Episode 17: Las Fallas and Mental Valencians

This is what we’d been looking forward to for weeks, Las Fallas, to this day I’m still not entirely sure what they’re celebrating, but hey, alcohol and fireworks. The journey there was a lot simpler than on other weekends, given that Vicent’s family lives in València and he offered me a lift, as he goes down there most weekends, so it was a couple of hundred miles of touring Montsià to avoid the tolls, music and banter, I’m still quite proud of my translation of “Comunidad Valenciana, provincia de Castelló” to “you are now entering Spain” he also explained to me what orxata is, where the name comes from and why we should have some, it’s basically a drink made of water, sugar, and he described the third ingredient as xufes, which neither of us knew in English so he described them as root vegetables similar to potatoes, so I just knew it would either be heavenly or disgusting, although the origin of the name was slightly reassuring. The reason we got onto it was because I finally found out where the hotel actually was and it was in Alboraia, the place where orxata was born – but of course you knew that already. After a bit of research upon getting back I’ve discovered that xufes are tigernuts in English, so no I’m still not entirely sure what they are. But we got there and he dropped me off at the hotel, and then I went straight to the bar with the other guys, didn’t even have time to unpack, which was probably for the best given that I had an obscenely large bag with an abundance of as yet unworn clothes for reasons I’m not sure I will ever understand. We went from the bar to the room to drink even more alcohol then went to a music festival right on the edge of town, and to say it was free it was actually pretty good, even if Telepizza were trying to charge 2,50€ a slice, I think not. Although before going in we decided to absorb some culture by having our own mini botellón on the other side of the stream with what we had left over. Inside we were quite obvious tourists when La Oreja de Van Gogh came on as we were pretty much the only ones who didn’t know the words enough to sing along, but still it was pretty fun, we then hung out on the street for a bit to discover what Vicent had been warning me about: anyone between four and sixty years old were randomly grabbing fireworks (and yes that did say four), lighting them, and throwing them either on the ground or at each other, or at randomers, including but not limited to us, it was like the London riots only with a lot less actual rioting, and it was at something like 3AM as well, you really had to be there, so we went and sought refuge for a bit in an Irish bar, at 4€ a pint we didn’t stop long. And this was all over València and even Alboraia, where we came out of the Metro and were still faced with random bangs going off every 30 seconds, we went back to the hotel and slept at something like 4AM, but not before opening the windows as wide as they’d go because it really was that hot in the room.
Come 8AM we realised that opening the windows was a big mistake, when a group of about 20 kids decided to have a little firework war right in front of the hotel, they were that loud I could have sworn some of them were even in the room, it was like being in a warzone I tell thee. After cursing God for inventing fireworks we decided that closing the windows and sleeping for another 3 hours, still being able to hear the fireworks, might be a good option. Eventually we got up, had breakfast, and went to watch the Mascletà. But not before realising that I'd forgotten the singlemost important thing I'd need this weekend: suncream, I was not amused.
Afterwards we found a bar that Vicent told me about to go and have dinner, and it was bloody cheap, 14 euros each for paella, meat, veg, chips, whatever else we had, beer, wine and some free shots thrown in at the end. We went our separate ways afterwards, the girls heading to the beach and us heading to find an Irish bar to watch the rugby, and as a rule, Irish bars are expensive in València, I went and ordered the mandatory St. paddy’s Day pint of Guiness, and got charged 5,50€, that is 5 euros and 50 cents, there are bars in Amposta where I can have nine, count them, nine beers for that price. Mental. Got back on the lager after and that was a whole 50 cents cheaper, on the plus side, England 30-9 Ireland, so at least there was something to be happy about, also I got talking to this random Italian bloke in some painful mix of English, Spanish and Italian (my Italian has really gone downhill.) We went round the city for a bit before deciding to head back to the hotel, buy more alcohol, drink said alcohol again, and then go out again to La Nit del Foc, where we’d be meeting a load of other foreign people, one of who Ollie knew. So