Hola, mi nombre es Inigo Montoya. Usted Mato a mi padre. Preparase a morir.

vivisunoriginal said...

    I have a blog request for you - you obviously have a love of Spain, something more than just taking holidays there - why, when did it start, tell us the story

Well, Viv et al (whoever Al is, hello) here goes.

The story of my love of Spain starts in China, and it has nothing to do with Spain. But more of that later.

When I was growing up, at the start of the 80s, Spain was The Place To Go for your summer holidays. Not us. My Mum was a Hellenophile, so from the day of Chas 'n' Di's wedding we did the annual trip to somewhere different in Greece.

My first holiday away from the Wrinklies, the Europeless Inter-rail tour avoided Spain as we didn't want to double back on ourselves.

So after college I'd found myself in Australia thinking how to get home. I had no ticket and I had a vague idea of making it home for my birthday at the end of November, when I started hearing about a mythical route, the Trans Siberian train. I could get a flight from Darwin to Flores in Indonesia, then overland through South East Asia, pick up a Chinese visa and a ticket (mafia controlled, it would seem, another story) in (at that time British owned) Hong Kong, a Polish visa in Ghuanzhou and a Russian visa in Bejing. I was sold.

Finally I arrived in Beijing, paperwork in hand and dumped my bags in my hostel room. The only other person in there was Simon, from Plymouth. Still no Spain. Patience. He'd been doing the same as me, only he'd met a girl called Carolina, from Valencia (ahhh, finally) and they were heading back to Valencia. My train was a few days before theirs. My route was Chinese train, Moscow then hopefully St Petersburg, Berlin (still divided at that time), Hook of Holland and home. Theirs was Moscow, Prague, then down to Spain.

So that was the start. The three of us (and a couple of others) broke into the Forbidden City (otherwise known as the Forbidden Planet) by going up the back way. We toured the whole of Beijing, went out to the Great Wall and spent a day walking. At the end of the week we exchanged addresses and I got on my train. and headed off into Siberia.

I'm not sure exactly how it happened. We stayed in touch. Simon went to Spain and never left. I'm sure I must have visited them during the year. Then I got invited to be his best man. That was a surprise. Didn't speak a word of Spanish really. Then again all I had to do was get him drunk the night before (never a hard job, the hard job was making sure I didn't get that drunk that I couldn't get him anywhere) and get him to the Cathedral on time the next day. The wedding was quiet really. Not really much to tell.

Then I got an invite for Fallas the next year. A 5 day bacchanal of fireworks, streetparties and the maddest sculptures you've ever seen, all topped off with a pitched battle between the firemen and the locals. All in good humour. So that became my annual "end of Winter" holiday, being from 15-20 March. I wasn't the first to start but by the last time I went, there could be a core of 15 people and up to 50 of us. Utter madness but huge fun.

Aside from that we all took a trip up to Barcelona one year where one of Carolina's sisters now live. So I got to learn the hotspots. Then my Fallas started with a flight to Barcelona, day in Barcelona, train to Valencia for Fallas and then return.

On top of that with Simon and Carolina I've had many other trips to orange groves, to the summer beach houses where all good Valencianos go in August, down the coast and many other places.

It was Simon and Carolina that introduced me to carajillo, Can Paixano, arroz al horno, tejinas, patatas bravas, agua de Valencia and many other things.

It's their fault I'm currently listening to dodgy Spanish pop. Not exclusively. You know who you are with your Loquillo and Andy y Luca... but a lot of music was picked up because of Fallas. They dispair of me of course, but they humour me.

But my love of Spain starts with my love of two fantastic people. As it should.

How to survive New Year's Eve and come up smelling of Roses.

Let's get this straight, I may PRETEND to be a curmudgeon, but really I'm not.

I'm not, though a fan of "organised fun" and I'm not a fan of New Year's Eve. There's a reason. I do find it hard to enjoy a night out "because it's New Year's Eve, and therefore it's FUN." No it's not.

So, it's New Year's Eve. It's Winter. Just. It's cold and it's wet (usually). If you plan on going there you have to cycle (not a problem) or stay over as there's no public transport and if you want a taxi you need to book decades ahead, give them your firstborn and, if they don't turn up at the right time, there's no Plan B.

Before Millennium night, there was the opportunity of a pub. Yes, there was a door charge, tickets in advance. Then Millennium came and the pubs got greedy. "£50 a ticket with a free glass of champagne", to which people rightly said "No, no thanks. We're not stupid" and so now the pubs in Cambridge stay resolutely closed in a fit of pique.

Millennium night, Cambridge had fireworks and a fair and other bits and pieces on Parker's Piece. I'm not sure if they will again, but even so, it's like Bonfire Night. If it's cold and wet, forget it. I'd rather be inside in the warmth. Summer In The City that's a whole new idea. I'm up if it's warm and dry.

So, that's what I won't do. What will I do? If the past has anything to go by, I'll be tuning into TVE (Television Espana), with my plate of twelve grapes. At 23h I'll eat my grapes, one for each bong, and I may have a glass or two of something fizzy. After which I'll watch a bit of their New Year tv (which goes on to 5am) which far exceeds anything we can muster, turn my phone onto silent and have an early night to wake up the next morning refreshed, smelling of roses. Well, maybe not roses, but at least refreshed.

Don't knock it until you try it.