Spain 2005 - Day 1

It’s Thursday afternoon and in the early hours of tomorrow morning we’ll be flying to Salou in Spain, a holiday resort just along the coast from Barcelona. Our early morning flight from Gatwick to Reus leaves at 5.55 am which means leaving home at 3 am to be at the airport by 4 am.

Today has been spent on all the last minute jobs like getting the grass cut and the garden trim and tidy so that in two weeks time when we get back it will look like an untamed jungle. For the past two weeks Pauline’s been working through her lists of things to do – sorting out money, buying essentials, cancelling papers, arranging the non-delivery of post, organising Emma’s foreign currency and travel requirements, making sure her business loose ends are all tied up, arranging airport transportation etc etc. etc. while I’ve been doing all the important manly things today like charging batteries, packing electrical adaptors and……..er….that’s it really.

Oh, and the really important job of sorting out the padlocks and keys for the suitcases.

This may sound simple to the uninitiated but, believe me, this job is not something to undertake if you’re not fully prepared for it mentally and physically.

So…….there are three cases. Each case needs one padlock and each padlock needs one key plus one spare key. The trouble is, over the years we’ve accumulated more bloody keys than padlocks so each year the six keys I need get more and more difficult to identify from the mass of rogue keys that have grown in number since 1983 and which are all kept in a pile in one of the bedside cabinet drawers.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t I just keep the six keys I need separate from the rest in a different drawer or on a different key ring? Good point. Or better still, I hear you interrupt me, why don’t you throw away all the old keys that don’t fit anything anymore? Another good point, but don’t try and be a smartarse. Do you think I’ve never thought of that? I do separate the six keys. Every year I separate them. I do. I do. I really do. But it’s a bit like that Christmas light law which says:

‘However carefully you coil up the Christmas lights and pack them away, when you come to use them again in a year’s time, the flex will have mysteriously formed itself into so many intricate knots that it’s almost better to chuck them away and buy a new set. And even if you do manage to unravel the damned lights there will always be at least one bulb that isn’t working even though they were all working a year ago and haven’t been touched since.’

If you’re lucky you’ll still be able to go back to the shop you bought them from and get the right bulb but nine out of ten shops decide to sell completely different sets of lights each year and trying to match your duff bulb to the myriad of bulb sets on display is a complete waste of time. They’re different shapes, different sizes, different socket formats and different wattages. And what about the price? A set of bulbs for at least 99p? 25p a bulb? At least? Bloody daylight robbery.

It’s the same with padlock keys.

No matter how carefully I organise them one year, the next year they’ve gained some sort of key intelligence and jumped onto key rings along with other keys that don’t belong there. How does that happen?

So, it’s Thursday afternoon, the cases are almost packed and ready to go and here I am trying key after key in each padlock to see if it fits. If it does, putting it to one side with the other matched keys, finding another key that fits, putting it to one side with the other matched keys, finding the separate pile of matched keys has disappeared and mysteriously moved back into the pile of keys still waiting to be checked, starting all over again, finding a match again, putting the key somewhere safe, finding further matched keys, putting them somewhere safe but not necessarily where I put the other keys safe and finally identifying all six keys and sitting back after a job well done with no idea where I’ve put them to keep them safe.

Jesus, this is ridiculous.

“Pauline, I’ve lost those damned keys again. Can you see them anywhere?”

“Not unless they’re that pile over there lying on top of the TV.”

“Blimey, how did they get over there? How many keys are there?”

“Nine.”

“That’s no good, there should be six. Hang on, here they are, I’ve found them. They’re in the waste paper bin, I knew I’d put them somewhere safe…..”

So, as I said, this year it’s Salou and we’re taking Emma and three of her girlfriends, Hollie, Samantha and Emily. Emily’s staying the night and travelling with us while we meet up with Hollie and Samantha at Gatwick. Emily’s suitcase is big and heavy enough to be holding at least two illegal immigrants and I’m already having nightmares about it being refused at check-in.

Still, our cases will be nicely locked and secure. 

Spain 2005 - Day 2

We arrived at Gatwick at 4 am, met up with Hollie and Samantha and checked in. I’ve never been through a check-in so quickly before. No queues. Just strolled up to one of half a dozen ‘First Choice’ desks and that was it. Easy peasy. Even Emily’s managed to smuggle those two illegal immigrants on board without any problems. Boarding the plane was a pleasure. No bloody people in our seats and nobody blocking the aisle while they took ages to sort themselves out. Just on to the plane and……….relax. Once we’d all boarded we were subjected to a thirty minute delay however while, as the pilot told us, we waited for some final documentation to be completed. Well it’s a fine time to tell us that isn’t it? What sort of documentation needs to be completed just before we take off? Surely the pilot’s already got his licence hasn’t he? Or perhaps he’s having trouble filling in his duty-free order slip. Jesus, maybe it’s the first time he’s flown and the airport authorities are having trouble verifying his name.

I was beginning to worry.