we pretty much spent the night with them, again getting fireworked at by Valencians, and having one of those that lights up then zooms off in any random direction come right in front of my face, this event simply would not pass British Health and Safety. After a load of walking from the bridge where we all met we found ourselves by the main train station and the bullring at a makeshift outdoor club where we spent the next few hours getting drunk and dancing, and the bar system was weird, you had to go to a till to buy a ticket with which you could then go to the bar and swap for a drink, oh well, as long as it doesn’t stop me buying my alcohol I’m cool with it. And the toilets were confusing as well, it took me a good few minutes to figure out that, despite both entrances having the ladies symbol, they were actually unisex, even though there was someone there stopping you going in one entrance, he didn’t really stop a firework being thrown in there though, I know that my mum is reading this now and remembering that my 8-year-old self used to HATE fireworks! And wondering how the hell I coped, let’s just say I think I’m desensitised to them now. The rest of the night was just spent getting more drunk, going back to the hotel, having a laugh at Ollie who was out like a light as soon as we got back, stealing the girls’ lemonade for no apparent reason, although we shared it with Laura so it doesn’t really count as stealing, plus she gave me the key to go get it, and staying up until daylight (read: 7:30) knowing full well we had to be checked out by 12, this is gonna suck.
After what felt like nowhere near enough sleep I heard someone knocking at the door, and was ready to murder whoever was doing the knocking until I opened it and saw Catania there all dressed up and ready to, well, leave, so I toned down my murdering to a “you had better have a good reason for this.” “Um yeah, it’s 11, you guys might wanna get up.” “I see, thank you, but we really don’t want to, we’ll see you in an hour.” So we dragged ourselves out of bed, thankfully there was no World War III outside our window this time, and we went to a bar for breakfast/dinner, avoiding the Mascletà crowds which none of us could be bothered with, we had the traditional patatas bravas and sandwiches, and Fanta, with much-needed hangover-destroying sugar, and made our way to find the Plaza de la Virgen, which was a lot more difficult than we envisaged, eventually we found her still under construction, only to then be set on fire, it really is daft all these fantastic models they build that are the size of houses, to think “you know what we should do with these? Burn them.” Then we made our way back to the town hall at about 4, where Catania, Dom, Erin and Ollie all headed off to the bus station leaving me and Laura with our train at 8 and bus at half 10 respectively, most of this time was spent in the general Burger King area, before failing to find a proper restaurant to have tea, it also involved nipping into the station to leave my bag in the lockers, I really don’t know why I never thought of this before, but oh well, our travels also involved crossing the parade route several times, and finally having some orxata and it was good! Like seriously good, Vicent had warned me we wouldn't like it at first, but he was wrong. And when we were in the train station area at about half 7 the clubs were already starting up, not the thing you want to happen when you discover you don’t actually have work the next day, but couldn’t stay anyway because you’ve no hotel booked, oh well to the train station it is, to get my bag out of the locker and realise you’ve about a minute to sprint a good 400 yards, easy enough without a huge bag or huge hangover, absolute hell with both of these things. Managed it though by the skin of my teeth, leaving only Laura to pass the time in Las Fallas before her bus left, while I’m sat on an absolutely packed train for a couple of hours.
I was lucky enough to have the train stop in L’Aldea as the original plan was to go to Vinaròs and get a bus from there, but at 10PM that is not happening, so instead I arrived in L’Aldea and rung the taxi number on the signpost outside the station, to discover that I’ve woken the guy on the other end of the phone up, I’m pretty sure this is something that could only ever happen in Spain, it was quite clear he didn’t much fancy getting up leaving me with the option of, well, walk it, I could not believe it, until I then saw a car coming towards the station with a taxi light on top, salvation! It took me a minute to explain to the driver that yes, no-one had rung her, because the guy I got on the phone was asleep and incomprehensible. A few miles and 15 euros later I finally found myself at home, with my nice, warm, comfortable, forgiving, cosy bed.

