The Great Iberian Road Trip, Days 5-8: If Cornwall Were Italian It Would Look Like This

The arrival in San Vicente de la Barquera was a mix of happiness and frustration. We were thoroughly excited to be in such a spectacular place, but the one-way systems in the town made it almost impossible to find the rental accommodation. The instructions were sketchier than the Technical Challenge round in the Bake-Off semi-final. In the end, it was simply me overthinking the situation. We had a spot in a typical Spanish indoor parking area - I don't know what it is about their propensity for converting their spare rooms into places to store cars, but the number of dodgy locations I’ve seen which are designated for cars would never pass the planning stage anywhere north of the Alps.

Our apartment overlooks the pseudo-Cornish inlet of the river Escudo, with a smattering of private boats moored on the channel. About 350 metres away on the opposite side of the river mouth lie two perfectly-formed semicircular beaches that lead up to a campsite, an apartment block, and some typical seaside cafés with their usual fare of substandard cakes and overpriced fried food. But in amongst them is a proper restaurant with a daily menu and real waiting staff. Something for everybody.

Heading along the road from our apartment on the right are blocks of apartments, a couple of supermarkets, a pharmacy and another café, and on the other side are the fishing docks where people come at all times of the day and night to purchase seafood and fish straight out of the sea. At the roundabout at the end, a right turn takes you over a fairly long, curved bridge towards the beating heart of the town. Here we find the Old Main Drag, as a famous Irishman once sang. The narrow streets and alleys leading off bring up some memories of Menaggio, on Lake Como. This is doubly confirmed by the view from the banks of the inlet as one goes left around its periphery. The colourful buildings rising up the hill to the castle, and their reflection on the still waters of this natural harbour all draw similarities with the Italian Lakes.

But without the pushy tourists and the unprincipled local pricing.

We both have responsibilities while we are here: Bonny Bee is making sure we stay financially afloat by doing the vast majority of the professional activities on this road trip, and because I’m the one with the driving licence and the knowledge of the area, I’m seeing that the kids have things to do.

After settling in, I went out to the supermarket to buy a few groceries and get acquainted with the locality. I decided to make something easy like pasta with bacon and tomato sauce. There was very little in the way of herbs or other loose products, so I just threw the lot together in a mishmash of filling nutrients. This is the main issue I have with tourist towns: I couldn’t even find proper muesli or fresh milk: it was all big brand rubbish in small quantities – the cereals with the green and orange cockerel on the front, the chocolate spread with the huge lettering, the yoghurts made in a French mega-factory near Nancy, and the coffee from a Swiss giant that I refuse to even touch, let alone buy. I settled for a local brand called Dromedario, which turned out to be really tasty, unlike that other mess that they roped George Clooney into hawking in a series of cringeworthy adverts.

I tend to stay away from big brands for most things, because they are so brutal in their marketing, that they are obviously trying to push aside any competition that might be better. Which is often all of the rest. Sometimes a few extra shekels gets you a much, much better quality product, and sometimes the cheaper supermarket brand is the best option.

Anyhow, the kids were not just hyperactive from all that sitting and relaxing in the car, they were excited to the point of delirium. I could tell it was going to be a pretty exhausting night. After a series of threats and confiscations, they eventually dropped off at around ten-thirty. Sleeping all in the same room brought a level of misery and despair to us a couple of years ago in Roskilde, but this has turned to sheer frustration – progress, one might say…

The morning light, accompanied by some pleasantly fresh air, gave me the urge to get going out to explore the town. But Bonny Bee and the children had other ideas. Bonny was excused, as she had a lot of work to do. The others just wanted to watch kids’ TV and take it easy, which is fair enough if you’re my age, but they’re at the battery-operated bunny rabbit stage of life, so they should be badgering me, not the other way round. In any case, I managed to get two of them out for a while; Dainoris had spent too long wasting our time, so to make a point, we left him with his mother.

The town was located about a ten-minute walk away from our place, and walking around it shouldn’t take that long, but there were a large number of obstacles in such a small area. Milda and Livia have an irrational fear of dogs, and this whole town is pooch paradise. Punctuating the random darting off screaming at the sight of a vicious-looking Labrador or a sabre-toothed Jack Russell, we managed to make it to the safe haven of a set of high bar stool at the first café in town. The rest would have to wait. After a soothing pineapple juice for them and a coffee for me; we carried on our walk, with me trying to stand between the girls and the ferocious poodles and brutal spaniels that blocked our path.

The main squares in San Vicente accommodate a tree-covered community meeting area, a number of cafés, a medical clinic, the central market, with the rest for cars. We walked around the serene harbour with the faint sound of fishing boats chugging out towards the sea. It was suddenly lunchtime and having been in Spain for nearly a year now, we are experts at identifying rip-off one-time-visit restaurants from the more family-friendly, repeat-visit ones. A good place was just opposite the market and a jolly old geezer with a smoker’s cough came out to hand us the daily menu, which seemed to have been the daily menu for several weeks.

In any case, Livia predictably chose spaghetti with tomato and minced beef, and Milda surprised us all by requesting fish. No ordinary fish, this was a connoisseur’s choice. Since she was still unable to walk, she has had an adventurous taste in food – this hasn’t shown signs of stopping. She also happens to be great company: nice chats, fun games, spur-of-the-moment singing… She makes our time pass so much more easily.

