G and Grimble do Beach heaven and hell

Days: image

Peniscola. It was almost too pretty to be real. The castle and the sea sat on a peninsula, the fortress built on a hill. It dominated the world below. It invited exploration and G and Grimble intended to: eventually.

Satnav lady had directed them nearly faultlessly to their destination only messing up once with her finishing, which seemed habitual. She directed them into a modern housing estate and, as occurred with the crisis, it ended abruptly in an arid piece of scrubland whereupon Satnav lady declared they had reached their destination. Grimble had done research when planning this holiday. She knew this to be untrue. So Google nav once again took charge.

They arrived at Camping Ferrer and anyone who thinks that Grimble was going under canvass for the majority of her holiday, does not really know Grimble. In fact, Grimble did own a tent that had an array of empty alcohol bottles as the backdrop to the canvass. Grimble had never slept in it. G had had to erect it, the tent that is and other friends had reposed in it. However, Camping Ferrer was an all encompassing business: campsite, self catering lodges, small hotel and quite possibly the busiest bar in Spain. The reasons Grimble selected it: pool, proximity to the sea and parking.

Parking…hmmm the official hotel bar parking was insane. Cars were parked 3 deep. There were vans that had called to deliver and stopped for a menu del dia and beers. There were scooters closing up any narrow gaps between cars. It was sheer madness. The owner gave them a camping bay for their car and explained that the car park would become quieter “mas tarde”. Several days into their stop here, they still awaited “mas tarde” and their car remained a happy camper.

The beach beckoned G and Grimble and so they loaded up: folding mats, parasol, towels, sun cream, cooling drinks and wandered to the shore. Peniscola had two beaches: North and South. They were nearest to the Sud which seemed to have permanently damp sand, handy as the brisk wind made no impact on creating a sandstorm. The first problem they encountered was trying to secure the parasol. The sand was damp, the sand was compacted. This meant that G needed to bore into it like he was drilling for oil. He did this cheerfully enough and Grimble thought she only heard cunt four times, suggesting he was happy in his work. They looked around the beach and wondered at how the Spanish had managed to perfectly position their parasols. Were they born with these natural beach skills being coastal and canny? Then G spotted the tiny attachments to the parasol base, pointed caps with a hand turning mechanism. Being a bloke, he had to have one of these ingenious devices or his trip would be incomplete.

They reclined and observed that the sea water was so shallow that people were wading barely waist deep for 200 meters. Either that or they had discovered a location where giants resided. The waves were not existent and the sand soft. Finally, had they discovered beach nirvana? They tentatively dipped their toes, anticipating a sudden frost to dispel up their body, counteracting their notion of heaven. However, the water was warm, ridiculously warm, like a salty bath. All these features made for a lovely beach afternoon where they contentedly sat, swam, slept and repeated. Even though this was Friday afternoon, the beach was not so rammed as to be standing room only. It was indeed beach heaven.

Not ones to stick with a good thing, they opted on a different day to try Norte Playa, a massive stretch of soft sand. This was a further ten minute walk which doesn’t sound far but is when carrying equipment in the oven like furnace sun of midday, it was like an eternity. However, as it was Monday, they at least expected beach space. Not so. This beach was rammed causing G to ask Grimble if anyone bloody worked here and then contemplate wistfully a life where Monday work did not exist. The multitude of collective parasols were so close that they almost joined into one continuous sun shade. Under this canopy was a melee of a mass of people and huge inflatables. The beach area was being wrestled with screaming children, six foot crocodiles, unicorns and flamingos. Add to the scene: jet skis, pedalos, high speed banana boats and it looked like beach hell. This was not the beach day G and Grimble envisaged. With hindsight, they should have returned to the relative normality of South beach, but they were intrepid, they walked ever further Northward until they eyed a brief gap in the crowd plus it was now nearly one pm and beach exit time for the Spanish.

Finally, they sat in a space and then realised what the kiddie commotion meant. It was not the shrieks of pleasure and frolicking. It was the shrill cries of pain. The wind here was fierce, the sand very soft and within seconds of sitting, G and Grimble were coated in a sand shell as it deftly stuck to their sun screen. They only option was to run to the water, which had the same ambient temperature as before with just a slight current. However, the sand was not for leaving them. In addition, it had got into Grimble’s eyes so she floundered around in the water with no discernible way to remove the now painful gritty mess from her vision. If she rubbed them then the sand from her body would create more. G’s comments that it was lovely were lost on Grimble as she could see bugger all.

Desperate and squinting, Grimble left the water for desperate measures and poured the water she had brought to save her from dehydration over her face. Though this might have seemed like a fail safe cure, Grimble’s water was sparkling which gave a very strange sensation to her already beleaguered eyes. It was fizzy in her eyes but momentarily stopped or diverted the gritty pain into a different type of hurt. She could now open her eyes a fraction but this would allow more sand to blow into them. This is when she realised why everyone was hogging the damp shore line, as there, the sand storm was marginally less fierce.

There was no option but to leave this tortuous beach for lunch and G guided the blinded but still baggage carrying Grimble away from the bastard beach of doom. As they mounted the promenade, the totally unaffected G looked across the vista and reliably stated, “Bloody hell, look at the way that sand is blowing, it’s like a sand storm.” Grimble would have loved to witness this vision but at that precise point, her eyes closed fast, she was not entirely sure which direction she was standing let alone looking. Blindly, she resolved that Sud playa would be their only beach destination from that point on.

