I had shorn myself of all but essentials during the preceding year. I was working as an itinerant teacher moving between colleges of further education on part-time wages. I was happy. On top of my teaching I had my below-the-radar landscaping company, Evans on Earth, and was able to make sufficient money to keep wolves away from our front door. Some burglars once tried to climb in through a small window that doubled as a cat-flap, but I chased them off with all the impassioned valour and self-belief of youth.
I have had a love-affair with Spain for a very long time.
I don’t mean the kind of ‘one-night-stand’ affair that comes with bargain foreign holidays and two weeks of sun, sand and sangria. I hope it has been noted how I cleverly avoided the sex thing, but that is my point: Spain does not need sex as it is good enough to just be in the company of this wonderful country. Spain is courtly love, desired from a distance whilst still managing to be supreme in the clinches.
My true love, my wife, was once persuaded by a still young me to do the Laurie Lee/Ernst Hemingway thing and pack up all that she had in England in favour of a Spanish road trip with stop-offs. She wasn’t best pleased as she wanted to do an Italian road-trip, but I won the coin toss and Lady Luck can not…
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