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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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