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Spain, Day 4: Sunshine, Tapas, and the Heroic Quest for Wine

Woke up late to a frankly illegal amount of sunshine. The sort that immediately forgives you for all past sins and makes you believe you are, at heart, a better person than you were yesterday. Add a decent coffee and suddenly life feels suspiciously close to perfect.

Today was also Injection Day for my new “miracle molecule”, which sounds either like cutting-edge medicine or something cooked up by a mad scientist in a shed. Either way, it didn’t dent my mood in the slightest. The sun was out, the sky was smugly blue, and my optimism levels were medically inadvisable.

As if the universe hadn’t already done enough, it was also Mardi Gras. In theory, this means serious fasting is meant to begin tomorrow. In practice, I predict that tomorrow will involve very little fasting and quite a lot of “just finishing what’s left”. Tradition is important, but so is not wasting wine.

The main event of the day, however, was the arrival of our visitors from England. This required a pilgrimage to the airport on the far side of town, which we undertook with the usual optimism that it would be “a quick run”. Their flight from Bristol landed a heroic forty minutes early, presumably powered by British efficiency and the desire to escape the weather. Miraculously, we arrived on time too, proving that the holiday gods were in a generous mood.

By the time we made it back home, it was technically lunchtime, although offensively early by Spanish standards. The beachside restaurant was closed for reasons known only to itself and perhaps a higher power, so we crossed the road and found a small place that served a respectable selection of tapas. Nothing fancy, nothing life-changing, but exactly what was needed to line the stomach and reassure us that yes, we were indeed on holiday.

Post-lunch, the group split like a mildly dysfunctional sitcom cast. The girls headed off to the beach to do important beach-related research. I claimed my rightful spot on our little terrace to soak up the sun like a lizard with good Wi-Fi. My friend Chris, however, was struck down by a dramatic tummy ache and heroically retired for a nap, presumably to wrestle his digestive system into submission.

Late afternoon rolled around, which meant only one thing: a vital trip to the supermarket to replenish the wine supplies. Whilst there, we also acquired a new bottle of whisky because, frankly, it would have been irresponsible not to. Back home, it was aperitif o’clock (the most reliable time zone known to humanity), followed by a small dinner that mainly consisted of a healthy salad. This, of course, was entirely undone by the nightcap: two large whiskies in my case, because hydration is important and whisky is, in its own way, a liquid.

And so, once again, it was an early night. No drama, no stress, no frantic sightseeing. Just sunshine, food, friends, and the gentle, reassuring knowledge that tomorrow would probably involve much the same. Another wildly successful day of doing very little — which, let’s be honest, is the true art of a holiday.

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