Rome to Home

The weather fluctuated for our last days on Familia: The blazing sunshine of the forthcoming summer was interspersed with winter’s dying gasps, echoing the mood on board as we struggled to pack up our lives into more bags than we had possibly imagined, and clean the boat ready for sale. A number of unsteady trips on the folding bike were necessary to collect the extra suitcases and a set of scales to work out what could go where.  It appears we have accumulated about 200kg of additional essential items over here…… A few packs/unpacks and a trip to the freight forwarder was  necessary. Fortunately Antonio was himself a keen traveler and not only took care of our backbreaking extra payload but shouted us a beer and a gelato afterwards.

The Alexanders cast us off

Luckily the kids were kept entertained hanging out with the Alexanders, the Canadian family on their sabbatical just down the dock, who politely showed enough fortitude to spend more time with us despite the appalling first impression from yours truly. Thanks very much for dinner and a few vinos on the last night guys.  

Finally the bags were packed, Familia spotlessly cleaned, and with very mixed feelings we left the dock for the last time for the 30 minute motor to the final berth at the Tecnomar boatyard a little way down the Fiumicino river.

Farewell Familia - not happy

The arrangements were made at the office, bags loaded in the taxi, the last bit of cleaning, and we were off to Rome for our last 3 days. No backwards glance….

Re-visiting the Pantheon

This visit cemented the idea that Rome is the perfect tourist city: the grandeur of the Roman ruins, the renaissance architecture, the classic narrow lanes brimming with food, fashion and trinkets, and locals who revel in the attention the rest of the world fosters on their city. Just as good the second time around really. This time we stayed in the more exclusive Spanish Steps district (actually it was the cheapest apartment we could find).

Climbing the Spanish Steps

The interactive Leonardo Da Vinci Museum

Hilary Clinton was in town and the American embassy was only three blocks away: so the police were out in force with machine guns and flack jackets, choppers constantly hovered overhead, and motorcades seemed to be forever rushing by with sirens blazing. Endless lower key undercover cop cars cruised the streets with the roof light attached (but not flashing). The Italian plainclothes had no idea of self-parody, smoking cigarettes and squinting, driving with unnecessarily tyre squeals, and trying fairly unsuccessfully to look hardbitten with their flashy suits and expensive shirts on. Alfas and Audi A6’s were preferred, in mandatory black. 

Cavorting around the Vittorio Emanuele II Monument

We inhaled as many sights, pizzas, Nastros and chiantis as we could cram into 3 days, but the sound of the clock ticking was never far away. Finally the last morning dawned, the bags were packed one last time, we grabbed a last café latte in the nearby gardens of the Villa Borghese, and then it was into the taxi. A nervous moment with 10 too many kilos at the airport but we got a let off, the bags were checked, tax refund obtained, a last dash to the gate lounge and we were away.  Arrividerci!

Old Rome

We spent a few hours last night in the hotel inside Dubai airport rather than attempt 6 hours of sleep on a chair, and as I write this we are speeding over the Indian ocean at 10,688m, doing 946km/h and taking a break from the 13 hour movie fest to write what may well be the last entry for this blog…..although perhaps one more is warranted after we get home properly to recap the highlights and impressions…..

The 21 hour movie marathon at 33,000 ft.

See youse soon.

The Last Hurrah

The boys and I flew into Cagliari (Sardinia) and a rendezvous with Cathe, Auntie Clare, and of course dear old Familia. It was good to be back on board again and everyone felt relaxed and almost like back at home after 3 months on the road.

A collection of Sardinian artifacts- thanks Auntie Clare
PS we love that crazy Sard flag. What does it mean?

The Sards are part of Italy but this state of affairs is a scant 150 years new. Like Spain, political graffiti is not uncommon and here the phrase Sardegna es No Italia appears on tee-shirts and spray painted on walls. However, one has the impression that the independent fervor would not run to much more than the odd tag or shirt front lest it interfere with a peaceful siesta.

Spring in Sardinia - walking along the peninsula at Villasimius

 
After a couple of days in port, including a good Sunday lunch (and a few shenanigans cleaning the fuel tank -stay away from Turkish fuel trucks) we were finally underway again. We motorsailed over to the south-eastern tip of the island to Villasimius. Here the landscape does justice to the tourist brochures: deserted white sand beaches, crystal clear azure water, and low key architecture. The marina is on an isthmus, on the other side of which featured a lagoon and aforementioned beach to good effect, and we spent a few lazy days walking back and forward, and into the nearby town. The 16 degree water was expected but not a total deterrent; when the sun was out it wasn't too hard to dive in and, as Sholto says, you get used to it. 