La Mascletà during the day	La Nit del Foc during the night

Episode 16: “Are you naked?” “Yes.” “I need my camera!”

So this weekend started out with an absolute ballache: buying the bus tickets. I found this website called todobus.es that would let me buy my HIFE and Alsa tickets at the same time, quite convenient, until it wouldn’t accept my British bank card, or my British credit card, I must have tried about 5 times before deciding to just do them separately, so I went to HIFE’s website and bought the tickets to Zaragoza no problem, then spent the next 2 hours trying about 20 times to buy the tickets to Bilbao from Alsa’s website. I think this is where the problem was, the woman on the phone even told be their systems can’t really deal with debit cards, or non-Spanish cards, who the hell built their system? I wouldn’t mind, the only reason I was using my British card was because El Ministerio hadn’t paid me on time. Again. Leaving me with very little in my Spanish account, though it was still a debit card so Alsa would probably have still been a bit dodgy, so much for “Hacemos tu viaje más fácil”. Luckily La Caixa came to the rescue, in that you can buy Alsa bus tickets through their cash machines (or most of them at least), I’m not entirely sure there’s anything they can’t do. I went to the mahine with my credit card (it still didn’t work with my debit card) and bought the tickets no problem, this is definitely something to remember for next time.
Now onto Friday and a good 11 hours spent travelling, as is tradition. I had to get up at 6AM for my bus that left at 7:45, and here came the next hiccup: I hadn’t had chance to print off my HIFE ticket, resulting in having to carry my passport, NIE, and a piece of paper on which I’d scribbled all the details off the PDF on my computer, the driver did look at it a bit dodgy – can’t really say I blame him to be fair – and rung Tortosa bus station, where he told me they’d check my details and what have you. So we got to Tortosa and everything actually went smoothly, there was a 20-minute wait so I got off and went to the desk, handed over all my papers, 2 minutes later I had an actual ticket in my hand for the rest of the journey to Zaragoza, via a whole host of places that not only did I not know existed, but half of them led me to wonder why they existed, and who decided that buses would be suitable for their roads, and then there was a good couple of hours of desert before arriving in Zaragoza. Zaragoza should be good though, go round the city for a bit, see the sights, grab some dinner, or alternatively discover that you’re a good 15 minutes away from the city centre and instead sit outside the station in what is actually quite a nice square (could use a bit more greenery though) next to the water features with a magazine, then the next ticket related hiccup: receipts from La Caixa don’t exactly look like tickets, so I handed it to the driver and he had a list of names, of course La Caixa hadn’t sent over my name, it simply came up as “Caix” luckily I saw this and noticed that it corresponded with my seat number, and he seemed to believe me, so let me on. And then a few annoying hours, only I could end up sat next to the only other English-speaker on the bus who has some of the most bullshit problems that just have to be shared with whoever she’s talking to on the phone, and the rest of the back of the bus, even if only one person could understand her, I couldn’t put my music on because my phone had decided to go from 5 bars of battery when I arrived in Zaragoza to “battery low” warnings 10 minutes later, I still don’t understand that. But anyway I arrived in Bilbao and got off, and straight to the Alsa desk to swap my Caixa receipt for an actual ticket for the return journey, met Laura and Sefo, a Canadian guy, and headed to Eroski, where Laura talked me out of my alcohol-based Lent promise with some Sunday-based logic (yes I know it’s still Friday, don’t ask), I still blame her entirely. After finishing all the alcohol we had we headed out to Laura’s German friend’s leaving do, which was basically drinking, a lot of German food, and some weird ball on a balance board thing where you had to get the ball round some path into the middle of the board using only your feet, no-one succeeded. We just decided to be boring and head home after that given that by that point I’d been up about 20 hours and Laura even more.
Saturday then and we headed to the centre of town again, and Bilbao were playing Real Sociedad that day and that’s basically the Basque derby, cool, what I found out the hard way though is that Real Sociedad have similar colours to Huddersfield Town, it got me some looks. Met Sefo again in the park, still in last night’s clothes, stay classy Canada, and went round eating ice cream and doughnuts, and then the one thing happened that I never thought would happen in Bilbao: I had to take off a layer, now I know this may be hard to believe but it was actually hot and sunny in Bilbao, but I won’t complain. I did that fancy trick where you take off a shirt from under another shirt and got some more looks, but oh well, we basically trekked round the city and the Guggenheim, and took my photo next to a massive spider for some reason, then back to Laura’s to drink more and head out again, and then get back at about 6 in the morning, the only problem being that my bus left at half 9 in the morning, Christ help me. We got back and watched random YouTube crap for about an hour before randomly falling asleep, I had set my alarm to go off every 2 minutes after 8AM so there was no chance I was waking up without it. Until I did. I woke up, looked around, heard no alarm, saw that everyone else was asleep, and panicked, “oh my God, what time is it? What time is it? What time is it? What time is it? What the…it’s 7:55!” I had naturally slept for less than an hour which I don’t think has ever happened before, after having drunk for the first time since my birthday, incredible. This didn’t stop me being groggy as hell though as I collected all my stuff together while filling my coffee cup half with sugar, this still didn’t work and I almost, ALMOST, fell into the ‘fall back asleep’ trap, Sefo woke up at some point to pick up a mattress, fall on it, and go back to sleep. Then I said my goodbyes to anyone who was conscious i.e. no-one, and made my way to the station, got on the bus with my real ticket, and slept, very awkwardly, given that I was right behind the driver in an aisle seat with someone sat next to me, not cool. I’d perked up a bit by the time I reached waiting for a couple of hours in Zaragoza again though and got on the bus to Amposta, thankfully not Barcelona because I fully could not be bothered with another 2 hour train journey and a taxi, the bus went straight to the bus stop in Amposta, or alternatively the bus station in Tortosa where we had to change again, gah! Why?! Just take me home already!
Eventually when I did get home I did what is becoming the done thing, falling on my bed to wake up at 6AM the next morning to go to work.