G and Grimble retreat

Day maybe 7:

Their drive took them off the major roads and through the olive tree lined back roads of Tarragona province. Satnav lady seemed happy enough directing them as they passed by tiny Spanish settlements where the only evidence of human habitation were the old cars parked by houses. They veered left into a place called Renau and Satnav lady cheerfully told them they had reached their destination.

This seemed unlikely as there was no evidence of a hotel, just workmen pruning back begonias. G decided the only option was to engage the Google Satnav and, according to car satnav’s competitor, they were still a couple of kms away. G sped past the request to left turn, claiming that it wasn’t a road. But Google nav demanded they make a U turn and so they followed the track barely a car wide until it lead them to an abandoned church and a finca bearing the hotel name.

From the moment that they entered, G and Grimble were smitten. Words hardly do justice to the serenity and beauty of hotel Peralta. The entire place was so calm and well planned. They had reserved the room, Kampur. It was not just a room. It was accessed through a private doorway into a private garden complete with a cabana. Grimble had reserved this room because it contained a floating bed. Not that Grimble had ever tried a floating bed but it did sound enticing.

And there it was, suspended from the ceiling, sides covered evocatively with gauze drapes. The room was a hybrid between Indian and Arabic with a large Buddha on a table. Usually, the cynical G might have referred to this as hippy shit but he too was somewhat taken by the whole experience. He launched on the bed and it didn’t exactly float, it more rocked vigorously from back to front. G looked up not entirely convinced as to the benefit of this, especially when El Grimble, a G now referred to his Spain crazy partner joined him. Grimble decided that they needed to focus on gently climbing into bed to attain a more peaceful rocking motion rather than the current effect of a channel ferry crossing in a force nine gale. They realised they couldn’t stop this motion as each time they moved heavily, the suspended bed captured their motion and transformed it into a wave riding sensation. So it was, that G and El Grimble lay quite still and quiet for some minutes as the bed slowed pace and rocked them gently. As the swung from side to side, G advised Grimble that getting pissed and getting on this bed would never end well.

Later, feeling a little sea sick, they wandered through the hotel grounds to the almost deserted pool. There were just two other couples and enough space to give privacy. G and Grimble set up their encampment in a cabana where the breeze gently blew the cotton drapes over them. As romantic as this sounded, it was bloody frustrating to be tickled by the hems of curtains at irregular intervals, so with skill and dexterity, they positioned the towel bag, drinks bottles and anything they could lay hands on to prevent this. Thus Grimble lay on the static bed of the cabana, listening largely to nothing, and drifted off into a slumber. What seemed like a nano second later, the slumbering Grimble felt her arm being prodded and woke to G’s finger in her arm and him whispering that she couldn’t snore here. This was not exactly true as Grimble could snore happily anywhere. However, now she was awake and wanted to swim.

Her swim consisted of some splattering around in the big pool followed by just sitting for ages in the cold dip pool, drinking shandy, declaring that this was the life. Grimble and G both agreed that the few people that inhabited this wonderful place were the kind of people that they liked: clean, well attired, urbane. Not one complained about the weather being too hot or the place being too foreign.

Dinner was another delight. Sat on a patio eating top class food, drinking lovely cava and listening to an unusual Spotify playlist of hits done in an easy listening style, served by unnaturally beautiful but also really charming staff. G and Grimble had intended to retire to the chill out zone with more drinks but they were enveloped in fatigue. So, they returned to their own cabana and gazed at the multitude of stars and wondered at the silence. Finally, they clambered onto the floaty bed and found it did work. For even when they tumbled around grabbing each other’s space, as they always did, the bed rocked them calmly, negating the usual threats of get out of my side or give me back that sheet, now. Grimble wondered to herself if it was possible to string up their silent night double divan from the ceiling at home as she drifted contentedly into sleep.

Having spent 24 hours in various forms of repose and eaten heartily from an organic breakfast, they took their leave of Peralta. Grimble wasn’t totally sure how organicness could actually be proven other than items were served in delightful little pots and the cold meats were presented on wooden platters. They were now on their way to Peniscola and we’re delighted that Satnav lady used a aggressive pen is cola pronunciation and even more delighted to see signs abbreviated to Penis.

Grimble and G move deeper into Spain

Day 6ish onwards:

Having left behind the wonders of Calella, G and Grimble reflected on the resort and the experience. There was no doubt that the Costa Maresme was attractive and the temperature palatable. They had a great time but possibly wouldn’t consider returning. Why not? Well much as Grimble loved a good shop, the shopping street was excessively narrow and exceedingly overcrowded. If this could have been avoided, all well and good but it was also the location of many of the best restaurants. Frequently, G and Grimble would be battling with the onslaught of shoppers and they sought out their evening repast. In addition, the shops closed at an unnaturally late 11pm, meaning this crowd situation was slow to subside.

One of the frequent criticisms of this area is the rail line that breaks the shore line from the town. However, this did not bother the intrepid G and Grimble. If anything, this enforced segregation of the town from the beach gave the beach area a serenity lacking elsewhere. In fact, the promenade was a lovely area to walk. The beach itself was not as the guides promised. Allegedly, the sea was calm and the beach inviting. Grimble was not sure how the sand texture of crushed pebbles that felt like a thousand shards of glass underfoot was conducive to feeling harmony. Escaping to the sea was one option. Clear it was, calm it was not. So now Grimble had the dual task of attempting to make her soles less painful whilst being pulled out to sea. At one point, G was tumbled over by the ferocity of the waves which entertained Grimble until she too fell victim to its power.