I needn’t have done. We eventually took off around 6.30 am and landed at Reus airport at roughly 9.30 am local time. Reus is one of the smallest international airports in Spain and it was like returning to the days of flying twenty years ago. As we waited to disembark I noticed all the passengers from a Ryanair flight walking from their plane to the terminal building. I was quite prepared to do the same but we were ushered on to a shuttle bus which took us instead. As the terminal building was within easy Ryanair walking distance, even taking into account the meandering route that the bus took, no sooner had we all boarded it was time to bloody well get off again – and the Ryanair passengers had easily beaten us to it just by walking. Still, we non-Ryanair passengers had a bus and they didn’t eh? That’s what we paid our non-Ryanair fare price for wasn’t it?

Once inside the terminal building or big shed, we hung around waiting for our luggage. The big shed was sparse to say the least. No signs of life anywhere. No Spanish officials, a couple of small conveyor belts and a sort of makeshift customs gate which looked like a temporary structure that was erected every time a flight arrived. It appeared to be a cardboard cut-out of a gated entrance but you could see around to the left and right of it and although it had two separate gateways, one for ‘Goods to Declare’ and the other for ‘Nothing to Declare’, it was quite possible to walk around either side and into the same area beyond. It wouldn’t have made the slightest bit of difference if you had because each gate was side by side and took you through to the same area anyway. I was tempted to walk under the ‘Goods to Declare’ cardboard opening just to see if some hidden official would suddenly spring out from his carefully camouflaged hiding place but thought better of it at the last minute.

Then it was on to our hotel transfer coach for a twenty minute ride to the hotel in the company of Alexthefirstchoicerep. Uneventful journey apart from having to listen to the verbal diarrhoea (thank God for spell checkers eh?) of Alexthefirstchoicerep but on checking in at the desk we met our first hitch of the holiday. They told us our rooms weren’t ready and wouldn’t be ready until 12.30 pm. As it was now around 10.45 am and we were all hot, sweaty, tired and thirsty, this didn’t go down too well. The only thing we could do though was to take our luggage down to the basement luggage room where it could be kept under lock and key until our rooms were ready.

We found the luggage room, went in and inside, sitting by the door, was a thin lanky looking black man with some keys in his hand. He didn’t speak but as we walked in he got up from his chair and just kept on getting up.

Jesus, he was tall.

He towered above us. He must have been at least seven feet. His arms and legs we’re so long and dangly that he reminded me of a daddy-long-leg with only four legs after the rest had been pulled off. He walked at a slow pace. I suppose he had to in case his arms and legs got tangled up together and he fell down in a huge tangled mess of limbs and body unable to move. I was pretending not to stare at him when the four girls and Pauline decided that they would unpack some of their shorts/bikinis so that they could kill the waiting time with a spot of sunbathing. The tall man was expecting us to just drop off our cases and return for them later so he was slightly put off guard when cases were being unlocked and various items of female clothing were strewn all over the floor.

He put his keys back into his pocket and went for a tall stroll.

In the meantime the girls had found a toilet and were in there changing while I sat down in the tall man’s chair and waited. Waiting was to feature quite a lot in my forthcoming two weeks. The tall man came back expecting us to be gone so he could lock up but found us all still there with the girls now putting on sun cream and me sitting in his chair. He looked around but before I could get up and offer him his tall chair back he was off again in his wibbly-wobbly walking motion for another dingly-dangly tall man’s stroll.

At last everyone was ready but we couldn’t leave the room because the tall man wasn’t there to lock up. I said I’d hang around until he turned up but this was unnecessary because as soon as the girls left the room he seemed to appear out of nowhere. I think he must have been hiding behind a fishing rod that was stacked in one corner of the room.

By the time we’d killed ninety minutes, returned to the luggage room to collect our bags and finally unpacked in our rooms, Pauline and I were both feeling tired and needed a sleep. Pauline woke late afternoon and spent a few hours by the pool – I didn’t wake. As far as I know the girls spent the whole afternoon by the pool but who knows? As I was fast asleep and having nightmares about big black flying man-eating four-legged daddy-long-legs, the girls could have been anywhere.

We decided to spend our first evening with a stroll into town. Apparently it’s only ten minutes walk away and Pauline had already got directions and a map from Alexthefirstchoicerep so off we all went. After twenty minutes or so and appearing to be the only six people walking along a major dual carriageway leading as far as the eye could see into nothingness, we decided that perhaps we weren’t actually on the way to the town after all. Cutting our losses we turned off on one of the few left turns and found ourselves walking through the grounds of a hotel complex back in the general direction of our hotel. As we passed the front of this hotel Hollie and Emily decided to go in to reception and ask for directions to Salou town.

We waited outside while they spent ages in there, eventually coming out and saying, “We think it’s down this way somewhere,” pointing in the general direction in which we were already going. As this was taking us back to our hotel anyway and there was no sign of any town anywhere near it we were not really any the wiser but we carried on, eventually arriving at our hotel too knackered to start walking again so left the business of going into town for another day.