Episode 15: Seeing off my youth in typical drunken fashion

It’s almost as if this weekend had been designed for me, I don’t work Fridays anyway, and school was shut, and almost every school in the country had decided to close on Monday – when I would normally be working at 8AM. Oh, and there was Barça – Valencia on the Sunday, my actual birthday. Oh, and the reason the schools were closed was Carnaval, meaning everyone would be out on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday getting drunk. So the plan was to go to the pyjama party (yes, pyjama party) in Vinaròs on Thursday and the fancy dress party on Friday, then on to Barcelona to get drunk Saturday and Sunday, and to watch the match, and on Monday Erin came in with “let’s go on the tour of Camp Nou and buy shirts”, hey, why not? Then wearily make my way back to Amposta, crawl into bed, and die. And it almost went to plan, on Thursday I opened the presents that had arrived from home this week, then went to work, but then I got home from work to discover that my drunken evil twin had escaped, next thing I know I wake up tied up in the wardrobe while he’s off in, I’m guessing Vinaròs at the pyjama party. I managed to escape sometime on Friday morning though, knock him out when he got back having lost one of my shoes, and tie him back up and put him in the wardrobe, then I headed to Vinaròs for the fancy dress party, had a couple of sangrias and a shot of something, nothing too much, and stayed out until about 5 which for Carnaval is amazingly early. Then on to Saturday which I can safely say is not up there with the best days or nights of my life, it was just a case of wake up in Vinaròs, go to Amposta, sort your bag out, go to Barcelona, after 2 hours on the train to Barcelona hear the intercom get stuck on a loop of “propera parada: L’Aldea-Amposta”, umm, I think not, given that that’s where I got on the train, get to the hostel, get some beers in, go round the Rambla area, regret having your nearly £400 HTC Sensation as opposed to your £30ish Nokia 5228 in your pocket when it gets swiped, get separated from your friends, forget which way to go out of the Metro stop to your hostel, spend SIX FUCKING HOURS looking for it, arriving at half 8 in the morning, halfway through breakfast, oh, and on your way have some guy try and swipe your wallet, notice, and crack him round the head about as hard as I physically could, he soon ran off.
Sunday was a little better, apart from having to spend an hour or two in Barcelona Police Station to report a phone stolen that you know you’re not getting back. Pricks. I wouldn’t mind, when you can lock it and wipe it remotely, do people really think they’ll get anything for it? Next time I go to Barcelona I’m going armed with a phone that would be worth about 0p on Envirofone and some “100 euro notes” “accidentally” hanging out of my back pocket. But back onto Sunday, we got out of the police station and went round a few bars near the hostel, walking into one to a chorus of “SCHOLESY! GIVE US A WAVE! SCHOLESY SCHOLESY GIVE US A WAVE!” Yeah there was a stag do in there watching the football and by Scholesy they were referring to, well, me. I was trying to drink less than I had on Saturday but hearing it was my birthday they went and bought me…something…I know there was a Jägerbomb and Sambuca in it, other than that I have no idea, we spent the afternoon in there watching Liverpool destroy Brighton, and Suárez missing a penalty, whay. Then we headed back to the hostel for a quick siesta, then