Everyone knows that the purpose of the sea is to act as nature’s toilet. When pee comes upon you, there is a swift run into the waves, a release and return to shore. However, the Calella coastline offered no such swift relief. The time it would take negotiating and suffering the painful pebbles and the crescendo of waves ensured that this part of the coast was not a wee depository. Thus sunbathing here was less than relaxing especially as shoreline toilets were non existent.

As G and Grimble stood by at the Waves’ edge once more with G debating a dip, there were loud shouts from some Spanish youths behind them. To be honest, in Spain this is hardly unique, where the Spanish can turn even a simple request for the time into a full on, decibel raising, ear drum shattering encounter. However, them running down the beach, which mystified Grimble anyway as to why their feet were so hardened to the surface, throwing rocks and boulders into the ocean seemed somewhat unfriendly. They jabbered at an alarming rate and pointed wildly, at which point G and Grimble became aware of a very large, purple edged jellyfish about ten feet away from them. The lads were kindly trying to deter the floating bubble of sting away. In the event of anyone getting stung, Grimble knew that she had the natural cure with her now overinflated belly of pee. In fact, secretly she hoped that this would be the relief that she needed.

Another debatable point of this Costa was the weather. Now G and Grimble had selected this area because the temperature was significantly cooler than the South, but warm enough to be ideal. However, they had not accounted for the proximity to the mountains which helped with this fresher feel but also brought significant daily downpours. So it was that their parasol multi tasked as an umbrella as they sheltered from the deluge. As the rest of the hopeful sun worshippers thrust their beach paraphernalia under arm and ran for shelter, Grimble argued that it was still warm and the rain had the same quality as the sea in that they were both wet. So G and Grimble had the beach largely to themselves during downpours which was nice. But, as all English people know, they didn’t go on holiday to see rain, however warm that rain was.

Given the trials at the coast, G and Grimble had the option of the hotel pool. This was a lovely spot but again had some issues. Of course there was the Gilbert Grunts whose fierce stares had disturbed their music listening earlier in the week. G and Grimble had later learned as they listened to them bore some unsuspecting Dutch tourists that the reason for the death stare was not exclusively their music choice but it was territorial as the Grunts had holidayed in Calella, at the hotel Mediterrani Express, for 31 successive years: same hotel, same weeks, same spot. Looking at where they ideally plonked themselves, it was clear that on the first day, G and Grimble had inadvertently invaded their land.

Mr Grunt was an expert on Calella. Well in his own head he was. He’d been coming to this same hotel when the current owner, Pol, was a babe in his papa’s arms. However, as Mr Grunt tirelessly droned to the Dutch, who clearly wished their superb language skills had not equipped them with the ability to communicate with the English, he knew all that was needed to know about this small seaside town. He knew the best bars, the best food, the best prices. This seemed at odds with his life style whilst here where he seemed to dedicate himself to the same area of the pool and the excessively over priced drinks and snacks from Pol’s fridge and not venture into the wider world. This was the other point of consternation from the cost conscious Northern Grimble. The ridiculous prices for drinks and the hand written sign, in several languages, that prohibited any self bought food or drink, including bottled water by the pool area.

Had the mark up been reasonable, Grimble would have been happy but bottled water selling at the nearby Spar for 80 cents and 2.50€ by Pol, whilst small canned shandy weighed in at a hefty 2.50€ made her blood boil. It was excessive and a rip off. So despite the location being great, the room well equipped with a fridge, were G and Grimble to venture to these parts again, they would not be like the Gilbert Grunts repeating ad infinitum the same holiday and lining the canny Pol’s pocket. And so, having paid Pol the additional 24€ to park at his house rather than the hospital, they departed.

Thus, as G and Grimble negotiated the Auto Pista 7, giggling each time Satnav lady said pista and deliriously happy that she was now saying place names in Spanish with a voice tone that implied she would cut you given half the chance, they decided that, lovely though it was, this Costa was not for them. They were off to a place that Grimble had thrown into the equation barely a few days before departure. A retreat hotel somewhere in the mountains above Tarragona with a name that Grimble kept forgetting and hoped that Satnav lady didn’t have the same memory loss.


Grimble and G have a night on the town

Day 5:

So far, G and Grimble had shown a certain amount of temperance with regard to nocturnal sessions. They had eaten, shared a bottle of red with their dinner and maybe had a final beverage, either in a nice, sophisticated bar or back on their balcony where Grimble had cleverly created lighted ambiance with some led lights and a Corona bottle. The room helpfully had a mini fridge and they had stocked it with essentials: cava, Corona, shandy and strawberry milkshake.

However, Calella had a thriving night life of sorts. Evidently, and thankfully, it was no Magaluf, nor was it as frantic as Benalmedena but it had a splattering of clubs and pubs. Their first attempt at night life had not been as expected. They had decided to watch the Barcelona v Madrid match at a bar they were told was Barca’s Calella HQ. This was probably true given the memorabilia and colour scheme. It was also clear it was going to be rammed. Grimble being short of stature and not really that interested in footie, despite her helpful assertion to the Arsenal mad G that she liked the vibe of the crowd, knew that this whole encounter would not end well. She would be pushed, shoved and maybe even hugged depending on the score by sweaty men wearing fan shirts. They left before kick off, had dinner and retired to the balcony where they could hear the Barca fan base roar in pain as Madrid slipped three past.

