Sketches of Spain

When my wife Pauline suggested we spend our week’s holiday in Spain, I agreed straight away. Spain had always been special to me. I had been fascinated by the country since I was a child. My parents had taken me to Spain on holiday when I was a kid, and I had fallen in love with the country.

For me, there was no place like it. Maybe it was my overactive imagination, but to me, there was always something so romantic, so dramatic, so magical about Spain. I couldn’t quite explain why the country moved me so. Maybe it was the glorious weather, the scenery with the countryside, the golden beaches, and the white buildings, framed by the clear blue sea. Maybe it was the culture, the language, maybe it was all those things. Spain just seemed so exotic to a kid from rainy Manchester. Spain seemed to have a special buzz, a unique energy all of its own.

When we stepped through the automatic doors and out of the Malaga airport, I felt immediately more relaxed than I had in months. I reached for my sunglasses and sighed. My wife grinned. We’ve made it.

As we were trundling our suitcases into the hotel a couple stopped on their way outside.

‘Hello, guys. Have you just arrived?’ They asked. 

We said we had.

‘Oh, you’ll love it. I’m Ellen and this is Ray.’  

We always found that we got chatting to people, not just on holiday but in life in general. I would get the bus to work every day, and I knew a lot of my fellow commuters well enough to say good morning to. Maybe it was a Northen thing. I had heard that in London thousands make the daily commute without making eye contact with another person.

While we headed to the reception desk to check in, Ellen gave us a wave and said she’d see us around. 

The room was lovely, clean and bright, and the balcony had a view of the pool and you could even see the ocean in the distance. We stood on the balcony just staring at the wonderful vista in front us. Happy holidays! 

Having unpacked our cases and stashed our valuables in the safe, we changed into t-shirt and shorts and headed out. We walked along the beach-side promenade in the sunshine. On the way back we stopped off for a nice cold beer. We sipped our pints, taking in the view and watching the world go by. 

The next morning, we went down by the pool. The poolside area was as delightful as the photos on the travel website. I was no swimmer, but even I was tempted to take a plunge in the pool. We found a couple of free sun-loungers. 

‘Hello, again.’ a voice called.

I lowered my paperback book to see Ellen and Ray, beach towels over their shoulders, ready for a day by the pool.

‘We’re off to the water park tomorrow. There’s a free bus from outside the hotel. Feel free to join us.’ Ellen handed Pauline a glossy leaflet.

‘Thanks,’ Pauline said, ‘we’ll have a think about it.’

As the couple went to find vacant sunbeds in the sunshine, Pauline turned to me.

‘I know water parks aren’t really your thing, love.’ She conceded.

‘Swimming pools aren’t really my thing, never mind an entire water park.’ I agreed.

She flicked through the leaflet. 

‘It does look really good, though. It’s done up like it’s in the Far East, all Oriental dragons and things.’

We had been married long enough to know when one of us wanted to do something, and when the other one didn’t. Pauline clearly wanted to go to the water park with Ellen and Ray, but she also knew that I really didn’t want to go. A water park? I think I’d rather be back home in the office than spend the day in my swimming trunks throwing myself down slides. That really wasn’t my idea of fun. 

‘You go along with them, if you like. You don’t mind if I stay here?’ I said.

‘I don’t mind, love. And you don’t object to me going? It looks fantastic.’ 

‘Nah, you go and have a good time. I’ve got a bit of writing I want to get cracking with.’

‘Lovely. And tomorrow evening, we can try that restaurant on the sea front. The menu looks divine.’

‘Perfect.’ I said.

I had been writing stories since I was a kid. I always carried a notebook and pen with me, ready, in case inspiration struck. Even by my bedside, there would be a pen and paper. There was nothing worse than waking in the morning, racking your brains, trying to recall that fantastic idea for a story that came to you at two o’clock in the morning. And even on holidays and at Christmas, I’d still be writing. A famous author once said that being a writer is like having homework for the rest of your life. They were not wrong. We would be clearing the table after a big family Christmas dinner, and I’d be pausing to jot down on paper something that had come to me over the festive lunch.

