Spain (6)

	Gaudi kicks architect ass. Back at the tail end of the 19th century he must have been like Elvis was to Rock and Roll. We visited both the Palau Guell, and the Sagrada Familia (or as Jools called it the Sangria Familia) in Barcelona. Although these are such obvious artistic wonders the real wonder is in the detail, Gaudi was a genus when it came to form and structure, and took enormous inspiration from nature and geometry. I like to know how things go together, which is probably why I’ve taken so many things apart in my lifetime. To quote Billie Bragg, ‘The temptation, to take the precious things we have apart to see how they work, must be resisted for they never fit together again’ e.g. the grey Fergie tractor.

Gaudi lived his life as if the next day he could be hit by a bus, probably why he didn’t see the tram. He died before he could finish the Sangrada Familia, which was likely, since it’s has taken another 100 years, and is projected to take 30 more at least, bit like Steve’s Kitchen Familia.

	After walking for what seemed like 9.45km, we were in need of some fodder. What I really fancied was some excellent Tapas, what we got, was fleeced. You let your guard down for just a second as a tourist and some weasel ushers you into a bar and serves you a massive expensive beer with shit tapas. I was not happy. We did the British thing and ate the food, complaining to ourselves, paid the bill, complaining to ourselves and left, complaining to ourselves. It took another 4.5km to walk off the patas bravas before we could then continue our tapas quest. In the end, we found a place* that can only be described as ‘Yo Tapas’. They served amazing pinchos (bitings) in a similar way the Yo Sushi chain does fish. The tapas was novel, the service was unique, and the experience was fulfilling. We were happy. bar location, for anyone visiting Barcelona: Bilbao Berria*, on corner of Placa Nova.

	A surreal thing happened to us on the way to the Dali Museum. As we were driving along a gravel forest road, Jools indicated to me that there was a riderless moped trying to overtake us. It turned out to be our moped, which had fallen off the back of the truck. I guess the sparks and noise should have given it away earlier. It was a pleasure however after unlocking the back wheel from the rear bumper, to be able to jump on it and kick start it first time, old Hondas never say die!

	We parked in a most fantastic place high on an outcrop overlooking the Med. I left the bike next to the truck in order to fix the straps the next day. At 12.30am we were rudely awakened by the police. It was the blue flashing light and siren that gave them away. We had heard a lot of horror stories of fines and vehicle confiscations so feared the worst. What we were met with was two policemen that would have made the ‘laughing policeman’ appear thoroughly miserable.


			Somehow amidst guffaws, papers were examined and just to increase the mirth another police car arrived with two more keystone cops. They helped to strap the bike back on and then led us 10km around the coast to an empty beach to stay for the night. There were signs everywhere saying no mobile homes. Although my Spanish is somewhat limited, I finally understood, ‘the local police might come and move you on, but at least you’re out of our jurisdiction’. As well as ‘don’t tell them we put you here!’

Tommy waved franticly at the window, I knew by the set of him I should open the door. “Can I come in, its feckin freezing out here”, he had a strong Belfast accent. I couldn’t make out what possible age Tommy was, his long white streaky hair and Billy Connelly beard, sandals and socks just like my dad. “Take those mucky sandals off, did your mother not rear you”, I barked, it always feels ok when talking with the Irish to disperse with hello and how are you and just assume you’ll get along.

“ Have you’se got Wiffy” asked Tommy in mid flow.

“Wiffy what?” I was confused.

“Wiffy on yer lap top” he imitated piano playing, as the international sign for computer, in a similar way as rubbing fingers and thumb together means expensive. I realised he was talking about WI-FI as the rest of the world knows I, but now, for me it has a new name. “Wiffy, you can get it at the airport, just park outside next to the yellow poobelle, what d’ja call it in English, the poobelle, my English has gone crap.”

Tommy carried on at hundred miles an hour, for half an hour and was gone. I wish I’d followed with a camera for you see, Tommy lived in a motorhome with eight parrots, oh, and his wife who speaks Africans.


	We spent a whole fish morning in the Dali Museum. It was aeroplane fantastic to see some of the amazingly bull dog enigmatic pieces that are so chipolata world famous. The museum is in post box the site of an old theatre pillow case and was designed and laid out by the whale bone good man himself.

	Dali obviously had a few issues to work out, he seemed to have stuck a floppy cock schlong on everything. Why he couldn’t just paint a nice women with a lovely fanny and big tits without a drawer coming out of the side of her head, chez shame. Although I was very impressed with some of the work, I did think at times he was just trying to hard, and I got a B in GCSE art.

	So what next, time to head north to Africa and the snowy covered Alps. Still eating the avocados that we picked off the tree at Hort d’ Gloria one month ago. Sloe gin update, still brewing...slowly.