not far from home, it has sun, sea, history, good bars and a Wine Palace strategically located near the entrance of town.

I will definitely return.

Possibly with a slightly larger car.

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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.

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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