Spain 2005 - Day 3

We were up reasonably early and with one objective for the day – to find our way into town. Blimey, it’s only ten minutes away. A town’s a big place. How can we miss it? We studied the map more carefully this morning and realised that last night we were walking in the complete opposite direction to where the town and beach really were. This was all down to Alexthefirstchoicerep giving us bloody useless directions yesterday. In fact, as he’d given us directions we hadn’t really bothered with the map but once we’d had a good look at it, it was obvious the town and beach really were only ten minutes away but behind and to the right of the hotel instead of in front and to the left. So, it was going to be the town this morning followed by the rep’s ‘Welcome Session’ in the hotel at 3 pm. But before all this excitement we had to have breakfast.

Breakfast and the evening meal are the same as other hotels we’ve stayed in – buffet style, help yourself until you burst then stagger out. It was with some trepidation that I approached the coffee machine for the first time and guess what? I had a bit of a problem. So what you say. What’s new? I agree. You’d think that over the years I would have encountered every conceivable problem with these damn machines but they always manage to catch you by surprise. This time it wasn’t even something new. I was deceived by the oldest trick in the coffee machine book. The old double nozzle whammy. It all seemed so simple. Up one end was the black coffee push button and nozzle; up the other end was the white coffee button and nozzle. I put my cup under the black coffee nozzle, pushed the black coffee button and watched helplessly as the black coffee gracefully poured out of the white coffee nozzle and down the grid at the other end.

As it turned out I would have been extremely disappointed if it hadn’t.

My breakfast time was spent, as ever, marvelling at the plate loads of stuff the Germans brought back to their tables. They’re very into bread are the Germans. Great wads of dark brown slabs of it. It’s dense and heavy and looks like a doormat. A bit like the Germans themselves really. And sausage. The Germans love their sausage don’t they? Bierwurst, blutwurst, bockwurst and bratwurst, braunschweiger, cervelat, frankfurter and knockwurst, weinerwurst, weisswurst, knackwurst and whatswurst – oh I’ve been everywhere man……..

We found the town in no time, it was only ten minutes away, did I tell you that? And spent a happy few hours strolling around shops all selling the same things but at different prices just to keep you on your toes. Then it was back to the hotel for a spot of sunbathing before the ‘Welcome Session’. As we entered the hotel foyer there stood Alexthefirstchoicerep who told us that the welcome session was now at 1 pm and not 3 pm. As it was now 12.45 pm he’s going to be lucky if he manages to inform everybody of the change in time just by standing in the foyer and hoping he sees someone he might recognise isn’t he? Never mind, he told us and that’s all that matters.

We wandered into the bar area where the session had been set up. Why we were going I just don’t know. Yes I do. There was a free glass of sangria in it for me. So clutching my glass we sat down as far away as possible from the hastily erected easel and display board which Alexthefirstchoicerep was now standing in front of. Alexthefirstchoicerep had already confirmed my impression of holiday reps on the first day I saw him – stupid, conceited, unfunny, un-informative and a waste of space generally.

Then he started.

“Good morning everyone.”

A few people mumbled, “Morning.”

“Come on, you can do better than that. I’ll say it again.”

Good grief.

“Good morning everyone,” he shouted.

A few more people murmured, “Morning” slightly louder but not much.

“That’s better,” he said, “it’s not really morning is it? It’s afternoon but I expect for some of you who’ve just got up it is morning eh?”

He waited for the laughs and nods of recognition which unfortunately for him didn’t materialise. The stony silence didn’t put him off though. He carried on in a very serious tone of voice, “You’ll probably find that as we share the hotel with the Germans, the sun beds will be covered in towels early in the morning but please don’t do that as it’s unfair on everyone else.”

Oh really? Is that so Alex? I couldn’t believe what he’d just said. It would be a lot fairer Alex old son, if you took a loud hailer out to the pool area, stood on top of the diving board and shouted that out to the bloody Germans wouldn’t it? You plonker.

We sat through the usual self-promotion and pushing of “fantastic” excursions and party nights which Alex could sell to us if we wanted to throw our money down the drain so while he was launching into yet another “fantastic” feature of some “fantastic” pub crawl which I couldn’t give a bugger about, I wandered over and took a second glass of sangria for myself and Pauline before the quota of one glass per person ran out. There’s always someone not drinking isn’t there? There is if they’re not quick enough when I’m around.

After trying and failing to0 flog a dead horse for twenty minutes or so, Alexthefirstchoicerep went into his finale as follows:

“Right,” he said, “I want you all to do something for me now. I’d like everybody to stand up”.

Nobody moved.

“Don’t be scared,” he said.

A couple of people slowly stood up glancing around in embarrassment followed by the rest of us five minutes later.

“OK. Those people who’ve come on holiday for a rest….sit down,” he said.

I immediately sat down.

“Those of you who came for night life and a good time….sit down.”

Some more people sat down.

“Anyone here for restaurants and good food and drink…..sit down.”

Some more people sat down.

“Anyone who came to take the mickey out of everyone else especially the Germans….sit down.”

I stood up so I could sit down again.

Then, once he had everyone sitting down his finishing line was, “So you see everyone’s here for something different and First Choice can give it to you.”

