A Winter’s Tale

August and September stretched on for longer than the beach outside my house, offering fresh lemons and limes, sultry nights and swimming in abandoned coves. December however offered an altogether different experience. My idyllic apartment villa has thin paned glass and shutters instead of curtains. Its cool white interior suddenly seemed clinical and the hole in the balcony window seemed to be letting more of its fair share of night air into the house. The sea no longer shone turquoise and seaweed muddied where crystal waters had lapped at the old sea wall. Magnificent storms, graced the skies and thunder literally shook the house. But most of the days were resplendent in abundant sunshine, a far cry from the school-sock grey skies of England. The lanes around the seaport that hubbed with tourists in the Summer were pleasingly quiet. The restaurants had beat had a retreat and resigned their old wood furniture to the inside of their restaurants and even in 21 degree heat by day, waitresses smoked quickly outside their workplaces bedecked in coordinated scarves and hats, shivering and staring at the sky. The sub Saharan salesman boarded the bus without their usual optimistic high fives or back slapping greetings and everything was a little more subdued. At least thats what I understood, however in the week my bank card was swallowed, I got ill, got bitten by a stray cat and went in search of a pharmacy. I only brave driving here in emergencies. I found myself completely lost in what looked to be a respectable rural mountainous area and got out to ask for directions. I was immediately assailed by two dogs, I hightailed it to the vehicle. Feeling queasy and unable to open the window, as I now had a dog at my window and a dog at the passenger window jumping up baring their teeth and inbetween biting the car tyres. I beeped they saw this as a revallie and before I could blink other dogs were barking and following the car down the road. I checked my mirrors could shunt forward two inches and then back two inches. Rabid or not I really didn’t want to run over a dog. Nursing my stray cat bite, I made a determined shunt to the side. More dogs! It was like a Hundred and One Dalmations gone wrong. I ploughed on with this very slow process until I made a break for freedom at a blind bend and whacked down the accelerator, hoping that Chappie and chums were not underneath the car. I checked the rear view and they were coming fast, but not fast enough. I left the area unscathed and remarkably pleased that I had managed to evade my canine aggressors. After winding my way through the mountains I picked up the coastal road again and saw my street swing into view. Too exhausted to search again for the pharmacy. I grabbed every duvet I could find and sunk down, feverish and ill.

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About The Only Way is Espana.

An Essex girl and her champ fly fisherman brother, meet up in Hungary. They have a broken vehicle and a set of tryes. Between them they will go on a philanthropic voyage in pursuit of anything unrelated to British winters. It will be a journey of border crossing, suspension of disbelief and the down right ridiculous.
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