Viewpoints

One of the nice things about the walking group is that you have the chance to chat to very different people. We did a coastal walk a couple of weeks ago, the last one until the middle of September… it’s too hot in summer apparently (no photos because, despite the rest of Spain sweltering, we had a day of orbayu, the clinging ‘heavy mist’ that requires an umbrella rather than waterproofs), it was the 21st annual walk organized by the Peña Furada group. We were supposed to have a nice lunch of preñao, the bread, baked with a chorizo inside, at a tranquil beach called Frexulfe. Due to the weather we ended up in a sports hall in a nearby town, but there was a band of pipers and drummers (and tambourine players) so it was entertaining.

Most people assume I’m from London when they hear I’m English, or Dublin if they hear I’m Irish (hey, what can I say, I can choose, I’ve got both passports). I don’t think anyone I’ve met so far has been to the North of England (and why would they, if England is London to most people, thanks to the tourist board, a couple of days there and you’d probably start thinking you couldn’t afford to visit anywhere else).

As we were walking I chatted with a woman from the Basque country, and it turns out she loved English pubs and beer, we had a long chat about the different drinking cultures here and there and what made British pubs different. She’s of the opinion that all of the Spanish bars are the same, all modern and they have no soul whereas a decent pub in the UK is full of character and warmth. We didn’t get onto the Irish pub in a box or the chains or the vomit strewn city centres… I didn’t want to dent her enjoyment.

Later I was walking with a Cuban chap, camp enough to be Cuba’s Julian Clary, and he was complaining (in a lighthearted way) about the weather, then he said, ‘When I went to Mexico, Hurricanes, in Cuba there’s Fidel, here there’s this rain, I can’t go anywhere.’

Half the group decided to not bother with the second half of the walk, after lunch, but I was one of the plucky few (‘call this rain?’ I said, ‘it’s not proper rain unless it’s horizontal’). One companion on the second half (which had stunning beaches, and great coastal scenery) stopped to use the public portaloos at the beach at Frexulfe. On exiting he began chatting about how clean the public loos were in London. I couldn’t contradict him, but I did keep saying ‘en serio?’ with increasing incredulity.