They were resolved to live it large on one night of the holiday and so Grimble took to the not too trusty Trip Advisor to discover the hot and not so hot spots. She furthered her research by picking up fliers for various night spots. Memfis promised lots of fun past midnight but so far, when they has had seen it from a bar, it seemed to offer long queues of juveniles waiting to get in. Bobs seemed to be for an older crowd as the name was hardly hip hop and happening. They had passed it on their trip to the lighthouse and saw that it offered an agenda of karaoke, dance offs and foam, hopefully not all together, and litre cocktails. The Frog was discounted immediately as it had a stupid name. Finally, the flier for Kauai opened to a picture of a bar maid wearing a T shirt that proclaimed, Your Cock and at a loss to explain what this actually signified, they rejected it.

To make matters and research easier, G and Grimble spoke about expectations for a good night out. A decent dinner, good bottle of wine and, at that point, both should have agreed another drink on the balcony and bed. However, determined to prove to each other that they still had what it took and knowing that they loved laughing at, as opposed to participating in, the karaoke back in Highworth, they added this feature to an ideal night out. They also ascertained it had to be a place with a bit of life, though they were extremely vague as to what this actually signified. Grimble performed tireless research as G performed a siesta and came up with a plan. A dinner in a highly rated tapas place followed by a trip to Calella’s only English pub offering nightly karaoke and the additional bonus of high stakes bingo, whatever that meant.

The evening started well as Grimble had natural tapas selection ability. The only point of consternation was what to drink. They loved a decent red with dinner but knew from past experience that to stick to red throughout the night guaranteed a horrid hangover. In addition, Grimble’s research suggested that the English pub’s selection of red would not be extensive. But what drink went with red? The simple answer was bugger all. Therefore, G and Grimble decided to live for the moment and select drinks on a whim. A highly risky strategy.

Advised by Grimble’s trusty Google maps, they wandered a couple of hundred metres from the town centre past a couple of decent looking cocktail bars until they could see the neon sign illuminated in red proclaiming an English pub. From the outside, it was scruffy and this extended to the interior. The exterior walls were stacked with blackboards filled with chalk lists of every sport fixture imaginable. Whilst the interior, though compact, had at least five ancient screens to watch the variety of sports. The pub name really should have made G and Grimble consider their destination choice. Alcatraz. Why would anyone consider a high security, seeming impossible to leave US prison an apt name for a watering hole?

Looking at the wall decoration, it was clear the owner had a rather strong allegiance to Man Utd. given that someone had drawn, in what seemed like crayon, representations of various team dignitaries from the ages. They went to the bar and were approached efficiently by a silver haired gent whose dialect hinted that he was the infamous Manc owner of Alcatraz. Now G and Grimble had to make a snap decision on what to drink after red wine. Grimble requested GnT, and added Bombay to which the owner just stared and to try to clarify, Grimble added a belated Sapphire. He confirmed with his staff that no such bottle graced the establishment and Grimble was left with a desperate choice of Gordon’s or Beefeater. Accepting Gordan’s served in a vodka glass she reassured herself it was better than Larios, Spanish gin. Now it was G’s turn and sensing he might get red wine vinegar, Grimble stepped in and ordered Desperado. G hopefully asked for a slice of lime and ended up with a quarter of lemon reluctantly stuffed into the bottle neck.

Within ten minutes sat at the bar, G and Grimble did agree that the pub was correct to name itself after a penitentiary, however, given the nature of the staff, more appropriate would have been that great Manchester prison establishment, Strangeways as, my god, their ways were strange!

Their overt friendliness was not endearing: it was scary and intrusive. G and Grimble were happily and quietly character assassinating the rather unusual clientele when they were interrupted mid flow by a barmaid who, it seemed, needed to know their names. Had this been an isolated case of derangement, they would have let it pass but every barmaid, and even the doorman, requested their names over the course of the evening. And insisted on telling G and Grimble their own, which they promptly forgot. Added to the need to be identified, was the unrelenting request to know if they were having a good time. There was no clear answer to this. They weren’t having a bad time for G and Grimble were on a big night out and determined to enjoy themselves regardless of the giant inflatable cock in the corner or the diminutive but highly belligerent Welsh girl who, somewhat inebriated, was threatening to deck her friends for no discernible reason.

So fascinating was this study of human behaviour that G and Grimble ordered the same drinks again and surprisingly were charged a euro less making them wonder if the prices diminished as the night drew on or if, like at the hairdressers with the top stylist, having the owner serve them cost more? They had hoped for a good old laugh at the karaoke but it was not to be as it was karaoke on request and there were few requests. However, G and Grimble were given a detailed itinerary of pub events for each and every evening. Prize Bingo started promptly at 9pm, karaoke around 11pm. They could bet on everything and anything, all the sports listed on the multitude of blackboards. Food was a bonus, only English from England. As they had only left English food from England five days earlier, for G and Grimble this was not as enticing as the barmaid had hoped. Full English was €2.99. Sunday lunch confusingly was served from Wednesday.

