As soon as the world reopened after lockdown, I knew where I was heading. The time for sourdough and Zoom quizzes was over. It was time for something tangible – to see my mother. She lives in Spain, and it had been two years since we’d seen each other.
She moved there eight years ago, swapping England’s grey skies for Bedar, a tiny, sun-drenched pueblo in the arid southeast that barely registers on a map. It’s all winding streets, whitewashed villas and the occasional waft of frying garlic from a kitchen window. I arrived at Almería airport, emotionally spent from isolation, and there she was, arms outstretched.
We spent the first few days catching up on the terrace of her villa overlooking the Sierra de los Filabres mountain range, sipping chilled white wine as the sun dipped behind the hills. But after a week, the restless traveller in me began to stir. Spain was calling, and I had trains to catch. I said goodbye and set off up the east coast, determined to explore this country that had been tantalisingly out of reach during the pandemic.
First stop, Alicante: a place for sun, sand and seafood that makes you question why anyone, anywhere, would eat anything else. After a few days of beachside bliss and local wine, I continued to Valencia, a city in constant flirtation between old and new. Gothic cathedrals, ultramodern architecture, and the best damned paella you’ll ever eat. I was tempted to stay longer, but Barcelona was waiting.
The name alone makes me swoon. Its architecture sings, and the streets hum with the energy of a place that knows it’s beautiful but doesn’t need to shout about it. I rented an apartment on La Rambla, equidistant from the city’s vibrant core and the beach, determined to play local for the next two weeks. And if there’s one thing about playing local in Spain, it’s this: supermarkets are your playground.
Foreign supermarkets are my favourite part of any holiday, and in Spain, they’re nothing short of a sensory overload. The fruit and veg are fresh and abundant. The condiments aisle is a treasure trove, stocked with things I never knew I needed but suddenly couldn’t live without. And then there are the tins – I’m obsessed with anything in a tin in Spain, from anchovies to pimientos. The seafood section had me swooning: octopus, squid, clams and fish I couldn’t name. In a moment of culinary bravado (or madness), I bought an octopus.
Here’s where things took a turn. Octopus should take two hours to boil before it’s tender. But due to a translation error – the extent of my Spanish being “cerveza, por favor” – I boiled it for nearly eight hours. As it simmered away in my tiny apartment, the entire place was soon engulfed in the smell of low tide. It stank. Horribly. I opened every window and door, but the smell clung to the walls. When it was finally done, I grilled it with lemon and garlic. Was it worth the effort? Absolutely. Will I do it again? Not on your life.
The Joys of Barcelona
Show all 4I spent the rest of my days losing myself in the city. The labyrinthine streets of the Gothic Quarter; the wide, tree-lined boulevards of Eixample, punctuated by Gaudí’s fever dreams in stone; and, of course, the beach. Mornings were for coffee and pastries, afternoons for lazy swims in the Med, and evenings for cocktails at beach bars.
It’s the pace of life in Spain that gets under your skin. Everything moves just a touch slower, but with purpose. Meals aren’t rushed, conversations aren’t hurried, and time feels like it stretches out before you. Barcelona has this rhythm down to an art. It knows how to live, and by the end of my trip, I felt like I knew how to live too.
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