Right on Alex. What a finish. Beats me why you’re not working in Las Vegas somewhere. MacDonald’s are always looking I hear. The meeting broke up and I never did get my third glass of sangria.

Tonight at dinner two young men came in and sat at a table not far from us. The procedure in the evening is that you’re shown to a table, a waiter takes your drinks order after which you make your way up to the buffet to stuff yourselves silly. During the course of our meal I noticed the two men had been sitting there waiting for someone to come up and take their drinks order. They seemed slightly unsure of themselves, glancing around, patiently waiting for some attention and gradually looking more and more uncomfortable. I knew that they had been sitting there for the best part of fifteen minutes so I suddenly got up, collared a waiter and mentioned that “those two people over there are still waiting.” On the way back I went over to them and said, “Are you English?” One of them said, “No, we’re Dutch.”

“Oh dear, never mind,” I said, “I think you might get served soon.”

After another drawn out five minutes a waitress eventually turned up and started to take their order. I looked over and started to clap. The two lads looked back at me slightly embarrassed and smiled. One of them gave me the thumbs-up sign which I returned.

I said to Pauline, “I’m sure they’re gay.”

“What does that matter?” she said.

“Nothing,” I said, “I’m just glad I could help them out.”

During their meal they started to eat things off each others plates.

“Look at that,” I said, “they’re definitely gay, look at them, bloody hell.”

As we left the dining room I smiled and waved at them.

Why did I do that?

Spain 2005 - Day 4

The two gay men gave me a wave and a smile at breakfast this morning.

Spain 2005 - Day 5

The two gay men smiled and winked at me over the coffee and croissants this morning.

Think I’ll stop wearing my shorts at breakfast.

We share the hotel with the French, Germans, Dutch, Spanish and a shillelagh’s worth of Irish families. It’s interesting to see the different way that the various nationalities treat the sun beds. The Germans, as ever, all get their towels on them by 3 am every morning, the Dutch shred them up and smoke them, the French smother them in mayonnaise and eat them, the Spanish put them to one side until tomorrow while the Irish build them into small communities without planning permission. In fact over the past four days I’ve noticed the Irish contingent increasing at a steady rate. I don’t think they’re all officially on holiday in the hotel, I’m sure a lot of them have just arrived and are staying with friends under the Irish sun beds. The Irish family I tend to see most of seem to always have the same table at dinner every night. So far there’s a nice tarmac area to one side of it and they’re laying on the electricity supply as I write.

As ever there’s an events organiser prowling around the pool area trying to get people involved in a spot of darts, table tennis etc. but to his credit, he’s keeping a reasonably low profile and not being as pushy and loud as last year’s Emmathethompsonrep was. Having just said that, he may just be taking the job a tad too seriously. I’ve just seen him strolling around the pool with a rifle tucked under his arm. He can’t be getting enough volunteers for the table tennis I suppose. Oh no, hold on, it’s all right. He’s trying to organise a rifle shooting competition. That’s a relief.

I thought we were going to PortAventura today. We’d talked about it with the girls a couple of days ago and I thought we’d agreed that Monday would be a good day to go and make the first of our three day visits. It turned out that the girls hadn’t really thought about it at all so we’re definitely going tomorrow instead………….probably. PortAventura is a Universal theme park which has been described in the brochures as “only ten minutes walk away from the hotel”. In fact you can see some of the larger rides from our hotel balcony so it looks like it might be true for once.

As is often the case with many Mediterranean resorts, once you get away from the commercialised centre, the original ‘old town’ is not too far away, far more interesting and quieter. So, hiding my disappointment at not being able to scream and scream again on the Universal rides, we decided to take a walk into Salou and find the old port and surrounding area. I say we, but it turned out to just be me and Pauline, for some reason a long walk didn’t appeal to the girls. In fact the walk down to the old part of the town wasn’t too far anyway. Once we’d got past the shops and bars of central Salou the main promenade took us along the beach front to the port and soon modern ugly buildings slowly gave precedence to attractive Spanish architecture. Here was another area of shops but far more attractive with most of the shops jumbled up down narrow windy streets. One small shop we passed was like a big cupboard. It was only the width of its doorway and stretched back into the darkness like a long narrow corridor. I was so surprised as I walked in by this that I’ve got no idea what it was selling. Must have been long narrow things like flag poles….or telephone poles…..or fishing rods….or girders……….or stilts? Come to think of it you don’t see many shops selling stilts do you? Wonder where you go to buy them? Hang on I remember now. It was selling clothes. Ordinary clothes. Not even clothes for long tall narrow skinny people like the tall black man. Just clothes.