Villasimius beach...brrrr.

Martini Rossos en route to Cala Pira

We had a false start bashing into a 25 kt northerly to get to the little picturesque bay of Cala Pira. With the stern anchor deployed the swell was manageable, but a further northing (or even staying put) was not advised in the face of the worsening conditions, so we had a mad southward run to return to the safety of the marina the next day.

Cala Pira - better in the sunshine; and then there's beach rugby.

A jogger and cyclist on a
doomed mission to catch the bus

After a couple more days enjoying Villasimius we finally got away up the east coast. A now easy motor took us back to Cala Pira which was much more inviting with the sun out.  From here we motored up to Porto Carallo to bid farewell to Clare. Alas we found ourselves in a ghost town with no taxis to deliver Clare to the bus stop in the next inland town. After a comical interlude involving the folding bike, luggage, me jogging + Clare riding, and a denouement at a demolished bridge, we finally got her away to Cagliari with an expensive but timely airport transfer.  

A 5 hour cliff walk from Santa Maria Navarrone

We eased our way up the coast, Santa Maria Navarrone and Cala Gonone were high points, the cruisy early season vibe was perfect, and this stretch of coast is terribly scenic: the escarpment rises dramatically from the sea, a hiking and climbing mecca par excellance. Some less picturesque locations and less than clement weather featured as well and we had to wait around for suitable weather a couple of times. Strangely, the cheapest and most expensive med marinas both share this coastline: We paid Eur 6 one night, yet in the Costa Smerelda, in high season, a scant 70 miles north, you might pay 600.  

Sunday lunch at Cala Gonone 

We felt like we'd finally arrived with three nights spent anchoring out under the lee of stunning Isola Tavarola. An arrival it may have been: but a finale as well. This is the end, my beautiful friend, the end. The flight is booked for the 7th of May, so with a dearth of weather windows looming, and with emotions churning, we changed course on a split second decision to do the overnighter to Rome and the reality of packing up and heading home.

Walking on the beach - Isola Tavarola

The sun goes down for the last time - Isola Tavarola

The last passage was a cracker, close reaching in 15-20 kts for 20 hours, moonless and mostly starless, at times driving rain echoing the mood, sleeping to leeward in the cockpit when Cathe was on watch, and dozing in between proximity alarms fom the radar when she was below. Familia performed well: she needs 15 kts to get up and go, and a real overnight sail in a bit of weather (as opposed to motoring through a calm) was a fitting swansong.

Passagemaking en route to Roma

The last romantic Italian lunch

Thankfully the clouds broke for one last lovely long, languid and not illiquid Sunday lunch just at the end of the dock; even grotty Porto Di Roma looks good on a sunny spring Sunday with some pinot grigio under the belt. Perhaps it was part of the trying to hang on: I went from comfortably numb to really disgustingly drunk later when some Canadians stopped by the boat for a drink or 10 that evening.    

This post finds your correspondent backing up after a hard hungover day of packing up our life for the last year, drinking down the last stocks of limoncillo while the rain once again falls on the decks above. The feelings are more than mixed: downright mutinous in fact. There is every sense of summer approaching; yachts being unpacked and dusted off around us, the weather getting warmer, why are we leaving? It's insane, contrary to the outcome of every syllogistic analysis, every weighing of pro's and con's, any SWOT analysis, you name it. However, the real world, work, responsibility, and a wife's and kid's lives and ambitions hold sway: there's nothing else for it but to bow the head to the inevitable. 

3 last days in Rome will be a phyrric bonus; I'm already counting the days until we can return to complete what we have seemingly only just started: 3775 until Sholto's last HSC exam to be exact.

Sardinian sunbaking - thanks for the memories

Paris to Pietrasanta

sisters outside notre dame

Clare and I had an extra 3 days in Paris and we were lucky to be able to stay in the Marais studio of Clare’s old childhood friend Lucy.  It was a perfect place to hang out in, meet Lucy’s lovely family and experience sister time.  We did manage to see an exhibition of Van Dongen at the Musee d’Art Moderne and several installations at the Palais deTokyo, walk kilometers of cobblestones ( Clare thankfully is a sharp + avid map reader)and even bought the same pair of fab boots.

clare in lucy's cool studio

Disaster sort of struck when we missed the official time to check in for the plane to Pisa thanks to the tardy stuffed to the rafters Sunday metro and had to do an airport hotel instead but that was kinda funny too: our room was like a shoebox, we drank a bottle of red + watched an Elizabeth Taylor / Montgomery Clift b+w movie, A Place in the sun. 