And there was nothing better in the world than writing on holiday. Basking In the sunny climes, away from it all, pen in hand, and a glass of Spanish beer, or cerveza as they say. You couldn’t ask for more. 

Just after nine thirty the next morning, Pauline and I met Ellen and Ray outside the hotel. They had bags with towels and their swimming costumes; all set for a day at the water park. I had my rucksack slung over my shoulder, crammed with the book I was reading, and my notebook crammed with ideas, as well as the bits of the story I was currently working on.

‘Are you not coming, love?’ Ellen asked.

‘I’m not one for water parks.’ I said.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’ Ray said.

When Pauline and the others had boarded the coach, emblazoned with the water park logo, I headed for the beach front. I wandered along the promenade, taking in the view. In the sea, a group of people in wetsuits were learning to surf. They perched on their boards as they watched the teacher, a guy with shoulder length dyed blonde hair, show them the techniques. You started flat on your belly, then on your knees, and then finally standing on your feet. That seemed to me like an analogy for life itself. 

I turned away from the sea front and weaved my down the narrow streets. There was an Old Town area around here somewhere, hidden amongst the residential buildings. I took a left turn down a side street. There was a bar up head. The sign outside said, El Perro Negro, and there was a silhouette painting of a black dog. 

The tiny barroom was crammed with wooden tables and chairs. Spanish chatter filled the air. It looked like I was the only non-local in the place. Perfect. Spanish guitar music jangled from wall-mounted speakers. I could almost hear the flamenco heels tap-tap-tapping on the floor. I found a free table and made myself comfortable. A barmaid wearing a white blouse came over. She gave me a smile. Si?

‘Una cerveza, por favor.’ I said.

The barmaid nodded, Si senor. 

In this perfect backdrop, I sipped my beer and busied myself with my writing. With the vibrant native conversation from the other customers almost a white noise, I was soon lost in my stories. The words flowed as well as the Spanish lager. I soon asked the barmaid for una mas, por favor, raising my empty beer glass.

An hour or so later, my writing was interrupted by the chair facing me being scraped back and a man in his thirties sitting down. He wore glasses and had a slightly sunburnt complexion. 

‘Mind if I join you?’ He asked with a grin.

As he was already sitting facing me it seemed a little late to be asking if he could sit down, and also too late to refuse.

‘Yeah, sure.’ I said.

‘I’m Billy Miller. Nice to meet you.’

After I gave my name, he pointed at my notebook.

‘Are you a writer?’ He asked.

‘I write short stories.’ I admitted.

Billy slapped his leather satchel down on the table and removed writing things of his own, including an expensive-looking black fountain pen.

‘Always good to meet a fellow writer.’ Billy said.

I simply nodded in agreement. I’d been writing all my life and never bumped into another writer outside of writing groups and courses. I always found that the chances of meeting a writer out in the wild was practically zero. 

‘Are you here on holiday?’ Billy asked.

‘Yes, we’re here for a fortnight. And you?’ 

‘I live here. I’ve lived here for a couple of years. I find this country is good for my writing. The words just flow better out here. Back in Blighty, when the old writer’s block kicked in, I thought a change of scenery might help. It did the trick, and I haven’t looked back.’

The barmaid came over, placing Billy’s glass of Sangria down in front of him. She spoke to Billy in Spanish. My companion replied, laughing and joking in what I assumed was fluent Spanish. I couldn’t follow the conversation, but I gathered that there was no charge for his drinks. After patting him on the arm, she returned behind the bar.

‘What was all that about? Are you some kind of local celebrity?’ I asked.

‘Maybe she thinks I’m Ernest Hemingway.’ Billy shrugged, slightly embarrassed. 

‘But you are a published author?’ I guessed.

‘Yes. I have had several books published.’

‘Wow, you are famous.’ I said.

‘If anything, it’s a somewhat cult following.’ Billy admitted.

The next couple of hours passed by as we worked on our writing projects, spoke about literature and life in general. I had never been to university, but this encounter was what I imagined studying with like-minded students in an academic library would be like.