With our visit to the old town over, Pauline suggested we hop on a bus and visit Cambrils, another resort just a few miles along the coast which had been described to us as being quieter and prettier than Salou and well worth a visit. Ten minutes later we were walking around Cambrils but apart from the usual sea frontage of bars and shops it certainly didn’t appear to be prettier or quieter. Away from the front it looked like it was built on a roundabout in the middle of a motorway. There didn’t seem to be much there at all. The odd shop and bar here and there but nothing that made you think “must tell everyone to visit this place”. We’d found a few smaller, real streets as opposed to great thumping dual carriageways when Pauline popped into a shop for some postcards. She came out and showed me one which had a photo of an extremely attractive gateway in what looked like a city wall. The view was from the gate, down a narrow cobbled street covered in plants and flowers growing in the window boxes of local residents. On the postcard it just said ‘Cambrils’. “Well if that’s Cambrils I don’t know where we are, I said, “this place is nothing like that. They’ve made that up.”

Pauline said, “Don’t be stupid,” and went back to the shop to ask where we could find the actual area pictured on the postcard. She came back and said, “It’s apparently part of the old town, down here somewhere.” Things were looking up. We started walking, as usual without much idea of where we were really going and eventually gave up and asked again. This time it was an old lady on a bench and she directed us further on in the same general direction so at least we were making progress. We’d been walking non-stop since we’d got off the bus, it was really hot and it seemed we weren’t really getting anywhere even with the latest directions. We asked again, showing the postcard to a man who pointed along the road and gave us succinct directions in Spanish which we didn’t have a clue about and still we were walking. The heat was getting to me.

“I told you they’d made it up,” I said to Pauline, “that picture on the postcard is about as real as Michael Jackson’s head.” Pauline said, “Don’t be stupid” and strolled over to a postman, showed him the postcard and asked him where it was. Bloody hell, maybe we’ll get somewhere at last. He’s bound to know isn’t he? He told us that the old original walled town was where we’d find the gateway. It wasn’t very far away and it was well worth seeing, very pretty and something we shouldn’t miss. He pointed the way ahead and went on his postman’s way whistling a jaunty postman’s tune.

We started walking again. And walked. And walked. And walked.

It was getting hotter with every road we passed and it seemed like we’d been walking for hours. I looked at my watch. It was hours. And we’d still not got anywhere near the old town. “Bloody hell,” I said, “how far away can this old town be? It must be so old it’s disappeared off the face of the earth.” We were still walking around an area with wide open spaces and wide open roads when we suddenly appeared to be walking alongside a high stone wall. We walked through an archway, along a narrow road ending in a T-junction. We stopped, looked left and right, did a double take, looked right again and there along the street and up a few stone steps was the gated entrance shown on the postcard.

And do you know what?

It was nothing like the bloody picture. Oh you could tell it was the same gateway but there were no attractive flowers around its surrounding walls, it was just a rusty old gate.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t wonderful. It wasn’t anything.

Bloody hell, we’d walked for hours and hours just to see this landmark and it was pathetic. I couldn’t believe I’d put myself through two hours or so of ninety degree hell just to see this bit of old iron. And that was it. The rest of the so-called old town was like the gate – a great big disappointment.

That postman has a lot to answer for………..

I’ve noticed that the current trend in men’s fashion for evening wear is trousers which end about mid-calf. Neither one thing or the other really. It’s like they can’t quite make up their minds whether to wear long short trousers or short long trousers. Either way, they should only be worn by the under-25’s otherwise they make the wearer look like he should be wearing a bright red curly wig and a red nose to finish off the look.

Tonight the hotel entertainment is ‘Silly Games’.

Needless to say, we’re spending a quiet evening on our balcony. The girls are off to a karaoke bar.

Spain 2005 - Day 6

The two gay men waved and smiled at me again this morning.

Must start trying to avoid eye contact at some stage.

We’re all off to PortAventura today………..definitely………….I think.

It’s a scorching hot day again and the ten minute walk was on a constant slight incline so what with that and the high temperature I was worn out before I’d even got there. What they didn’t tell us was, it may have been ten minutes walk from the hotel to the outskirts of the park but it was a further ten minutes from there to the park’s turnstile entrance. By the time we’d actually got in, it was around mid-day and I was doing my usual impression of a walking drop of water. The park was really busy, far busier than I’d imagined it to be but this was largely due to the high numbers of Spanish kids packed into it. As far as I could make out it wasn’t the Spanish school holiday period, yet there were groups and groups of them wherever we went.

And their manners were non-existent. Pushing, shoving, shouting, spitting, running, barging into people – they were really getting on my nerves and we’d only been in the park for five minutes. Some of these kids are going to get shoved so hard in a minute they won’t know what hit them.

Pauline and Emma can’t take the fast rides so I tagged along whenever Hollie, Sam and Emily decided to go on one. For the first couple of hours, after we’d all been on a disappointing simulation ride called ‘Sea Quest’ we just spent ages and ages walking up and down the same stretch of park not doing much at all for some reason I never quite understood and then, all of a sudden, everyone wanted to eat.

By 3 pm we hadn’t progressed much further than where we’d come in but suddenly there was a flurry of activity and everyone decided to go on some water rapids ride and left me standing there looking after the bags. Soon after, I was in a queue with Hollie, Sam and Emily for the ‘largest all-wooden roller coaster in the world’. This rattled and really shook us around fro a few minutes before I finally got off with a headache. I wondered what that bag was for that they gave us as we got on. I thought it was a sick bag but it was obviously meant for our teeth fillings. As we got off we looked at the photos taken during the ride and posted up for sale at the exit for exorbitant prices. There was a good one of me with my head in my hands. At least I think it was me. Difficult to tell really as my eyeballs were still vibrating slightly giving me a sort of quadruple vision.