Pietrasanta piazza

Pietrasanta, in northern Tuscany, is famed for its marble quarries and before the advance of the late twentieth century its artisani were famed throughout the world for the carved sculptures that adorn most Christian churches, monasteries and graveyards.  Artists such as Michelangelo worked there and more recently Henry Moore, Botero and a host of contemporary sculptors who spend time there annually. 



chip, chip, chip

We had chosen to spend a week learning how to work marble at the studio of Christien Sielcken and it proved to be a great choice.  Christien has lived, studied and practiced in Pietrasanta for all her adult life and has extensive knowledge of the history of this region.  She even organised for us to stay at the self contained apartment of her friend Emily just alongside the lovely piazza duomo. 



clare at work on the finger

 Clare and I rose early each morning had a great coffee at the local café, cycled 15mins to the studio and worked until 5 / 6pm each day loving every moment.Every evening was spent having a martini rossi or glass of vino in the piazza watching the sun set over the mountains of Pietrasanta.

at the professionals 

We both had a challenging and exciting time working under the astute guidance of Christien and we were lucky to have her expertise almost to ourselves.  Our fellow student, Martien, has been visiting the studio for 20 years from his native Holland and his calm focus and gentle humour set the rhythm of the days.  It’s a place we missed as soon as we left and I hope one day to visit again for a longer period. Our last night was spent having a lovely meal with Christien and Martien at Il Giglio, a great find for the food and its personable owner Stefano.

Clare, Martien, Cathe + Christien at Il Giglio

 

christien + one of her sculptures

  If anyone is interested in doing a sculpture course in Italy have a look at Christien's link below.

http://www.studiochristien.com/ENG/pag/18/contact.

Hanging out with Moira

Moorish lunch in Jerez Andulucia

Seville Alcatraz

Sometimes it's only on reflection that you realize how special a time you had.  Having my Mum along for 5 weeks was one of those times.  For me it was bliss to have another woman for company and particularly one who savoured  the beauty of Spanish / Moorish architecture and history and had no compunction about dragging some whining grandsons along for their edification when they long since worn down my resolve. 


There would be more photos of Mum (and me)on the blog if she were not craning her head to view some vaulted ceiling or towering cathedral steeple though this is exactly what I so appreciate about her.  Together we walked through and documented the great structures of Moorish Spain.  We would have loved to live in the Alcatraz of Seville, wafting in and out of the gardens, reclining under a terrace, gazing at a alabaster patterned ceiling of exquisite geometric pattern, whilst listening to the rhythmic fall of water from a courtyard fountain and sipping mint tea.  Two boisterous grandsons in need of exercise slammed that fantasy.

Beauty at the Alhambra

a typical day with the lads

Snow falling at the Parador

Another reason we appreciated the company of Grandma – she is a masterful deflector and absorber when called upon.  Travelling with 2 colt brumbies in a car packed to the gills from one end of Spain to the other should result in a meltdown.  Mum astutely remained absorbed in Finbar’s intricate recounting of complicated computer games, movie plots and Greek mythology. She obviously paid attention, asking all the right questions, for his firm opinion now is that Grandma is a genius and it must have skipped a generation.  She thoughtfully bought Sholto a new animal to replace his beloved Aeroplane ( a toy dog given to Sho at birth from Mum+ Dad and sadly left on a swing + lost in Greece- he has built a memorial to him on the yacht).  We named him Monkey Matix and he’s not allowed to leave the yacht.  As compensation M.M gets a full recount of that day’s activities with a Sholto slant – Grandma would not believe what Herculean feats have been attributed to her.

