Come through the orange summer

We booked a holiday to a place we really wanted to go and then we paid for it and then we went there. No dramas like last summer. No crying at the doctor’s and angsting about a job waiting at home for me. No lying down at the airport. The week before saw a round of packing and waxing and late nights at work, listening to hours and hours of learn Spanish podcasts in the hope of being slightly less ignorant, holiday shopping and justifying buying some beautiful woven wedges to wear in the sun. On Sunday we packed Benny off to my mum’s (and, twice, before we left, he figured out how to open the cat basket [mostly through brute force] and we had to secure the basket with string).

Spain was baking ourselves in the sun, BlackBerries resolutely left at home. It was reading ten books between us, comparing them by the light of the moon in our giant bed late at night while our skin tingled from all of the sun. In our defence, we are planning to go on a more active holiday later in the year. But the sun and the books and the nothingness was exactly what two lawyers needed.

Spain was strange cacti, mountains, skimming stones into the sea by the light of the amber, slanting evening sunshine; the stones leaving great, gloopy pits momentarily in the water. It was getting pissed on pina coladas in a bar with beds, walking along the miles of beaches to see where they took us, the air salty in our mouths and hair, finding jellyfish; a blueish white pile on the sand, a random lake, clinging onto MindReader’s back whilst we jumped the ocean waves and freaking out as a fish touched my leg. Spain was standing under the waterfall in the pool as the water hammered onto my head and laughing hysterically. Spain was my first non-self-catered holiday since I got sick: seven days and seven nights; not a single missed breakfast or dinner. Spain was pilfering breakfast goods away into my handbag and eating them for lunch. Spain was 4pm ice creams and 6pm wine. Spain was, actually, speaking quite a lot of Spanish (I got very into the podcasts), having Spanish banter with the hotel receptionist while MindReader seemed to look on, impressed, and encouraged me to go to lessons when we got home. Spain was swimming in the sea at 9pm, getting used to (and indeed, taking for granted) the constant beauty of the ocean; of being surrounded by a deserted white beach, the panorma of the ocean, every morning, every afternoon, every night. Spain was a long trip back, and being so glad to be home, which is, really, what all holidays should bring.

 

A bar with beds!

The discovery ensured I did no nightswimming

The one and only…

I can’t really pull off hats, can I?

Concerned about jellyfish

“Snorkelling” (AKA wearing MindReader’s goggles and freaking out about fish)

 

Too much pina colada

I don’t know why I take photos like this and not just ones of the beach itself. I think it is my way of saying “I was here”.

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