Then it was off to see a ‘Wild West Stunt Show’ which was remarkably boring. It seemed to be aimed at six year olds but then again maybe that’s the average Spanish intelligence level as most of the Spanish audience laughed and clapped at everything anyway. I assumed they must have all been ‘Sol’ readers. Of course it doesn’t help when everything is performed in Spanish but they didn’t seem to be able to pull it off with the same degree of professionalism and excitement that there U.S. counterparts do.

Around 7 pm Hollie appeared to have taken that deadly one ride too many and was feeling distinctly unwell. For a seasoned big ride enthusiast this came as a bit of a surprise to everyone including Hollie so with two more park days in hand we decided to call it a day. The fireworks finale at midnight would just have to wait for another day. As we’d now planned out where all the major rides were we decided to come back during the late afternoon/early evening to avoid the heat of he day but more importantly the bloody Spanish kids.

We got back to the hotel and were down to dinner at 9 pm.

The Irish family river-danced in and I admired their nice ornate fence and brick wall with stone lions on each of the pillars.

Spain 2005 - Day 7

I ignored the two gay men at breakfast today.

It’s for their own good. No point in starting something we can’t finish.

Pauline decided to have an early morning swim and try to reserve a couple of sun beds. As ever, most of the beds were already covered with neatly folded towels which more often than not remained neatly folded and untouched until mid-afternoon. I wish I had the nerve to go round, take every one of them off and throw them in an untidy pile in a corner somewhere…….

We’re spending the day by the pool……….I think………probably.

The resident Pagethreestunna was by the pool today. Long blonde hair, good looking and always remarkably well dressed in a God awful tacky way. She’s walking around the pool in her high heels and a leopard skin bikini covered with a matching see-through floaty, chiffony leopard skin thing which wafts around as she moves. She seems to be Spanish, on her own and has a nine or ten year old daughter with her. The other night at dinner she wore tiny denim shorts and a sort of sleeveless suedy top with laces up the front. Not that I noticed that much……..

I’ve just finished watching the ‘Water Aerobics’ from the comfort of my sun bed. Always interesting to watch is this as all the people in the pool attempt to mimic the instructor’s movements played out to a booming dance mix. You’d think that copying the instructor’s very simple movements would be dead easy wouldn’t you? The instructor raises his right arm up and down for 30 seconds. Some old dear moves her left arm from side to side. The instructor waves his arms in the air. Some other old dear shakes her hands in front of her face. What’s he there for? He might as well play the music, shout, “Get on with it” and go and have a sit down.

It’s approaching 4 pm and the girls have suddenly decided that it would be a good idea to make a second visit to PortAventura. This involved a small panic on our part as we scrambled our things together and everyone made a beeline for their rooms to change. I was ready by 4.30 pm and spent the next hour wondering when everyone else would be.

Back in the park it was much more comfortable than the previous day. The temperature was bearable and there were significantly fewer ignorant Spanish kids around. Don’t get me wrong, there were still enough of them there to get on my nerves though. They walked around the place in large groups, voices like foghorns. They don’t attempt to make way or move over when walking towards you. They push and shove and generally act as if nobody else exists. When queuing for rides they stand behind you and every few seconds barge into your back or push you as if they’re trying to move forward when it’s obvious that they can’t. waiting in line for something or other, Pauline was looking at a map of the park when two Spanish girls behind us leaned over her shoulder and started pointing and touching the map while jabbering away to each other at the top of their voices. Unbelievable. What’s wrong with these people? Bloody hell.

On another occasion while queuing with the girls for a ride, we found ourselves in between two large groups of Spanish kids. They were yelling at each other on either side of us until one of the girls in the front group motioned to Emily that perhaps we should let the group behind us overtake so that they could all be together. Bloody cheek. Emily quite rightly refused and in the end managed to get us moved up the line in front of the first group instead. Well done Emily.

As we strolled through the park Pauline suddenly said to me, “Oh I wonder what’s upset that Spanish kid?” as he staggered along holding his head. “Dunno,” I said, “Oh, that one there? His shin somehow hit the end of my foot and his eye inexplicably smashed into my elbow I think.”

We did the two big rides today. The first was a roller coaster. One of those curly-wurly, twirly, under, over, oops upside your head kind of things. After the first involuntary ‘Jeeeeeeeeesus Christ’ had passed my lips I really enjoyed it.

The other one was the ‘Huraken Condor’, a tall tower affair with seats on the outside. You get in a seat, just hanging there with your back to the tower looking out over the park while you’re winched up 328 feet to the top and dropped back down again at 70 mph. Emily was the only one brave enough to go on it with me, mind you I think she was getting more nervous the closer we got to the head of the queue. The nearer we got the more she chattered until by the time we were being strapped in she was burbling away about so many things I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. I think I must be getting too old for all this now. Every time I get off a ride these days, I have a bloody headache.