If we all HAD to elect a favourite time with Grandma/ Moira/Mum it would be a toss up between the Hotel Albanjon in Los Lagunas de Ruderia , the Parador at Sierra de Gredos, or the Hotel del Oso in the Picos de Europa.  All these places had stunning physical landscapes complemented by generous comfortable living quarters and great food.  Being the only guests at the Albanjon we had our own private dining, kids in bed, real duck liver pate and great vino.  At the Parador, the kids shared with Grandma (eureka), it was like the Hydro Majestic back in its heyday, and the snow falling kept us happily ensconced for 5 days.  At the Oso we really could make a permanent booking – everyone had their own space, the vistas are jaw dropping stunning and well the food and did we mention the wine….

stunning Picos de Europa

Hotel del Oso

If any of you have wondered how the in law relationship went then I have to say Steve and Mum must be in the harmonic category.  Here I was counting on someone reasonable to subtly enforce a restriction if not complete withdrawal on the alcohol consumption of beloved spouse.   Mum couldn’t see that proposition had any legs (or joy), preferring Pliny’s reasoning that wine gives good and long life.  Well if you can’t beat them….

Really pondering the next drop

We all went to Paris because Mum was going there.  And well its Paris and my sister Clare was going too, we could celebrate her birthday and I could offload the kids on Steve and the Stack women could go shopping.  I meant viewing famous monuments, visiting copious famous galleries, dining at fabulous famous places, walking endless famous streets, photographing iconic famous vistas, glimpsing extraordinary famous people (Clare + I saw you WOODY + your ex daughter oops wife) and shopping.

Clare, Lucy Pinter + Mum Paris cafe for lunch

Actually in Barcelona  - yum

I don’t know why Mum isn’t a complainer but hanging out with two daughters who insist on walking across 3 arrondisements because there is a must see shop does take endurance.  Even when Mums five days were up I kept at it and it probably was one factor in many (bloody Sunday metro) in aiding the missing of a certain flight to Sardinia.  We did have a great birthday lunch for Clare at Au Petit Fer Cheval, so good that Steve + I snuck back another night.  I think that and the mass at Notre Dame with the melodious voice of the priest and the soaring beauty of the singing were the highlights, before we all said a rushed au revoir to Mum who arrived safely back in Northbridge to be greeted by Aunty Jenny and carrying an extra 20 kilo bag.  Thanks Mum!

Fast through France

After another lightning look at Barcelona we were on the plane to Paris. Here we met Cathe’s sister Clare who joined us in the apartment in the 8^th Arrondisment, on the  6th floor of an old building near the Cathedral of St Augustin.

Un or deux bieres in a Paris Cafe on the way home

The first impression as we headed out for dinner was the outrrrrageous prices. The same can of beer on offer in the nearby supermarket for Eur1 was Eur8 in the bar. A Hamburger was Eur18. After the reasonableness of Spain we had to seriously modify our expectations. However, we were determined to enjoy whatever products of la cuisine and les vins as might become available: so we took deep breaths, mentally loosened the belt and moved on.

With so many of the Stack women in town I was substantially relegated to child minding duties. Even our cynical offspring had heard of some of the famous landmarks and for once they even had ideas of what they wanted to see.  Famous landmarks and place names abound in the centre of Paris; and so our first outing was to walk to the Eiffel Tower via the Champs Elysees.  We mingled with the weekend Parisian crowd under the tower while buskers played accordions: spring had definitely arrived and it was all terribly Parisienne. Other subsequent outings had us walking past, through, or in any number of famous places I had only ever read about: Le Opera, Le Gare de Lyon, Le Arc de Triumph, just to name a few.

Sunday Morning at Notre Dame

Sunday saw us at mass in the Cathedral de Notre Dame. We missed the Gregorian service thanks to daylight saving; nevertheless the next main service was an ethereal delight: much of the mass was sung in French and hymns were led by a superb female soprano.  If church services were this beautiful in Rose Bay even I might show up from time to time. With the clock wound forward an hour we exited at the perfect time for lunch. Crossing the Seine via a picturesque stone bridge, we walked to a tiny brasserie that had been recommended by ex-parisiennes Simon and Alison (and a few other sources as well) and finally sat down to a proper French meal. The Salade verte avec le foie de poulet was excellent but the Plat du jour of Confit de canard was a superbly unambiguous and tasty message: yes, we are in France.

Clare's birthday - Waiting for the Confit De Canard at
the highly recommended Au Petit Fer Cheval

Unfortunately my days were curtailed by trying to get the kids to do some schooling. What a pair of recalcitrants. Most days we struggled to be out the door by 2pm, having failed to complete 2 hours of school in 4. Cant wait to hand them back to the NSW Education Department. We did manage a trip to the Musee des Artes et Metiers; after hours of whingeing about visiting another museum the boys were suitably entranced by all the engineering exhibits.   