had to get all the way across the city on an absolutely packed metro to get to the match, where we arrived late, missing the first goal, although we were close enough to hear the cheer, and then arrive to find that it was actually Valencia’s goal we’d missed, fair enough. We then saw 5 Barça goals and quite an easy match, of course though, no beer. After the match we headed to pretty much the same area we’d been on Saturday, with the dodgy prostitutes and ‘beer guys’ out in force, swarming round you like ‘you want blowjob? I give you sex’, ‘you want buy beer?’ all while touching you mainly in the pocket area, so that may be where my phone's gone off to, fantastic, I think we’ll be leaving now. Got to Plaça Reial which is quite a decent area given how close it actually is to La Rambla and went round a few bars there, then headed down to Port Olímpic where there were a few clubs, which were obscenely expensive, and again with beer guys and prostitutes hanging round outside, and no, I don’t appreciate being grabbed hold of when I’ve already said no and am trying to walk past you, if you weren’t a woman you’d be on the deck by now (although to be honest that rule may not have applied to some of them, not that I had any intention of finding out.) So if I ever go round Barcelona to simply get drunk again, I know the parts to avoid.
Then I had a relatively quieter Monday, went to see George off to Olesa then met Erin to head to Camp Nou for the tour and to buy a nice cheap Barça shirt (I have spent an obscene amount of money since getting paid) and we went round the museum, round the stadium, and into the shop, had our photo taken with the Champions League trophy, and this weird Spanish guy was behind us asking, well, anyone, if he could be in their photo with them, even a bunch of French kids who must have been 12 if not younger, it was kind of awkward. But we picked out the shirts, mine was 81€, 106€ If I’d had a name on the back, no thanks, and headed down to Sants so I could get my train back to Amposta and she could go across to Plaça Espanya to go on some trip with her Catalan class, we went into McDonalds and used this fancy ordering machine where you put your card in and tell it what you want, and then get to the payment stage and have it say ‘please insert your card.’ Uh, my card’s right there, in the reader, what do I press now? ‘Please insert your card.’ I have! ‘Please insert your-’ fuck this, next machine, which actually worked. So we went and got sat down and I must have necked half my Sprite in about 2 seconds, given all the previous alcohol consumption my mouth was drier than the Sahara, coming out of McDonalds we saw a train on the board going to L’Aldea at 18:03, “how long have you got?” “Well, 18:03 that’s *looks at watch* now. Shit.” I still had to queue up to buy the ticket by which time I’d pretty much accepted I’d have to wait for the next one in an hour and a half, so not too bad really, eventually got home to Amposta, crawled into bed, rung my mum as she’d been ringing but my English phone had died, and I never took the charger to Barcelona. And then set the alarm and went to sleep, got up the next morning with my alarm, had breakfast, got dressed, put my watch on, wait, my lesson started half an hour ago? Phone: 8:36am, watch: 9:36am, phone: London (GMT), watch: GMT+1 (Spain.) Son of a bitch! Thankfully though nothing too bad happened.
I think I’ve definitely decided though that the next weekend I hit this hard will be my stag do, or my 30th whichever comes first.

