Tag Archives: Torrevieja

Life In A Spanish Cooler

16 Feb

Friday was our last full day in Spain.  The villa had heated up to comfortable so I could get out of bed without losing a toe to frostbite.  I woke early, made a cup of tea, and got back in to bed to read for a couple of hours.  What a treat!

Sue & Lyn collected us at ten for a drive to Torrevieja.  The beach was pretty but we didn’t go on it because of the sand.  I did pose with a sculpture, at Lyn’s suggestion:

This young lady waited every day for her father to come home from fishing, and one day he didn't. I suppose she pined away. They didn't have comfort food in those days.

Lyn & Sue wanted to visit a golf shop on a golf estate.  We stopped at a rather swanky golf club to use the toilets.  Did you ever feel grubby just by being present in a place of swank? 

Reading yesterday’s comments, I suddenly realised that, sadly, I did not eat any Spanish food at all while I was away; but I did walk past the tapas bar in the golf club mansion.  Does that count?

As we pulled away, Sue said in a ‘don’t panic’ voice, ‘Lyn, stop the car.  Alison, get out slowly, carefully.’  Alison had a bee on her back.  It stung her just as Sue spoke.  She was relieved to have been stung, for two reasons: one, her husband had told her if she was ever stung she would cry, and she could prove him wrong; and two, it wasn’t another heart attack, as she had first feared when the pain shot down her arm.  We were all pretty relieved about that second one.

After a lunch of baguette and other nice food, Alison and I sun bathed again.  No top removals this time: I had to fetch a duvet because the breeze was so cold.  It didn’t spoil the fun.

Inviting me to a restaurant with a name like 'Let's eat'? I'm much too polite to refuse.

Alison took me out to her favourite restaurant for dinner: Let’s eat, in Benimar.  Talk about yummy; I forgave them the lower case ‘e’ on the strength of the starter alone. 

Fanned Melon with Serrano Ham. Drool.

Pork Loin on a bed of Cabbage, Mash, Bacon; with Lemon Wedges and Vegetables. Double Drool.

Profiteroles (minus chocolate sauce - yeah!) on a Vanilla Ice Cream bed. Alison had the Lemon Cheesecake.

We waited a while between courses but that was okay because they plied us with strong wine; so strong, I may have been extremely tipsy, which I haven’t been since 2005.  Not drunk, of course; I only had two large glasses. 

We walked home, uphill, stopping three times to rest, and once to repatriate neglected lemons from a deserted garden overflowing with lemon tree.  I was the lookout.  I saw nothing, double.

I think I may have got things backwards: some Brits escape a life of crime by fleeing to Spain.  I went to Spain to start mine.

The Wages of Sin or, If Life Doesn't Give You Lemons, Steal Them

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