As the barmaid left them alone for a moment, G and Grimble pondered on how the Alcatraz was supplied with English ingredients as claimed. Did they take weekly trips to Gib or did they venture by road the 900 miles to Blighty? Or perhaps they booked a cheap Barcelona flight and stuffed a case with pork products. All these methods seemed to negate the potential quality of the €2.99 fodder. And, really, did they bring the eggs all the way over from the UK when Spain definitely had lots of rural space with chickens not blighted by any recent egg contamination scandal?

For reasons that can only be explained by this being a big night out, they decided to have one last drink. One of the barmaids begged to talk to them as she claimed that they were the only normal people in the room. As they looked around, this was clearly true. G described it as a benefits crowd which were mercifully friendly whilst Grimble declared it was Swindon with sun. Even with the warm fuzziness of drink, it was evident that G and Grimble did not fit in and, given their working class origins, this was not meant in a snobby way. It was just fact. G and Grimble were attired for an evening out and not dressed for the beach at 1am. They both still had a full set of their own teeth. They wore nice smelling scents that didn’t cause a rash and their tans were bronzed and natural due to careful application of sunscreen as opposed to crimson red or tango orange. Plus, they could actual handle their alcohol with some decorum and noted that many of the now diminishing crowd were dancing drunk, which meant hobbling horribly to no sound in particular.

However, as this was their big night out, G and Grimble kept telling each other and the insanely friendly staff that they were having a great night. It was not until they left, and were well out of earshot of the pub, that Grimble looked dolefully at G and hesitantly asked if they would ever have to go there again? G smiled and assured her that even if the bingo prize was significant enough to buy them a new boat, they would not venture to Alcatraz once more. As they wandered happily back to the hotel at a respectable 2am, they resolved to have small nights out with dinner, a bottle of red and maybe a drink at a nice sophisticated bar or on their Corona bottle illuminated balcony.

Grimble and G go to the beach

Day 4:image

Grimble felt the holiday would be wasted if the only thing they did was sit around the hotel pool all day. Instead, she decided that they should aim for the major sight of Calella: the lighthouse. Then, they could go on the beach where they could sit around the sea all day.

In addition, Grimble and G had purchased beach equipment from Chipping Norton’s super posh Beales. They had a parasol with matching cool box and even matching ingeniously designed beach mats with integrated head rests. Grimble was desperate to try them. These items of beauty had been discounted by 75% because essentially the UK summer never really commenced and Chipping Norton is a long way from the sea.

The flaw with the heavy discount meant stock had been limited. The main matching colour left was a summery peachy pink. But G refused to have his chair in that puffy colour and located, somewhere in the nether regions of the store, a blue one with the same pattern, same style but distinctly and definitely not peachy pink. Despite this spoiling the colour coordination of Grimble’s finds, G was insistent that this would be his chair and no other.

Now in Spain, with an almost matching set of beach furnishings, Grimble had decided today was beach day. She had only to convince grizzly morning G of the wisdom of her decision. There were some mental hurdles to overcome: G did not like people crowds, he wasn’t entirely convinced by the texture of sand and he would see little point walking to look at a lighthouse whose image was easily visible online. There was only one way to make this day palatable to G and that was through food. If she could convince G to think with his tummy, they would end up on the beach. At her waking hour of 8am, she did Trip Advisor research and found a beach side cafe with a 4.5 rating. Armed with this information, she woke grizzly morning G with the promise of cooked breakfast food. This had the desired effect. Grimble wouldn’t say the grizzle departed entirely but there was hope that they would leave the hotel.

Clearly, whilst they were down there, they might as well use the beach, Grimble expounded to G and felt a slight grizzle returning. Quickly, she decided to forgo the 20 litre cool bag and stick to chairs and parasol for carrying purposes. Grimble packed her lady bag with essentials: sun cream, tissues, toothpicks and foreign money and gave G the neatly folding chairs with shoulder strap whilst she took charge of the parasol. She checked G was OK leaving the beach towels knowing full well he hated carrying anything at all and they departed.

About 200 metres onto the street, they were at a standstill as G started wrestling with the perfectly folded chairs saying they were impossible to carry. Grimble took the objects from him and deftly strung them over her shoulder. G immediately looked happy and relieved at the release from this burden until she handed him the compact parasol whereupon he grunted a little.

They arrived at the nautical named Marine restaurant. Despite the high Trip Advisor rating, Grimble had misgivings. There were too many poorly taken and faded photos of apparently appetising dishes. However, this was the final option before the lighthouse and to turn G around to return to previously passed places would inevitably lead them straight back to the hotel and the pool as he didn’t react well to returning.

The place was alarmingly German. G and Grimble ordered the closest item to a cooked breakfast. G’s was a hotchpotch of fried eggs, that weird streaky foreign bacon, the paradoxically named skinny chips as well as a random frikadelle disguised as a beef burger under onions. Grimble opted for the safer beans on toast with eggs which also were delivered with chips. Grimble immediately noted that there was no butter on her toast with beans and sighed with disappointment at how Johnny foreigner could so easily miss the necessary detail.

The toast deserved a special mention. It was made from the cheapest processed white bread that on entering a toaster had all moisture sucked from it. In effect, the cook inadvertently created awful melba toast. As soon as G attempted to butter the brittle bread, it ricocheted across the promenade hitting unsuspecting tourists with small children who were somewhat disconcerted at bread shrapnel. Grimble made a mental note that future breakfasts would be cheese, ham and coffee on the balcony and G would have to like it. How the place had gained such a high rating was a mystery or down to the owner having a large extended network of family and friends kind enough to write a myriad of positive reviews.