Episode 14: A sunny weekend in Bilbao

So this must have been pretty much the most spontaneous random trip I’ve been on so far: “doing anything this weekend?” “No, why?” “Fancy bussing it to Bilbao?” “Okay.” Was pretty much how I decided I was going. Then I discovered that me and George would be getting a bus from Barcelona Sants, fair enough, so the bus left at 10:30pm on Thursday and was due to arrive in Bilbao at 7am on Friday. That is eight and a half hours on a bus. I’m not entirely sure you couldn’t get from London to John O’ Groat’s in that length of time, I’m suddenly a little more sceptical, but hey, it’s an experience to learn from, and hopefully never experience again, I’m definitely going back to Bilbao at some point, but not getting a bus from Barcelona. This is mainly because, first of all, I had to get to Barcelona which is about half the length of England away from Amposta.

So the Thursday first of all: it was a pretty relaxed morning spent, well, in bed, given that I’m on 8am Mondays and Wednesdays, 9am Tuesdays and 3pm Thursdays – this Thursday was actually 4pm, all the better. So I eventually got up and started packing my bag, prioritising alcohol of course, and then the rush hit; my 4 o’clock lesson came and went, then a private lesson with one of the secretaries until what ended up being about quarter past six. Then there was either the 18:40 bus from Amposta which would get me to half a mile away from the train station, three minutes before the only possible train I could catch was due to leave, or the 18:30 taxi I’d decided to prebook because I’m that damn smart, so this gave me 15 minutes to get home, dump school stuff, get bag, get back downstairs, which I managed with a fair bit of time to spare thank Christ. Then that was the rush pretty much over, it was more waiting now, for the taxi, for the train, then getting into Sants at about 9, and getting some much-needed food down my neck, and also having George and Erin set me the challenge of necking all 12 cans I had on me on the bus there…didn’t happen, I know, I’m as surprised as you are. What did happen however: we cracked open one each once we were out of the city and I put down the table tray in front of me and put my beer in the cup holder, the separate cup holder, the cup holder that – if you’re not careful – drops down even further than the tray itself and sends your entire can all over the back of the bus, I was not happy. But I finished what I had left and went to sleep. If you’ve never tried going to sleep on a freezing cold coach, then don’t. Ever. Seriously. The first obstacle was the roundabouts, of which I swear they average one per mile on the road to the pit stop place we were going just outside Zaragoza (I think), I was there laid across the back seat (George was on the floor) under my duvet (my sleeping bag’s in England) and drifting off, drifting off, drifting off, woah, roundabout, I’m awake again! Well this sucks, but I couldn’t really blame the driver for it. What I can blame him for is pulling into the pit stop at about 2:15. By this time I’d drifted off into a sort of half-consciousness. And now any Spanish bus drivers reading this (I’m sure there’s shedloads of you), take note:

Acceptable: being nudged slightly awake by pulling into the pit stop, reversing, parking, and the slightly jerky movements that come with all this.

Not acceptable: “ATENCIÓN PASAJEROS, LES COMUNICAMOS QUE HEMOS LLEGADO AL PUNTO DE DESCANSO DONDE PUEDE SALIR PARA COMER Y BEBER, Y REANUDAMOS EL VIAJE A LAS TRES.” Yeah thanks for that mate, not like just about everyone on the bus was asleep and could give any less of one or anything. Tit.

Surprisingly though after this I got a surprising amount of actual sleep which I was quite impressed at, until about 5:50 when he announced that we were nearing Vitoria, now pretty much yelling down the intercom when you’re arriving at peoples’ destination is acceptable, plus I figured at that point it was pointless trying to get any more sleep, and I’m pretty sure George was out cold since before the pit stop, jammy twat, I nudged him awake though after the driver announced we were nearing Bilbao, and then we got off to then go and experience the maze that is Bilbao’s metro. And by maze I mean, well, a Y-shape, it’s one line that splits into two, if you get lost on this your body should be donated to scientific research when you die as you may just be the missing link. And one of the first things that struck me is that it turns out the word eta in Basque means and. Although to be fair the whole Basque language strikes me as quite strange. So we navigated the metro and met Laura at the nice humanly-possible-to-be-awake time of 7:30, went back to her flat and had breakfast before she went to work, and then we slept. On actual mattresses, that didn’t move, this was absolute heaven.