Cool stuff in the Musee des Artes et Metiers

The lift drop ride.....literally downhill from there

With so much history and culture to soak up the boys and I naturally ended up at EuroDisney.  After choking back the bile at the EUR60 entrance fee we headed straight for the most exciting rides. For anyone who has ever idly contemplated being in a lift that malfunctions and plummets to the ground, the “Hollywood Hotel” is a must: this is what it delivers.  The Rock’n’Rollercoaster also had us screaming. Sadly after these two the entertainment dwindled into the sort of trashy stuff you would expect and four hours was enough.

The next day we were out negotiating some unaccompanied baggage: au revoir surfboards. The boys and I ducked into a promising looking street-side brasserie and voila : Escargot was on the menu.  Finbar was strangely easy to convince: Sholto took a lot of work and it needed some trademark manipulative taunting from Finbar to get him on board.  They’re not bad in an oily pesto sauce.

Escargot in Paris....Scary

After a week in Paris the boys and I were off to for a last grab of European skiing while Cathe headed off for some professional development, sculpting marble near Carrera in Italy. Les Trois Vallees is the biggest ski resort in the world, and we only managed to see about half of despite racking up some mileage over the week.  Rob Ugarte has an adventuring streak that has seen him experience more than most would need 3 lifetimes to cram in; he showed us it is still alive and well by accepting a last minute invitation to join us (in our family room- now that’s a risk taker) for a few days of Telemark madness….Finally: a ski trip with another disciple of the true religion.   

Free the Heel: and the mind.....

 We had a great few days carving up the spring slush: apart from the whiteout on the first day it was cloudless, windless, and hot: tee shirts and/or no gloves and to hell with the inevitable gravel rash.  The snow was ice in the mornings and soft and coarse in the afternoons : very reminiscent of those spring snow camping trips of my youth.  Rob’s irrepressible nature and sense of fun quickly found willing acolytes in the two boys, who instantly took to him like one of their own. I totally enjoyed having a bit of blokey time, nattering about times past, present and future: I know we solved the world’s problems, but we should have written it all down before going for the third bottle. Now we’ll have to work it out again later.  Doubtless the upper-middle class poms we shared the chalet with felt that they’d experienced a different culture while in France, but not the way they might have expected:  it was chalk and cheese with Mr Ugarte and the lawyers.

Trois Vallees - The boys in the cable car

We sadly bid adios to Rob and after a slow last day we are now on the TGV to Milan, doing somewhere between 200-300 km/h in the vicinity of Torino. After a night in an undoubtedly soulless airport hotel we will meet Cathe on the boat tomorrow in Cagliari, Sardinia, for our last hurrah. The forecast is for sunny 22 degree days: the water will still be 15 degrees though.  So it is back to the delights of Italy: Molto Bien.

Ciao.

On the Road Again



Adios Los Canos de Meca







On the road again - the ubiquitous
"Toro" sculptures throughout Spain



After the easy beachside relaxedness of Los Canos we were tightly packed in the car to start pounding the tourist trail.





Parading past the Catherdral. Seville



Seville is a gracious and enjoyable old city with an aristocratic air. The tourist tat is relatively subdued even in the heart of the most touristic sections, although perhaps the charm stemmed from the way that even these areas were integrated into a well-planned living town that is more than just a showcase for days of yore. We had our first taste of the Moorish influence here; the Alcazar is one of the most famous Moorish-palaces-appropriated-by-later-Spanish-royalty (there are a few). Equally memorable was the Flamenco performance we saw at the Flamenco Museum: vibrant, sexy, superbly performed and beautifully weighted. Much better than the touristy tablao we saw in Barcelona: this was the real deal and even the kids paid attention.




Sexy Flamenco, Seville



Carraige ride, Seville

Cordoba was a bit second best and in hindsight suffered from being sandwiched itinerary-wise between Seville and Granada. The kids were grumbling but at least we had palmed them off into sharing a room with Grandma (“the life sentence” we called it.)

"Generalife" palace,
Alhambra, Granada

Granada is the home of the justifiably famous Alhambra ; The Moorish jewel in Andalucía’s crown, the last Muslim bastion in the 15th century reconquista of Spain. The palace complex is a must see world heritage item that requires bookings days in advance to gain entry and hours to walk around. A series of perfectly sculpted gardens, courtyards, buildings and rooms within suggest not just an appreciation of beauty and architecture, but also a lightness of spirit that is lacking from other Islamic edifices such as the Blue Mosque and the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul. Something about those buildings evoked the a sense of the despots and the abject slavery that built them, but in Andalucia, the Islamic legacy seems more benign, notwithstanding 7 centuries of intermittent but bloody warfare that precipitated their ultimate defeat and banishment.