Billy explained how he had finally managed to get published and how he used a typewriter to covert his handwritten notes into something he could send away to the publisher. 

‘We then mould the pages into something resembling a novel. The editor and I always disagree about the ending. I tend to lean towards a darker ending, but these publisher chaps, they always want a happy conclusion.’

‘And who wins usually?’ I asked.

‘It’s about fifty-fifty. In a recent meeting, the guy screamed at me, William, you can’t kill everybody. I, of course, begged to differ!’ He laughed.

Finally, it was time for me to leave. I got to my feet and packed my things back into my rucksack. Billy stood up. He shook my hand and said it had been wonderful to meet me. 

‘Thanks, Billy. It’s been an honour.’ I said.

‘Good luck with the stories. You stick with it, okay? No matter what. They may call your work drivel, but you keep writing. You got that?’ Billy said.

I nodded. At that moment, the barmaid approached, waving a camera.

‘Puedo tomar un foto?’ She asked. 

‘Sure,’ Billy said. ‘No hay problema.’ 

As I stepped to the side, out of the way, Billy sat back down at the table to have his picture took. He looked every inch the famous author, posing with his writing things, pen in hand as he smiled for the camera. 

They were still chatting away, as I headed for the exit. 

In a restaurant overlooking the bay, Pauline and I dined on paella, washed down with pints of Spanish lager. As the sun set, we chatted about our day. Pauline told me about her day at the water park with Ellen and Ray. The water park had more than lived up to expectations. All the buildings were covered in bamboo, and, in the heat of the sun, could have been in Thailand. The slides were thrilling, and on the lazy river you could bob around on rubber rings. It had been so much fun. 

When she asked about my day, I told her about the quaint bar I’d found, how it had been full of locals, and felt so authentic, so Spanish. I explained about how I’d met a fellow writer who had moved over to Spain for his writing. 

‘You should keep in touch with him.’ She said.

‘I should have got his mobile number, but I didn’t think. I’d definitely like to stay in contact with him, though. He’s had books published and everything.’

‘We could go to the taberna tomorrow and see if he’s about. If not, the bar might have his details or pass your details on to him, especially if he’s a regular in there.’ Pauline said.

And so the next day, with Pauline beside me, I retraced my steps. As we walked, I detailed again the events of the previous day, describing once more of the delightful taberna I’d found, and where I’d met the famous writer. We wound our way down the back streets. We were almost there. 

We turned the corner. As we walked, I looked down the street in confusion. I could have sworn the little taberna had been up ahead, on the right, but the only thing I could see was a sports bar. Out front large hoardings advertised live sports, as the commentary from the wall-mounted televisions inside echoed into the street. This did look like the street, but that wasn’t the place. It hadn’t been a sports pub. It had been an authentic little tavern.

‘We must have turned up the wrong street.’ I said.

‘Let’s stop for a drink, anyway.’ Pauline said.

While Pauline took a seat on the plastic furniture outside, I went in to order our drinks.  The guy behind the bar was English. His face was sunburnt and almost as red as the Manchester United shirt he was wearing. I ordered a couple of beers and as he pulled our pints, I leaned on the bar and spoke.

‘I’m looking for a bar; it should be around here somewhere. It’s called El Perro Negro. It’s more of an old-fashioned kind of place, no sports TV. The place is all wooden tables and flamenco guitar.’ 

‘El Perro Negro? You’re a bit late, mate.’ He said.

‘How’s that?’

‘That bar was on this exact location. It was destroyed during the Spanish Civil War back in the 1930s’.

‘That’s not possible. I was in here yesterday with the writer, Billy Miller.’ I said.

‘I think someone has had a bit too much Sangria.’ The barman replied.

He pointed to a black and white framed photograph mounted on the wall behind him. I stared in complete shock. The photo was of Billy in the spot we had been in yesterday. I recognised everything, the corner of the room, Billy’s satchel, his writing things, even the watch he was wearing. He was posing for the camera, pen in hand. The photo could have been taken yesterday, except for the caption.

The caption read, William Miller, Author, July 1936.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom