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.

Vacation

I typing this at my soon-to-be deserted desk in the office.  Today is a half-day as Mrs O and I are off on hols this afternoon.  I'm shooting off at 12.30 (a little over an hour's time).  The plan is to hook up with the spouseuse at Stansted, and then to jet off to Jerez.

Normally we rent apartments when we're away, but as this is a mini-break, we're staying in hotels.  Luckily, southern Spain is relatively cheap so we can stretch to four and five-star hotels for the duration.  But staying in places like this unnerves me.  I'll be honest with you: I'm a low-born cock-er-knee urchin at heart.  I know I carry myself with a world-weary and distrait sophistication, but that's all bullsh1t.  In fact I'm an impostor in polite society.  And the staff at posh hotels can spot rotters like me, even ones from abroad, from about 700 yards.  This puts me on the back foot.  I feel ill-at-ease all the time.  Should I tip this chap?  If so, how much etc.  It's a decidedly first world problem, I grant you, but it is a worry.

Soy posh, sí.

Have A3 boarding pass, will travel

Mrs O and I are off for a long weekend in southern Spain tomorrow.  We're doing a greatest-hits tour of the places we know well - Jerez and Cadiz.  I adore Andalusia; it's so vital and so brutal.  We've never been there this early in the year, and it's going to be bastard-hot.

We normally head down to Al-Andalus in late September at the earliest.  Even then it's generally scorching.  I've a photo from Jerez of one of those giant thermometers you get outside pharmacies (pharmacists, why?).  It reads 39 degrees.  So presumably in August it's like sitting in an inglenook fireplace whilst dressed like a Norwegian trawler man.  Oh, well, the hotel has a pool, and Cadiz is on the Atlantic, so what's the worst that can happen to a pasty London Irish weed, comme moi?

The greatest pleasure on Earth has to be cowering from the relentless heat of an Andalusian day until the sun begins its descent and then heading off to a sheltered bar somewhere that has a view of the sea or a river and sipping a freezing-cold fino sherry.  The astringent quality slakes the thirst no nothing else I've ever quaffed.  Suddenly, the limbs lighten and the brain springs back into life for a few hours.  Colours appear more vivid and you just want to embrace life.  Necking Guinness whilst listening to sean nos in a dark pub in the west of Ireland is fantastic, but it doesn't get close to this.  Nosirree.