Filled with some sustenance that had struggled to place itself somewhere between breakfast, brunch or lunch, G and Grimble marched on to the lighthouse and they dutifully looked up at it. Finally, it was beach time. The lighthouse was placed conveniently at the end of the main beach strip next to a cove: La Roca Grossa. This had fewer crowds and Grimble was convinced this would suit G better. As they peered down from the lighthouse viewpoint, it was clear from their promontory, that this cove was indeed a tranquil setting. There were only a few people. However, as they surveyed this scene, both G and Grimble noticed that there was a surfeit of wizened todgers on view. It’s peace, tranquillity and space was because it was nudist. And nudist not in the way G had hoped for.

Therefore, they joined the main beach and set out their almost perfectly matching beach furniture. The sand wasn’t too soft luckily as the Costa Maresme is known for a sea breeze, which understated the gale force wind, that meant G took mastery of the parasol to ensure it remained part of their beach set. Their mats were surprisingly comfortable and, as their scheduling was later that expected, the beach quieted soon as the Spanish left for lunch and siesta.

In fact, there was a sense of contentment for G and Grimble. G only mentioned a few times how he’d have liked a dip in the sea had Grimble brought the towels. Grimble would have responded but every time she turned to face G, her eyes were averted to the naked old man standing on a rock, proudly displaying his cock. She really did think the todger octogenarian should stay on his portion of naked beach.

She knew that G would easily tire of the beach despite its evident loveliness and Grimble was determined to stay til at least late lunch. Thus, she craftily kept G beach ridden by commenting on this and that: sighting a lovely bikini did the trick for a while. Finally, against her better judgement, she summoned the smiley Thai lady to G and he had a delightful 5€ back massage which he felt may have been more relaxing had he not had a beach audience. He was also nervous when she offered for an extra 5€ to work on the top of his legs as happy ending and beach time was incongruous.

So content was Grimble with G’s attitude to the beach, that with a sense of warmth and generosity, she asked G to decide on what he’d like for lunch. This was a basic and foolish error on Grimble’s part. G in charge of sustenance is not a natural thing and as soon as she uttered this invite, she regretted it. However, it could not be revoked and surely G would look at all the wonderful Spanish restaurants and select one. As they passed what seemed to be number 15, Grimble looked at G with hope and expectancy. He grunted. She, fast losing patience, demanded to know what food thoughts were in his head. Chips…hot dog was the alarming reply.

And so it was that G and Grimble finally ended up in a poorly rated Italian in the heart of the tourist centre. The menu purposely mislead as to accompaniments ensuring that they ordered additional potatoes to the mound already on G’s plate.

Grimble fidgeted sullenly with her dull clams and spaghetti and vowed this disastrous culinary debacle would be rectified. There would be no more visits to Johnny foreigner restaurants unless Johnny foreigner happened to be the indigenous Spanish population which would be where all future victuals would be enjoyed. Nor carried off on the crest of a beach wave, would she ever request that G took on their food selection. This was clearly work for Grimble whilst G’s work was structural such as parasol installation.

In addition, his transgression would be punished post siesta with Grimble demanding a short shopping trip at the unnaturally busy 6pm. If he complied with good grace, Grimble vowed to take G for a post shopping shandy. She swirled her spaghetti a little more and smiled at her magnificent benevolence.

Sunbathing by the pool

Day 3:

Grimble, as ever, awoke at the inordinately early hour of 8am and had to entertain herself by sitting on the balcony watching the hotel staff tidy the pool area. In all honesty, this was not entertaining at all. Grimble needed G to waken, but it had to seem natural or he might grizzle.

Thus, she left the balcony and pushed back the black out curtain letting streams of bright sunshine illuminate G as she fumbled quietly about after miscellaneous important items. Grimble felt waking to the gentle morning sun to be a beautiful thing and so could not entirely understand G, when on her fifth attempt, he reacted like a man hit by a laser, exclaiming through screwed up eyes, “Where’s that fucking light coming from?”

Undeterred, Grimble ignored the expletive tone and responded that it was from the lovely, warm Spanish sun, as opposed to the weak sickly cold sun they’d left in Blighty. Grimble’s odd understanding of cosmology, in her implication that the sun was somehow different here, made G wake in wonder and consider if taking her to listen to Brian Cox earlier in that year had been a total waste of time.

The schedule

Now Grimble is a natural organiser and had thoughtfully drafted a plan for the day. The main objective was to be sunbathing by lunch time but several other necessary tasks needed to be completed first: breakfast, shopping for essentials such as lovely olive oil shower cream and a kettle as well as putting another 2.50€ in the car park meter.

Grimble and G commenced their tasks efficiently with breakfast and Grimble felt their schedule would be met. However, G unexpectedly went rogue insisting he’d left something in the room and disappeared. Nor had Grimble accounted for Spanish service.  As she had waited so long for the bill, she wondered whether to order lunch.


Finally, reunited with G on the street, they commenced shopping. Calella was a unexpected shopping haven and, as they wandered the main drag, Grimble’s planning, as well as her comment before they arrived that she really wouldn’t need to shop as she had everything she needed, disappeared into the ether as all those lovely, don’t see them at home, clothes and shoes enticed her.

However, they did complete their scheduled tasks too, interspersed with several random, but entirely vital purchases. This necessitated a trip back to the room to offload the bag burdened G. Grimble had it in her head that this was a fleeting stop en route to the car.

