Fran and Bill have invited us to go to Spain for a long weekend to see their new house.
We go to Spain and we take Maisie with us.
We leave Zac and Abigail at Home Alone.
Zac promises us that he won’t ring us at 4am like he did when we went to Greece. Abigail promises she won’t upset Zac like she did when we went to Greece.
I leave a note next to the computer.
‘FEED THE RABBIT’ it says.
‘Have we got a rabbit?’ says Abigail.
Fran and Bill pick us up from the airport at Jerez.
Fran and Bill have a house between the mountains and the sea.
South, is Barbate which has an indoor market, selling fish, rubber rings and fly-blown puppies. North, on top of a hill, is the White Town of Vejer with cool, blue shadowed courtyards, blind-shuttered houses and dizzying, precipitous views.
Fran and Bill’s house nestles in a fold in the high bare, brown hills west of Tarifa. Kites and vultures turn slowly overhead in a pewter sky. Stiunted cork trees and firs boarder a dust white road and the land ripples with a thin dry wind.
We turn in at their gate and find ourselves in a different world.
The house is small and neat, white with brown shutters and a vine shrouded veranda. A pool set in an emerald green lawn glitters enticingly. ‘
Can I swim?’ asks Maisie.
Later Fran and Bill take us to our hotel. It is called ‘El Palomas De La Brena.’ We have a room with two floors. Maisie sleeps downstairs and John and me are upstairs on the mezzanine. It is Very Nice.
In the bathroom there is a notice that reads:
Con esta librera los proponemos informaries sobre los servicios a sa disposicion en El Palomas De La Brena darles conocer un poco historia del lugar y continuacion senalarles lusactividades posiblesen los altededores proximos.
We don’t know what this means.
Saturday 5th July 2008. Spain.
In the morning Maisie and me swim in the hotel pool.
In the afternoon, Fran and Bill take us to Conil De La Frontera.
‘It’s like Camden On Sea.’ says Fran.
There are tented beach-side markets and surfers. The wind blows steadily from the west and the wave is stacked up like corduroy. This is a surfer’s paradise.
‘Damn, I wish I’d brought my long board.’ I say.
We go to a beach cafe.
‘Am I getting burnt ?’ says John. John is obsessed with getting burnt.
At the beach cafe we drink vodkas with tonic.
Flamenco music is blaring out across the sand and two girls in tiny bikinis are dancing, their hands twining above their heads, their heels stamping on the sandy boarded floor.
Bill chats to the bar staff. We have another vodka.
‘Have you got any sun block?’ asks John.
‘They’re going to play Bob Dylan.’ says Bill.
‘Knock knock knocking on heavens door.’ sings Bob.
‘Look.’ says Fran ‘You can see Africa from here.’
The westering sun floods the bar with a soft golden light
‘It’s too late in the day to get burnt John.’ I say.
Much later we go to a flamenco bar.
It is midnight.
The bar is up in the hills and has a Pool Table and lots of heavily varnished brown furniture. There are very few people there.
John and Bill play Pool.
Fran and me drink wine and talk.
Maisie’s eyes are heavy with sleep.
‘Wait a bit.’ I say, ‘Wait, don’t go to sleep, you must see the flamenco.’
A band arrives on stage. They are young and edgy. They wear low slung jeans and play flamenco guitars.
The lead guitarist’s head is low on his chest and his fingers wander over the strings, feeling his way.
He throws back his head.
‘Waaaa aay aaaah aaah ayyyyy!’ he sings.
Maisie’s eyes flip wide open.
‘Is that flamenco?’ she asks.
He drops his guitar so that it hangs by it’s strap and he stands up.
The flamenco singer is small and beautifully built. His shining brown hair falls into his eyes and he flicks it impatiently out of the way with an imperious jerk of his head.
He claps his narrow brown hands, he snaps his fingers and stamps, looking left at his band and right to his growing audience.
Bill and John stop playing pool.
‘Aaaaayiiii aah iiiiyayaaaaah !’ He is getting into his stride.
Maisie sits up straight.
‘Can I have another coke?’ she asks.
Sunday 6th July 2008
Vejer.
Another day in paradise.
We walk from our hotel to meet Fran and Bill for lunch at their house. We walk on a white dusty path through scrubby gorse and sparse fir forest. Andalucian horses, dappled grey and bright bay, stand head to tail in the spare shade flicking flies and stamping. Maise is bewitched.
‘Have you got an apple?’ she asks ‘Can I give them an apple?’
Fran and Bill make lunch. We drink beer. Maisie swims for hours in the pool and I fall off the lilo into the water, fully clothed.
Bill says that he’d fallen asleep on the lilo for an hour that morning ‘And now look at the state of me.’ he says. He is as dark as a Spaniard.
‘People will think you’ve picked up a local, Fran.’ I say.
Fran has golden curls and golden skin.
In the early evening we drive to Vejer. The town is just waking from it’s Siesta. We climb 80 steps and walk through along white roads and through white arches. We are surprised by sudden breathtaking views acroos the buff coloured hills towards Morocco and the Barbary Coast.
Fran and Bill have booked a table at the Restaurant El Jardin de Califa. We sit outside drinking Mojitos under a fat yellow moon and eat Tapas and Tagines.
Next day we fly home with Ryan Air
Ryan Air are marginally better at landing than Air Excel, but Ryan Air are very fussy about Baggage Weight.
We have two suitcases between three of us. John and me are sharing a suitcase. We left Stanstead sharing a suitcase which was overweight but leaving Jerez we are told.
‘That’ll be 90 euros please.’ says The Checkin Guy
John is very cross. ‘That’s bloody ridiculous.’ he says. ‘This is the same suitcase we left with. This is actually a marginally lighter suitcase. THIS IS ABSURD.’ says John in a mildly shouty way.
‘So’ I say ‘If I get all the stuff that makes this suitcase too heavy and put it in my daughter’s suitcase, will that be Ok?’
‘That will be OK.’ says the Checkin Guy.
John and me unpack our case. We stuff everything into Maisie’s little case. Maisie’s little case is threatening to burst. Our big case is virtually empty. We go back to the Checkin Desk.
Checkin Guy weighs Maisie’s little case. ‘It’s about to burst, is that ok?’ I ask Checkin Guy.
‘That’s all fine.’ says Check In Guy.
‘It’s BLOODY RIDICULOUS.’ says John as quietly as he can.
We fly home.
John says he will never fly on a Budget Airline ever again.
No comments:
Post a Comment