On April 30th 1987 I was on holiday and in a bar. The bar was called the Bar Lennon just up by la Estación del Norte railway station in Valencia. Spain was still very new to me and, as I drank a beer at the bar my partner of the time and I talked about the odd looking drinks behind the counter. The barman was one of those nosy, talk to you types. "It's pacharán," he said, in nearly English. Zoco pacharán in fact, a sloe-flavoured liqueur though we didn't know that then. The drawing on the label looked like blackcurrants. Jaime, for that was his name, seemed to be keen on talking to us and singing along to the European Anthem. He, and his three pals who were in the bar, invited us to the beach the next day which just happened to be a Bank Holiday. We went to the arranged meeting spot not expecting them to turn up but they did and we went to the beach at el Saler. Not the obvious parts of the beach but to the bit that the locals know and the tourists don't. A beach that involved a trek. I have a diary entry that says there were 18 of us that day, all of us twenty and thirty somethings, and several of our number quickly divested themselves of kit and started doing what Spaniards do on beaches - talking, eating and drinking. It was a good day.
Monday of this week was the last day of Christmas in Spain, a Bank Holiday. The Three Kings had delivered their gifts the night before and people were about to have their last seasonal meal for a while with plenty of that typical cake, the roscón de Reyes. Pepa, who had also been in the bar all those years ago, and Jaime came to see us. It's been a bit intermittent over the years but we've never lost touch. Maggie and I had run out of food - no beer, no bread, so we took them over to Eduardo's Restaurant in Culebrón and he did us proud. Good food which allowed us to do what Spaniards do in restaurants - talk, eat and drink. It was a good day.