The phone reset

Grimble’s mind works mysteriously and once in the room, she decided her phone needed to be factory reset as her Bluetooth went inoperative in France and she could no longer listen to Spotify on the speaker. Grimble could not explain this malfunction and had, somewhat irrationally, blamed the French. G had offered to clear the cache but because it had not been done yesterday, or even before, as Grimble demanded, she decided to take the technical whiz task on. And so, 5 minutes later, she sat mournfully looking at her reset phone devoid of anything useful and as the button had advised, totally factory reset.

G tried to be helpful but it was too late as a technically frustrated Grimble is not a pleasant one. She downloaded her Spotify hunting her brain for the correct password and knowing it could be only one of seven, or so. Once she had completed faffing and flustering, time had moved on significantly.


They debated leaving the car until later. However, the beach towels were still in their car and were an essential for sunbathing. They protected their bodies from the hard plastic where a trillion dirty tourists had lain before. Once the meter was paid, more snacks bought, they finally made it pool side and set up camp. Miraculously, it was, as Grimble had planned, lunch time. It wasn’t English lunch at 1pm. It was Spanish lunch ish at 3.30pm. Their fortunate timing meant the pool was empty as everyone else had taken a siesta.


Grimble said, with the same cosmological insight as this morning, that this time was better as the sun wasn’t as hot. G was going to debate the temperature of the sun with Grimble, but recalled the factory reset phone debacle. Instead, he looked wistfully at the clouds and wondered if more wine would come his way. As she began to doze, he took his revenge on Grimble by picking the precise moment of her drifting off to ask a pertinent and interesting question. Grimble grinned grittily and regretted her early rising.

Gilbert Grunt and wife

Sadly, their peaceful sunbathing, listening to Spotify from Grimble’s phone via the Bluetooth speaker, was short lived as a British couple, with the option of the whole pool area, decided to plonk themselves right next to G and Grimble and then stare and mutter probably because of the Grimble inspired playlist.

G and Grimble were not to be intimidated, especially by some sun haggard Brit with the face of a Gilbert Grunt (G and Grimble had taken it upon themselves to develop new Cockney rhyming slang). Defiantly, they retained their speaker sound level until, in this war of attrition, the other woman with saggy skin the colour and texture of chamois leather finally fucked off mumbling some bollocks under her breath.

It was always fascinating what united G and Grimble. Often, it was their unified attitude to other people, especially those they deemed to be chav.

The Grimbles get to Spain

imageDay 2

Grimble and G were now safely tucked up in their hotel bed after an unrelentingly busy road trip to Spain. The happily named, “Autoroute to the sun” belied the fact that this was the most direct thoroughfare to any part of the Med and what seemed like the entire population of continental Europe were using it.

Grimble soon bored of pointing out to G all the different European number plates. Even the one where she could cleverly and accurately name cities and towns of Germany from the initial letter of their plate.

This game lost its lustre even faster than the one where Grimble had endeavoured to keep G occupied with the, ‘Would you rather’ challenge. On challenge number 20, which seemed to G to be challenge number 2000, Grimble asked the now grizzly G would he rather go forward in time or backward? His reply of should Grimble have a mute button or a coma button was not the answer anticipated. Thus Grimble adopted the mute button for 10km or so.

Road challenges

They had other road challenges. When they were alerted to a road hold up due to an accident, they had to guess the nationalities of the destroyed cars. G always (and frustratingly accurately) stated two Frenchies whilst Grimble stuck with one Frenchie and one Johnny foreigner. At one point, a French truck driver seemed to want them to participate in their own game or be in the remake of the movie, Duel, as he attempted to get up close and personal. G gave him a fair but firm Agincourt salute and they moved on.

In addition to this challenge was the rain challenge from 2016. So confident was Grimble of sunshine last year in Southern Spain that she challenged G by saying no rain would fall in the whole holiday. She was almost victorious until, whilst waiting at Arroyo del Miel train station, a sneaky, fast moving, miniscule rain cloud crept up on them and deposited a nano second droplet, thereby making G the victor.

This challenge was being maintained for this holiday, somewhat unfairly thought Grimble, as they were pitching up in the North East Med which, even to her geographically challenged brain, was less likely to have wall to wall sunshine.

However, it was a smug G who sailed through the Spanish border with a 5:0 victory. Each win equated to the loser buying the winner a glass of wine and, so far, G’s glass runneth over.

Viva Espana

The autoroute into Spain was rather deserted unlike the route out which had an ugly 12km tailback at the border. As there is no longer a border as such, this excessive queue was unfathomable. The satnav went somewhat quiet not even attempting to adopt a Spanish accent for town names the way it had in France. G and Grimble wondered if their unrelenting teasing of her butchery of French had offended her.

Her revenge came soon enough as she directed them to the hotel in their chosen resort, Calella. She kept demanding that they turn left where no roads existed and then U turn immediately. She wanted them to mow down unsuspecting holiday makers by driving into pedestrian only streets. And she seemed to have no actual idea where the hotel was located. On the fifth circuit of this route, when G and Grimble were almost on first name terms with locals at the bars, Grimble decided enough was enough.

On foot

With the determination of someone who doesn’t like driving anyway, she insisted that G park up anywhere, whereupon she opted to go on foot armed with her trusty phone and Google maps that proclaimed she was 2 walking minutes from her destination.

