April 2026 - 13 February 2022
Jonathan nips off to the French house he has with his brother in rural Lot e Garonne for ten days, after which I meet him in France at Toulouse, ready to explore north Spain by public transport. We go via ritzy immaculate Biarritz. The citizens are unfailingly polite, apart from inside the vast crowded food market where, understandably, dawdling tourists are a nuisance.
A fantastic if exhausting eight days follows: what I did easily back-packing when younger now proves strenuous. But keeping moving does burn up the calories from the delicious croissants and pastries we consume at relaxed cafes and bakeries.
We aim to fly back from Santander, so change accommodation and cities almost daily. Spain's transport infrastructure of buses and trains is comfortable, reliable and clean. I could see my reflection in the spotless floors of Spanish underground bus garages.
Northern Spain is a revelation: green cities with turf placed between tram and rail lines, and beautiful lush countryside. I love the Basque region, so much to see and learn. Signs are in Spanish and Basque. No-one seems to vape here, but many people smoke cigarettes. I haven't smelled Cannabis once, which is striking after Morecambe. We now want to live in San Sebastian ...
We arrive by tram which resembles a scrubbed Tube train. Drivers, as in Toulouse and Biarritz, are very courteous towards walkers and cyclists and there are large pedestrianised areas.
People like their dogs here: today we see a philosophical hound in a cafe, lying on the floor waiting for his owner to stop chatting with friends. As Jay says: 'Dog full of Sophocles'.
On Easter Sunday, many shops are open and we take a short popular boat trip to the nearby island. The indigo Atlantic dramatically bashes rocks, hurling up clouds of silver spray into windy sunlight. The boat lurches round on muscular waves to a landing quay, where two men semi-lift passengers across the watery gap onto narrow steep steps.
The view from the top of the steep-sided island is glorious, city and ocean in technicolor.
Spanish hotel receptionists are very helpful plus tri-lingual; this in not very posh accommodation. We're embarassed, as neither of us speak Spanish. I've been learning Italian on DuoLingo while Jonathan brushes up on his French - both redundant on Spanish streets. It being early April, we haven't seen many tourists. Cue to swap Italian for Spanish before our next visit.
The relaxed vibe continues in Bilbao, big city. As in Biarritz and San Sebastian, people do not drop litter. In fact I saw a man grab a wrapper blowing across his path near the station and put it in a bin. Again, we see well-behaved small children and dogs everywhere. Maybe their presence stops rowdiness. People wait obediently at crossings despite little traffic in town, to the point where we wonder if jaywalking is illegal. Graffiti is ubiquitous but doesn't really impinge; anyway, it seems a small price to pay for the civilised quality of life.
We visit the iconic Guggenheim; Jonathan loves the architecture, inside and out. The silvery building appears to float, seen from certain angles, and the way the public wanders round it or sits to chat reminds me of London's Tate Modern - but am I the only person to hate the intrusive interior structure? I am blown away by Ruth Asawa's hand-made wire sculptures on exhibition though.
guard outside the Guggenheim.
Who knew northern Spain was so verdant and lush? Alpine pastures soothe the eye or sunlight plays along branches in forests and woodland and shimmers on leaves every shade of green.
Oh gawd, fly back to Manchester and start doom-scrolling, i.e reading News. Net-Yahoo is still bombing civilians in Lebanon; Thurnberg has voiced what all decent leaders should, about mad despot Trump. Only Spain and Luxembourg are standing up to his insults and demands that NATO aid him in his unprovoked attack on Iran.
I cancel a third Vets appointment on the trot; it's impossible to get Fang aka Lily, into a cat-basket. My new animal-handling gloves arrive from Amazon and I proudly show them to Jon, who promptly sticks a fork through one to prove it's not bite-proof. Luckily I'm not wearing it at the time.
The vet can't give me tranquilisers without seeing the kitten: Non-Catch 22. I ask Janine at the pharmacy - another cat-fosterer - if she can bring in to work a couple of cat- tranquillisers, I hope no-one thinks she's dealing illegal drugs. I'm losing sleep: Lily must be taken to the vets for spaying, micro-chipping and jabs before she hits puberty, escapes and gets pregnant. After that Madamoiselle can party til her whiskers drop off.
While grinding the precious Gabapentin with pestle and mortar, I'm watched narrowly by Lily from a high shelf. I'm sure she can hear my stressed heart-beat. I conceal the powder in Whiskas in her bowl. Go downstairs to spy on cats via a new camera in their room and watch as Lily carefully eats most of the food. She will become wobbly or sleepy before long.
Several hours later: Lily is not wobbly, in fact she's doing the Wall of Death round the ceiling. Eileen feels dizzy and has to have a sit-down. We're grateful we wear protective specs. Lily has already taken a bite out of the floor-mop (while she was being gently steered towards the cat-box with it.)
In the end, Jay, who has longer arms than us, is prevailed upon to help. He becomes a grumpy hero by eventually winning the Kitten-Inside-Cat-Carrier award.
I warn the vet that Lily is feisty, her reputation has preceded her anyway, what with all the cancelled appointments.
As you know, there are supposed to be three-weekly bin collections starting, with recycling and food-bins issued to each household. None of which has come to pass at our address. We're giving off emissions dragging bin-bags to the Tip, along with our normal recycling drops there. In the pictures, the bins look big enough to live in - how the hell are normal people supposed to move them? Never mind, it's good news for hoarders who can't get into their houses.
We collect Lily after her night and day at the vets. The vet is reproachful: 'Lily was obviously scared but she was as good as gold. She didn't even swipe at me, did you Darling?.' Fang looks smug. This isn't the first time I've been set up as a pathological liar at the vets. I guess it's like parenting teenagers who snipe and sulk at home, but charm the neighbours. I'm obviously doing something right.
Segue into ... Uproar about arch-returner Mandelson, having failed his most recent government vetting. It was hushed up by the MoD so Mandy could go to the US and meet Farty-Crump. PM Cardboard swears he wasn't told, which makes his tenure even more insecure, whether he's fibbing or not. Olly Robbins, a leading Civil Servant, is promptly sacked.
F-Crump hasn't vanquished Iran by force and now Iran hasn't attended the Peace Talks in Pakistan (F-C tried to rush them through to grab credit). A continuing embargo of Iran's ports by US ships isn't helping, along with lies about enriched Uranium. The result is that Iran only opened the Strait of Hormuth for a day before slamming it shut to world trade again. The price of oil rockets, while financial markets do Lily's Wall of Death stunt.
Why are some countries allowed to have nuclear weapons and not others? It does seem hypocritical. Best not to have them at all, of course. Anyone who wants that much power is a nutter by definition.