We stayed until the midnight firework display and then home.

Spain 2005 - Day 8

At breakfast this morning one of the gay men was wearing a T-shirt with ‘Trust Me I’m A Virgin’ on the front.

Bloody pervert. I’m beginning to regret I ever helped them out now.

I’ve just seen the tall black wibbly-wobbly man by the pool. He’s standing around doing nothing as usual with a big bunch of keys in his hand. I glanced away and when I looked back a few minutes later he was slumped in a heap, arms and legs in a tangled mess trying to stand up. Apparently he’d been a bit reckless and tried a few disco moves to impress the girls.

I‘ve also just seen the future and the future is an eighty year old Chuckle Brother. I swear this old bloke with the silver hair and knobbly knees is just like one of those newspaper computer images of how they imagine someone like Lord Lucan would look had he been alive and living in the Brazilian jungle making clay pots for tourists. But it’s a Chuckle Brother instead – at eighty – still performing once a year at the Assembly Halls, Tunbridge Wells.

A comforting thought.

Everybody around the pool seems to be reading the same book, ‘The Da Vinci Code’. Just goes to show how much money can be made from re-hashed myths, legends and old tosh recycled into a ‘riveting read’ these days. Feel a bit of a rebel sitting here reading ‘Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Sometimes Zeppo’ – the best, by all odds of the many books written about the Marx brothers – it says here.

As the Irish family twiddled-de-dee’d into dinner tonight I noticed the tarmac around their table was complete, drains and electricity are installed, some really expensive pot plants have appeared and one or two rusty old burnt out cars are acting as outside toilets. I tried to eavesdrop on the Irish conversation at their table but the sound of the kids roaring around on motorbikes with no road tax drowned them out. It didn’t really matter though. These people could be speaking Russian for all the sense they made. They seem to speak English but not as we know it, that’s for sure for sure.

Went to bed with the sound of fireworks exploding every few minutes well into the early hours of the morning. Locals must be celebrating something I suppose.

Spain 2005 - Day 9

The two bloody gay perverts twinkled at me this morning despite the fact that I strolled into breakfast with a manly stride shouting in a loud deep voice to everyone I passed, “Hello, how are you? I’m married with one daughter and I’ve been heterosexual all my life and will be until I die.”

That should do the trick. Startled a few guests though.

I’ve just heard that Tim Henman is out of Wimbledon already. I think he was playing an armless, blind, one-legged dwarf. A shame really as Timbo had been practising all year for this occasion. Not his tennis obviously but that pathetic little victory fist clench that looks like he’s trying to get rid of a touch of pins and needles in his arm. Only that morning he’d been practising in front of his hotel mirror and said to his wife, “You know, I really believe this year’s my year. Look at this – fist clench, fist unclench, fist clench, fist unclench – I can do twenty of these in a row now without feeling the least bit tired.”

His wife looked up from her book ‘How To Spot The Lesbian Players Before They Spot You’ and said, “The sooner you pull your bloody socks up and get a proper job, the sooner we’ll see the end of all those hordes of middle-aged women wrapped in Union Jack flags, hats and dresses, screaming girlishly at every point you don’t manage to concede and dramatically over play-acting at tragedy as if they’ve just received news that their entire family has been massacred whenever you swipe and miss.”

But it was no use. Timbo hadn’t heard a word. He was in another world of his own, standing bent over in his Bruce Forsyth pose muttering to himself, “Fist clench, elbow bend, fist unclench. Other hand, fist clench, ooh that hurt, fist unclench…..I think I’ve got it. By George I think I’ve got it……”

Today we’re all going to Tarragona, a large town along the coast with major shopping attractions for Emma and her mates, a cathedral for Pauline and…er…not sure what for me. We boarded the bus near the hotel and arrived at the bus station in Tarragona around noon. The bus station appeared to be in the middle of nowhere so as we got off Pauline asked the bus driver which way the cathedral and city centre was, he waved vaguely in one particular direction which we attempted to follow once outside the bus station but as usual we hadn’t a clue really where we were heading – well I didn’t – don’t know about everyone else.

Although we had a map, the bus station wasn’t marked on it so until we could find a road name we recognised on the map we were stymied. We passed commercial premises, shops, bars and banks but weren’t really getting anywhere. The cathedral was nowhere to be seen. Pauline got the map out again, tried to see where we were but gave up and asked a passing old Spanish gentlemen. He turned the map upside down and pointed and gestured first to the map and then to the surrounding area for a good few minutes, pausing and looking into Pauline’s eyes for a few seconds to see if she understood and then resuming his pointing and gesturing for another few minutes turning the map around in his hands as he did so. Pauline nodded knowingly with a glazed look in her eyes, waited until he’d finished (which was difficult because if she didn’t acknowledge what he’d been saying quite quickly he’d be off again on another Spanish conversation) and said “Gracias”. She then said to us, “I think we have to go off to our left instead of straight on.” At this point Hollie took the map, suddenly found a street name she recognised and with the confidence of a local tour guide said, “OK, I think we should go up here” – and off she went holding the map in the air with the rest of us trailing along behind her. By the time she’d led us to the road leading up to the cathedral she had half the tourist population of Tarragona behind her like the Pied Piper and his rats.