We then took a walk through the palm tree-lined park to the children’s playground at the other end of the town for a play and a little bit of energy-reduction before we headed back to our apartment to face the wrath of a rather truculent Dainoris. In the end, he had become quite meek and contrite, and since then seems to have calmed down a little.

That evening, I spent the rest of the time sitting in the huge bay window in the upstairs room looking out on the river mouth with the laptop. This was the perfect place to write – I will be returning here in the future.

The next day, Wednesday 3 July, it was the two girls who wanted to stay at home and Dainoris who wanted to go out. We did the same thing as the day before, except we had lunch in another local establishment. He met some younger kid in the playground who took a shining to him, and we would run into him a few times round the town.

So far, it had been a little bit of a dysfunctional stay in San Vicente, and Bonny Bee had hardly seen or done anything. So that afternoon, we managed to get to the beach – it was a glorious day; the kind of cotton-white clouds that amble leisurely across the sky and change shape on an almost constant basis. The beach was full of families, teenage groups, the odd geriatric nudist, and the traditional supply of protein-fuelled Neanderthals flexing muscles and grunting at passers-by.

There are no waves here, which made it easy for the three to walk straight into the water and splash around as much as they wanted. They played very nicely together indeed, which made a great change. I went out further into the water, and instantly regretted it when my foot scraped on what seemed to be an open shell or a shard of rock sticking up. Getting out of the water and going to the First Aid centre at the top of the beach was going to be a tricky affair, but I made it. They sterilised the wound and patched me up, but sooner or later I would have to go to the clinic in the centre, I was sure. The gash was deep but quite clean. The thick skin of the foot was going to take a long time to reattach.

And that was the end of my aquatic activities for a while.

We went back to the apartment to finish off the evening in peace. Not a bit of it. I made burgers in bread and when Livia asked me to cut hers into several pieces, she slipped her finger in and the knife I was using sliced part of her skin off. It was one of the most traumatic things that ever happened to me. I felt sick. So did everyone else. Livia, for all her faults, took it in her stride, and after the initial shock, acted with stoic calm once her finger was bandaged up.

On the Thursday, our final full day here, I needed to go to the pharmacy for two reasons – Livia’s finger and my foot. We changed Livia’s plaster and the pharmacist gave me some waterproof plasters. While I was there, one of the employees of the local clinic came in and the pharmacist asked her to take a look at my foot. She told me to go immediately to get an appointment. I am constantly fascinated by the amount of paperwork we have to carry around with us in Spain to get anything simple done. I had to stand there with three marauding munchkins while being asked for various bits of admin. My fears were unfounded, as everyone in the place that day witnessed my three little hooligans playing on the reception floor so very nicely. The compliments were unfamiliarly kind, but I would take them gladly.

But the woman at reception nonetheless located all the details needed and printed out a receipt-like piece of paper with the confirmation of my appointment for 16.20 that afternoon. We went around town a little bit more, their mother took over while I went to get the car and they walked over the bridge to the beach. It was clouding up quite a lot so I didn’t think there would be much activity on the beach, but this is the hardy north, where people take no notice of the weather – a recognisable trait for me.

Arriving slightly early for the doctor, I was seen very rapidly. You know you are getting old when the doctor meeting you is young enough to be your daughter. This had never happened to me before – the doctors I have been seen by are often fusty, crusty fuddy-duddies, but here was someone who was probably still imbibing cocktails and jumping to an electronic beat on a Saturday night until 4 or 5. She was extremely good at her job and had an enthusiasm for it that impressed me greatly. I think she would have made an excellent dinner party guest.

She gave me an ointment to rub on three times a day and a strip of waterproof plasters. We had a short chat about life in the town and off I went, to find the others at the beach further up. I parked right at the edge of the beach and found Livia and Dainoris in the water. Initially I couldn’t see their mother or Milda, but eventually they were spotted further up just below the best-looking beach café I have ever seen. It’s one of those places that even civil engineers and merchant bankers on six-figure salaries would spend a few moments considering resigning to do a few hours’ work a week there. Although with their savings, they could probably buy the place in cash.

From the beach, you go up some grass-lined concrete steps to the roadside pavement. At the other end of the pavilion, about 10 metres further on, is the bar. It is well-stocked with plenty of cakes, sandwiches, snacks and all types of drinks. I can imagine it’s pretty kicking on Saturday nights in the summer. The bartender, a softly-spoken gentle giant from Colombia who had everything under control, told us about the cakes on offer in his display cabinet.

There was a marvellously unpretentious cheesecake with speculoos (called Lotus in Spain, after the Belgian company that produces it), but my eyes were drawn to the most handsome buttercream-covered carrot cake I have ever seen. I settled for a slice of that. It was exactly how I liked my cake: slightly underbaked by just a few minutes so that it retains its fluffiness and stays fresh and moist, even when it sits in a display unit all day. As for the buttercream, all I can say is I asked for the details of the maker, because I wanted to personally write them a note to congratulate them for making the best carrot cake I have ever eaten.

Livia’s finger had got wet in the water, despite wearing one of those finger condoms taped up. It was bleeding because the water had softened the skin and the coldness hadn’t helped. We headed back to the apartment one last time to patch her up and dress her wound once more. She complained a bit about it, but she’s pretty calm, which is the best attitude you can have.

The following morning we would be heading westward once again to Galicia, a dream of mine for many years. But for the final hours of daylight, I would sit by the window overlooking the inlet and write, write, write…

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