After getting back up at, I dunno, 12, we went round the centre of Bilbao, mainly seeking out the stadium, as you do, oh, and we got absolutely PISSED on!! Laura told us that Basque weather is basically English weather only 15 degrees warmer. Bollocks! It was not 15 degrees warmer! The rain, however, was about right, so we sought shelter in some café we found that turned out surprisingly cheap, which may have been to do with being undercharged 10€ on an 11€ bill, not that I’m complaining. What I will complain about is how the rain stopped while we were inside the café and started again when we came out, this seemed to become a weekend theme. But yeah we went back to Laura’s flat and then to her work’s anniversary do. All I will say about this evening is Gavin + free unlimited beer + free unlimited kalimotxo (this stuff is a bitch) = leaving it to your imagination, this is mainly because I (thankfully) can’t remember most of it, and we all know the rule: if you don’t remember it, it never happened. It didn’t. Shut up, no it didn’t.

Onto a very hungover Saturday spent being told about all these things that, you know, I didn’t really actually do, but there you go, and arsing around the flat, venturing out for the tour of the San Mamés museum, and drinking hair of the dog as is tradition, we watched The Full Monty as well for some reason, first time I’ve ever seen it, don’t really get it, but on the plus side it’s set in Yorkshire therefore it’s a good film. Afterwards we played Godknowshowmany drinking games before heading out to an Irish pub for a bit of a quieter one, probably a good idea given our bus was leaving for Barcelona at half 10 the next morning.

Now onto the next morning, where it rained. Again. Only this time it decided to be a real twat and save a special surprise for us: hailstones. It’s like it was expecting us to be too hungover to catch the bus – I had no hangover whatsoever, winning – and decided to give us a special send-off because it woke up too late to start when we’d woken up. We went into the shop beforehand and bought crisps and drinks and stuff, only to then have people actually enforcing the ‘food has to go into hold’ rule on the bus, not even a bottle of water! Goddamit! I mean I may not have been hungover but that doesn’t stop me being about as tired as the first day I arrived in Amposta. But we got off at the pit stop given that it was at a more reasonable time, about 2pm, and stuffed ourselves, while watching a bit of the Australian Open Final, which was actually the first thing I’d heard about the Australian Open. But then after getting back on the bus a bit of luck came my way, in that I was expecting to get to Barcelona Sants at 6, miss the train out and end up arsing around until half 9 for the bus that arrived in Amposta at 23:40, and instead got to Sants and about 5:55, giving me time to get the train and cut about three hours off my journey (yet another reason Catalunya > the rest of Spain ;) )

So I got in at about the time the bus I thought I’d be getting left Barcelona, and went straight to bed and slept/passed out/died/a combination of all 3 to wake up fresh and early at 6am on Monday, go to work, go check my balance – which before this weekend had been €€€€€€ – and get depressed, feel like crying, and accept the fact I’m not eating this week. Yay!

Episode 13: Casually climbing a mountain while hungover

This is becoming a regular occurrence when neither me or George have anything to do, we’ll go to Barcelona on the Saturday, have a few, go to the Barça match if they’re playing, get the train or bus out to Olesa as it’s closer than Amposta (then again it’s almost impossible to be further than Amposta while still being in Catalunya), have a few more, go collapse on his sofa, wake up and go to a café down the road for a Super Chik sandwich – the best thing ever to come out of Spain, yes better than the national team, or Barça, which pretty much is the national team – and coffee, then we went to scale Montserrat, Catalunya’s biggest mountain, Montsià is second, but not really as touristic and doesn’t have a train going up it.

So yeah this is more of a photo album update than any massive post, enjoy!

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And there'll be more over time as I no doubt revisit.