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| Jerez to Cadiz to Zahara Spain to Gibraltar - |
At midday, I decided to go for a swim in the hotel pool. The temperature of the water was perfect and after a few laps, I hopped out and took pride of place on a sun lounger in full view of the blue sky. It took roughly ten minutes for my skin to begin to burn which motivated me to jump into the pool again. I would repeat this same routine until some other hotel guests turned up roughly twenty minutes later. A ten-year-old (estimated) girl found a spot on the grass with whom I presume to be her parents. She pulled off her shirt which gave me a view of her bare undeveloped chest. Immediately feeling uncomfortable, I turned over on to my stomach and found a new interest in the screen of my phone and catching up on Whatsapp messages for the last two months. Then I started providing commentary about the Tottenham Hotspurs to mates in London. Any excuse not to look up and cast my eyes around the pool. When I heard the interlopers leave the immediate area and with my back burning, I jumped into the pool once again and had a look around. As the near-nude girl was still allowing her chest to enjoy the rays of the sun not far from me, I promptly retreated to the shade of the patio out of sight of the happy family. Only minutes later, another group appeared with a female teenager in tow. She quickly pulled off her bikini top and exposed herself to the sun and my line of sight. Expecting the police to turn up and remove me in handcuffs with the same pomp and ceremony as Rolf Harris, I fled to the air-conditioned hotel room. I changed and then took a seat in the restaurant to do some mundane work. Is it a thing in Europe or just Spain where teenage (young) girls go topless at the public pool and beach? Jerry Garcia from the Grateful Dead did once say that it is going to get stranger...
Not to be thwarted by the hot weather, later we ditched the Benz in the underground car park in Cadiz and wandered around after I explained the awkwardness of the hotel pool to the twink. After being denied entry into the Museum of Cadiz as it was at capacity, we wandered around the laneways of the old town and found a bar that was trading at the early hour of 6:30 PM. In Spain, not many restaurants and boozers are open so early, however, we found one and happily hopped on wooden chairs thirsty as hell. We ordered two pints of San Miguel (2€/each) and after I said 'muchas gracias' the teenage son of the bar lady entered this esteemed establishment and proclaimed to his mother that he had been caught stealing. Sadly not in honour of Perry Farrell of Jane's Addiction's legacy. Both the boy and his shirtless mate who was waiting outside the bar with his bicycle had been reported to the local police. His mother was enraged. My limited understanding of Spanish only meant that I translated the verbs in my head. Her displeasure was demonstrated when she first tried to kick and then punch the boy and call him names reserved for the playground and for horses when you lose a wager. I was happy to excuse the lack of attention to our empty glasses when she ran outside to chase away his partner in crime who incidentally had a great tan. I was a bit jealous after working so hard on mine earlier in the day. The mother rang the store la tienda in question and explained in no uncertain terms how mortified she was. The boy was then put to work cleaning our soiled pint glasses and she later apologied to the locals who were seemingly mortified watching this drama play out. She patted me on the stomach after delivering us the last round of beer that I requested and then we decided to leave, despite desperately wanting to watch the circus play out more at the bar.
A few nights prior to this I did some research and discovered a Flamenca bar operating in Cadiz. I used the numbers associated with my Monzo card to reserve a table and anticipated this event to be one of the highlights of my trip to Spain. Upon calling into the Cava Club at 8:30 PM, we were escorted to our table and given menus that for all intense purposes detailed food that was extremely good value for money. Croquettes, Jamon Iberico and wine arrived like clockwork as the Flamenca performers took the stage and demonstrated the lost art as I ate a bit and drank heavily. The establishment permitted ladies from Africa to sell their trinkets at the tables. The twink was keen to buy a leather purple elephant keyring but was shocked when the lovely lady who carried her wares on a tray upon her head announced she wanted 10€ for the custom-made souvenier. He uttered he only had a 5€ note. She gasped, shook her head violently and disgustingly groaned that the exchange would be acceptable. Was the twink supposed to barter? By the look on her face, apparently not. He now has the purple elephant attached to his overnight bag and we chuckle whenever it is spotted.
I proceeded to drink the wine with reckless abandon whilst watching the Flamenca. I got into such a state after such a quizzical day that I was unable to drive even if I illegally bothered to try. The twink got the Benz out of the parking structure somehow and drove back to Jerez which is roughly 20km from Cadiz. He later mentioned that I was unable to give proper directions and instead just held up my phone with Google Maps displaying the route back to the Ibis Hotel. Sadly, I don't recall returning to the hotel but I did wake up with a smile on my face and was quite amused by the time spent in Jerez and Cadiz.
With a hangover the next day, I conducted my early morning webex sessions with a lack of enthusiasm. It wasn't long until we fled the Ibis, gave the motorcar another quick wash at the neighbouring facility and rambled down the highway as the hot winds from hell blew. It was one of the few times that I didn't want to drive the posted speed limit as the conditions were so extreme.
We rolled into Zahara de los Atunes a little over an hour later and ditched the car at the beach. I became concerned as the air conditioning once again stopped spitting cold air and was now ejaculating an unwanted warm breeze. An impending failure is certain and I am not happy. Upon a recommendation by someone far removed from me in Manchester, we called into Restaurant 21 and enjoyed the five-course degustation lunch without much booze. The chef was a stereotypical Aussie. He didn't pick up that I was also from the best country in the world which was amusing. My accent is too bastardised it seems. We enjoyed a great meal before driving off in the warm car towards Gibraltar. It was easy to cross the border in a matter of minutes after flashing our passports. I happily ditched the Benz at the hotel instead of driving it into the water. I hate this car so much because of the air conditioning fault that I would kick the shit out of it if it wouldn't result in my hurting my foot. After much-needed showers, we presented ourselves at the hotel bar and got stuck in for the night wondering what would be in store for us in this overseas British colony.
To be continued: The Rock, Gibraltar
