Christmas Eve, the square lit up. Christmas Eve, the square lit up.

Christmas Day. Blue sky, the sea doing its thing just down the steps, and a plan. There was a restaurant we'd clocked weeks earlier, the sort of place you earmark for something special. Christmas paella. As a family. We wandered over early afternoon, Rose between us, the whole thing feeling exactly like the postcard we'd been chasing all along.

Closed.

Of course it was closed. And here is the part I will own: I hadn't booked. Christmas Day, the one lunch of the year you absolutely book, and I'd sailed in on vibes and good weather. My wife could not believe it. I took the brunt, fairly. We walked home crestfallen. No lunch, no backup, no plan B whatsoever...

Then I started ringing round. Nothing. Everywhere full or shut. Until I remembered the British shop. The one that swore blind it was open seven days a week. Even, surely not, Christmas Day? I went to check. It was open. Every last thing you'd need for a proper roast, sat there on the shelf like it had been waiting for me. So I came home, and somewhere between the disaster and the dark I cobbled together a last-minute Christmas dinner in a holiday apartment in southern Spain. And it was, I am not being funny, bloody excellent.

Christmas dinner, rescued from the British shop. Christmas dinner, rescued from the British shop.

Boxing Day we went to make amends. Sierra Nevada. Three hours up, three hours back, for a day with no plan beyond "let's go and look at some snow." It was pushing twenty degrees where we were. Up the mountain, actual snow. No skis, no lessons, no intention of anything other than being there for it. Rose was in her absolute element. Great food, music drifting about, cold air, sun blazing. Vibes only. And it delivered.

Boxing Day, up Sierra Nevada. Snow at the top, twenty degrees at the coast. Boxing Day, up Sierra Nevada. Snow at the top, twenty degrees at the coast.

The strange gift of that winter was how empty everything was. We drove to Seville one day and there was no traffic. None. I drove straight into the centre and parked without a fight, which if you know Seville is roughly as likely as parking on the moon. The city was magnificent as ever, just quieter, missing the usual hum of people that normally carries the place along. First café con leche on arrival. A bar doing patatas bravas, and I think, genuinely, that was my first of the whole trip. No idea how. A tinto de verano to wash it down. A wander along the river. Ice cream to finish. A near-perfect day, restrictions and all.

Seville, empty. You could park anywhere. Seville, empty. You could park anywhere.

By now I'd got myself a bike, and that changed everything. I was working by day, but the lunch hour turned into freedom. Out on the bike, up the coast, exploring while the laptop cooled off. Closed season, so most of the beach bars were shut, but about ten minutes up the sand there was one that stayed open on Fridays. Barbecued fish in a boat, fries, a vino tinto. I think those were my favourite lunches I have ever had. Anywhere. With Rose at nursery, my wife and I suddenly had our own days back. Our own hours. The thing you forget you are missing until it returns.

The Friday fish-boat bar, ten minutes up the sand. The Friday fish-boat bar, ten minutes up the sand.

Weekends were ours too. Family trips wherever we fancied, anywhere within a two or three hour reach along the Andalucían coast. We even got visitors, which by then felt like a small miracle. We had always made a point of keeping a spare room wherever we stayed, quietly hopeful, and the restrictions had meant it mostly stayed empty. So when my wife's cousin and her partner made it out, it was everything. There was a Belgian bar five minutes from the door, and I loved it more than I can properly justify. Great food, ridiculous beer, the best company we'd had in months.

The Belgian bar, five minutes from the door. La Chouffe, and the best company in months. The Belgian bar, five minutes from the door. La Chouffe, and the best company in months.

That is the bit I never wrote at the time. The gap between the last post and this one is months, and it is months of exactly this. Small, sunlit, ordinary brilliant days. The rainy season I promised you last time? It turned up, threw a couple of storms about, and cleared off the moment it became a genuine nuisance. In between, just sunshine.

Which is the thing I keep snagging on, looking back. We had a great thing going. A properly great thing.

So you'd think we would have stayed.

...more on that next time.