Haaaaaabla Inglayss?

Yawn - well then, that was the weekend, that was.  Mrs O and I are back from our brief sojourn in southern Spain.  We shot off to Andalusia on Friday night.  And, yes, it was murderously hot.

Our first night was spent in Jerez.  In most agreeable clichéd Spanish style, our (complimentary) dinner included a live Flamenco accompaniment.  I don't much care for Flamenco.  I don't wish to sound like an ingrate, but there it is.  It's simply too hysterical for someone raised in England to embrace.  The quality of the musicianship is uniformly high, particularly the guitar playing.  Flamenco guitar playing has a very high entry level in terms of skill.  It's like snooker: you can do it or you sooooo can't.  Flamenco singing, on the other hand, is simply caterwauling masquerading as art.  Yes, it is, and I won't listen to another word on the subject.

After Jerez, we jumped the train to Cádiz, which is on the coast.  Just as well too, because the heat in Jerez could have brought down a camel.  It was excruciating.  But the sea breezes in Cádiz took the edge off to such an extent that one was able to walk sixty yards after sundown without a respirator.  Despite this, one still needed a siesta after lunch for the body to take stock and make sense of matters.

Cádiz, which really is the greatest place on Earth, has an upbeat and practical approach to the summer heat.  During the summer months, the entire town wanders down to the beach after sundown of a Saturday, laden with food and drink.  Then they all have a massive barbecue/piss-up.  It's a joy to behold.  All generations, from babies to nonagenarians, are represented.  And the Andalusians' attitude to drink helps the convivial atmos.  They love to get a bit pissed-up, but never legless.  Consequently there is no bad blood or scrapping.  Looking at the whole affair last Saturday, I couldn't help but be struck by the thought of what utter carnage would ensue if the English ever tried such an event.

This trip was fleeting one, however.  We arrived on Friday evening and flew home on Monday evening.  Still it was enough to recharge the old batteries.  Also my boss went off on leave on the very day that I returned to the office.  He's off to the highlands of Scotland on a stag hunt.  Horses for courses and all that notwithstanding, what kind of person does that in the name of R&R?  So you've chosen to drive 400 miles in a Land Rover in order to crawl on your front over a peat bog whilst being eaten alive by midges in order to shoot a one tonne wild animal in the head?  What kind of fcuking postcard would one send home to the loved ones from a mini break of that nature?  The brain boggles.