Boldly, like a female Victorian traveller, she marched up the street, only pausing to mutter fuck you to the seedy local who had dared to say “guapa” to her. In the manner of Livingstone, she discovered the hotel, she found out its parking lot was full, was redirected to another and left with a sense of achievement which she believed secretly negated G’s wine prizes.
Thus they parked at the local hospital carpark for a desultory 2.50€ for 24 hours: NHS take note. And whilst they both felt a little perturbed at the prospect that their car parked was preventing some local family from visiting their seriously ill grandad, this moment was short lived as they surveyed the cars in the carpark and noticed that there was possibly an inordinate number of foreigners availing themselves of free Spanish healthcare or everyone was parking in this bargain rate place.

Grimble, where’s my…

So with a clear conscience, they checked in their hotel. Grimble unpacked, ensuring G would never independently find an item of clothing without the familiar chant of, “Grimble, where’s my…?” They then had a fish supper Spanish style of pulpo and prawns with an exceedingly cheap, and fucking lovely, 8.50€ bottle of ribera.

Finally, 1200 miles drive from home caught up with them, though in the vague hope of a second wind, Grimble purchased a bottle of cava for the room, which was immediately placed in the fridge. G and Grimble lay down on the bed and Grimble immediately passed into deep slumber making G wonder if she really did have a mute or coma button.

Grimble and G get going…

Grimble and G On Tour. Day One

Amazingly, the boot packed neatly without any cussing or cursing and, so far, 10 hours into the car journey, they had yet to lament a necessary item secreted in a case in the rear of the car. This portended well.

The journey on the M25 had the usual suspects: matrix messages that informed them of impending doom somewhere ahead and caution required. Apparently, there was an “incident” and later an “obstacle” designed to bring their smooth running journey to a dramatic halt. They transfixed their gaze seeking said event.

However, neither happened despite the traffic slowing to an excruciating crawl alarmed at the possibility that a fallen log, or large box of random produce, or maybe even a UFO was strewn across the carriage way rendering it impassable. Grimble felt that an upturned traffic cone on the hard shoulder hardly warranted 20 million neon warnings and suspected that this was a sly method of ensuring slow traffic.

On the road again

They made good time with only a solitary pre tunnel stop at Tesco because neither of them were willingly going to pay the thieving bastard prices at the tunnel for a sad sandwich. They were mightily pleased with themselves for their budget canniness with two enticing meal deals. Although Grimble’s insistence that she needed a heavily reduced pair of pantaloons and matching top for vacationing, despite the trouser leg being designed for a 6 foot giant and not a short arsed Grimble, as well as the fact that her case could not hold any more clothing, may have negated any economic benefit to this pit stop.

And so to France an hour earlier than booked in the tin can that is the shuttle and Grimble and G left the rare Summer sunshine of the UK to arrive in Calais whereupon it immediately pissed down: unrelenting and grim.

Bon soir France

Luckily, their route tonight consisted solely of the A26. However, Grimble, the organisational wizz, had previously pre loaded and categorised the journeys on the car satnav, giggling to herself as journey 3 to Peniscola naturally abbreviated to penis which happily flashed up every time they sought their chosen route.

They had even pre booked their toll road and had been sent a tiny box which G had masterfully secreted behind the front mirror to move effortlessly through the French tolls booths. However, G cruelly sent Grimble into a major quandary as they were metres from the toll demanded she turned the miniscule, already activated, toll tag on. She leapt into a frenzy of uncertainty and panic trying to discover the on button in the difficulty placed miniscule box on the front window as the barrier loomed ominously close, yelping that it was defective and nowhere to be seen.

Finally, G calmly informed her he was jesting and let out a sneaky snigger at fooling the Grimble.

Death stare Grimble

G then had to endure the Grimble death stare and gritted teeth for at least 10km. He occupied the silence listening to some random French radio station, as he had earlier informed Grimble that it would help them to embrace the culture and language.

After an hour of musical purgatory, where the best and most understandable track was Desparcito, Grimble was yet to feel embraced, though she was muttering merde at an increasingly alarming rate. After, the 10km of death stare silence, the impasse was broken by G requesting to move to a Spotify playlist.

Elvis assisted in restoring harmony as G and Grimble bellowed happily to the likes of Hound Dog and Return to Sender commenting occasionally on the noxious smells of rural France. Darkness descended on the journey. Whereupon, the car lights activated.

Happy truckers

Had G decided to fit headlight diverters, then possibly there would have been fewer friendly flashing oncoming trucks greeting us as we passed dazzling them with our beams of light. After what seemed like a thousand kilometres of trucks gesturing to us with light and fist, G cleverly decided to dip his lights thus restoring the eyesight of many truck drivers.

The satnav screen transformed an exciting light sabre and its calm English voice directed them onwards with odd interludes where a deep husky French voice usurped the calm English one to state French town names that bore no relation to the words on the signposts. As they travelled ever south, the grey clouds finally gave way to a billion trillion tiny stars. Suddenly, and expectantly, it felt like holidays…

Adventures begin now

New chapters

We are never too old to start a new chapter.

“I’ve always wanted to get as far as possible from the place where I was born. Far both geographically and spiritually. To leave it behind … I feel that life is very short and the world is there to see and one should know as much about it as possible. One belongs to the whole world, not just one part of it.”
― Paul Bowles