It was another scorching hot day and I spent my time walking in as many shaded spots as I could. Sometimes this was dead easy, many streets were shaded on one side due to buildings or trees but sometimes it proved to be more difficult when streets were positioned in the full glare of the overhead sun. in these cases I spent my time gazing up the street to the next available piece of shade, usually a small square of it thrown by a concrete column or high window ledge. The shady oasis provided some respite from the sun but only if I managed to stick my head in the minute shady area and leave the rest of my body sticking out and sweating in the sun. So while everyone else strolled along, there I was like some sort of fugitive, eyeing up the street ahead, identifying the next piece of shade, creeping along with my back as close to the wall as possible until I reached it, stopping and taking my hat off to cool down, searching ahead for the next shady area, putting my hat back on and starting off again.

I was arrested twice for suspicious behaviour.

And then we came across it. What looked like the main cathedral entrance in a pretty square with a couple of bars and a souvenir shop. The only trouble was, the cathedral doors were shut. Oh no, don’t say we’ve come all this way and God’s on his dinner break, or worse still, taken the afternoon off. Pauline decide to wander around the cathedral walls to look for any more entrances while we all stayed in the square. She came back shortly after finding the main visitor’s entrance just around the corner. We wandered through a sort of cloistered area until we came across a lady in a booth selling tickets. We paid and she gestured to a door just to the right of her.

This took us into a small museum area which we dutifully looked around and then we exited from what I thought was another door taking us through to the cathedral. Instead we found ourselves suddenly outside right by the ticket booth lady again. This can’t be all there is can there? If it is then God’s being a bit greedy with His entrance fee, it wasn’t exactly cheap. Then, the ticket lady, seeing our confusion, pointed to another door next to the one that we’d just came out of. This door was even smaller and more difficult to find than the first one but once we’d gone through it was like entering Dr. Who’s Tardis. On the other side of this tiny door was the interior of the cathedral with all its vastness and splendour hitting you in the face just across the threshold.

With the visit over, it was time for some serious shopping. We’d deliberately finished our cathedral visit by 5 pm so the girls could spend the evening doing what they do best but on the way back to the main city centre we passed shop after shop with their shutters down. Banks were closed, even the bars weren’t open. This was odd. Big cities don’t usually shut down for a siesta and the bars certainly don’t. the further we walked the more it dawned on us that the whole city was shut. It was a ghost city. We hardly saw another soul all the way back to the bus station. Surely Friday wasn’t half day closing was it? But then we hadn’t really noticed if the shops were open during the morning either as we were too intent on finding where the cathedral was. It was looking more and more as if everything had been closed all day.

So that was it and there we were. A special trip to Tarragona the shopping paradise of the area so that the girls could spend all their money had turned into a fiasco. Then the penny dropped. The empty streets, the closed shops, the interminable fireworks the night before – we’d picked the only day of the week which was a local Saint’s day and everyone was on a bloody day’s holiday. The girls were obviously disappointed but not too disappointed to want to come back another day for a shopping trip while I was mentally punching the air at the prospect of not having to sit around for hours waiting for everyone to re-appear from one shop and disappear into the next.

We arrived back at the bus station about 6 pm, found the bus stop area for our bus back to Salou and stood around with a gaggle of other people. The bus was already there, empty and waiting with its door closed. It was due to leave in fifteen minutes time. We stood in the queue and waited. Then with about one minute to go before departure, the bus driver sauntered over, opened the bus doors and stood to one side as the passengers started to board. But hang on, he seemed to be checking tickets. He was checking tickets. And turning away people who didn’t have one. We didn’t have tickets but then again we’d assumed we’d be buying them on the bus like we did when we came.

And then all hell broke loose.

People without tickets were shouting and waving their arms, the bus driver was shouting, gesturing and shrugging while at the same time climbing into the driver’s seat. We stood there confused until all of a sudden the other ticketless people made a dash for the ticket hall. Pauline suddenly shouted, “Quick, we must have to go and buy our tickets in there.” Another English voice said, “It’s up the stairs apparently.” We all rushed inside in a mild state of panic. Pauline tried to buy her bus tickets from a car park ticket machine until Emma shouted, “No mum, up the stairs, up the stairs.” Up the stairs we ran, bought the tickets and raced back down and outside hoping and hoping that the bus was still there. Thankfully it was.

The bus driver was sitting in his cab with, I swear, an amused expression on his face while everyone clambered breathlessly on board.

He’d seen it all before hadn’t he? And to be honest, this was obviously the sort of thing that brightened up his day and made his job worthwhile wasn’t it? I didn’t hold it against him. I think if I’d been a Spanish bus driver I’d be looking forward to these high points of the job every day and would have enjoyed every minute of it just as he’d done.

Bloody tourists eh?