The Nasrid Palace, Alhamba, Granada.

After 8 days on the road looking at historic buildings the kids were climbing the walls, so we switched our focus to nature for the trip North on our way to meet up with an old mate, Rob Ugarte, our only European contact for the trip.



Bushwalking between the
Lagunas, Ruidera



Parc Natural Lagunas de Ruidera is centered on a series of lakes occupying a small part of the otherwise featureless plains north of the Sierra Grande. Winter was having her last hurrah; rain clouds scudded across the sky as the wind whistled through the bare trees and across the cold grey waters. We didn’t mind though: once again we were the only guests, and the food in the Hotel Albanjon was simply superb. A good bushwalk followed by duck liver confit and a bottle of Rioja back in the snug restaurant was right on the money.



A bit wet for us up high
in the Sierra de Gredos

Much nicer further down the valley.

Parc Natural Sierra De Gredos was our next stop: a climbing and hiking mecca in spring and Autumn; we were perhaps a bit early to enjoy the best of the area, with snow falling each day, and the high walks under snow and hence inaccessible without more serious gear than joggers. There were plenty of Spaniards out for a weekend hike though, some bedecked in crampons and goretex, others just in joggers with umbrellas. We followed an old cobbled Roman road though the mists and snow-capped peaks, and spooked the kids with the story of “The Shining” on the drive into the mountains. However, the old world charm of the state-owned Parador Hotel we stayed at was eerily reminiscent of the Overlook Hotel from that film, complete with snow drifts, grey stone walls, long corridors, and sculpted hedges. Nonetheless, the urge to take to the family with an axe seemed no stronger than usual, and the in-house, Michelin-recommended Restaurant once again contributed to the waistline spread: a net calorie gain despite a few good walks in the Park.





Not another old church.....



Segovia is another charming old town and the home of the castle that forms the inspiration for the one housing Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. By this stage only threats of corporal punishment would induce the kids to enter another old building, but happily the displays of swords, armour and cannons were sufficiently distracting to get us through the visit without a major meltdown. The Sephardic restaurant in the Hotel was excellent although a rare night out for the parents was spent happily trawling bars and snacking on tapas.




Awoken beauties in Segovia 




Restaurant Hotel del Oso....
We'll be back



Suckling Pig and Rioja weren't
the only attractions

On Rob ‘s recommendation we stopped next in the Picos de Europa; an amazing mountain range within sight of the north coast and the Atlantic. The drive took us from the high plain, up through a misty mountain valley surrounded by sheer rocks and snow-capped peaks, and up and over the pass of the Puerto de Gloria . The picture perfect Hotel Del Oso is high in a valley and run with warmth, attention and skill by the same family for decades. One day stretched to 2, 3, and 4 as we worked our way through the list of walks in the shadow of these incredible alps, not to mention the menu (roast suckling lamb or pig meant a whole leg) and the wine list.

The lonely and dramatic drive into the Picos de Europa



Working up an appetite in the Picos





The boys grab a wave in the 14 degree
Atlantic on the Spring Equinox.



After 3 years of emailing we finally caught up with Rob in the coastal town of Suances. Rob is a larger than life surfer and adventurer from the Bra who I have variously sailed and studied with over the years and who, for the moment at least, lives in the town his father was born in and calls Spain home. True to form he lost no time calling in sick; He, Tara and their three kids were perfect hosts and we packed a lot into 2 days; a menu dal dia in then nearby historic village, a blokes night (hurrah) on the town, then a family beach picnic, a surf in the chilly Atlantic, and a family night out. They seemed to know everyone in the town (and the next one) and the visit was constantly punctuated by Rob calling out “¡Eh- hombre!” and exchanging handshakes, backslaps and pleasantries with locals strolling by. It looks like a good life; but we’ll see if the lure of the Bra and old Aussie friends wins out in the medium term against Spanish equanimity and the downsides of life on the big smoke treadmill.



Hosts and Guests, Suances.





A giggle at the Gugga: Bilbao

Up early for a big drive back to Barcelona to complete the circuit: A quick stop at the Guggenheim and then across the country in one hit. Barca was as inviting the second time as it was the first; but we had tickets booked and so after only one day for Moira and Cathe to hit the shops we had the whole catastrophe packed in the car and at the airport. Adios Espania!