Back to Gandía

As a child every Easter we holidayed in Spain. My father passed his driving test in his mid forties and then began the arduous task of driving his Ford Cortina for three days across France and into Spain accompanied by his family. To begin with there were my three older siblings in the back while I was a toddler on the bench seat in the front between my parents. The Cortina, called Charlie, was put through his paces and often found wanting as it overheated crossing the Pyrenees. 1960s Spain was a challenging environment under Franco's fascist dictatorship. Both my parents spoke minimal French but no Spanish. My brother Stephen and I learnt a little spanish every year.

We used to stay in an apartment in Gandía called El Alamo. There were allotments at the back growing tomatoes. It was by the beach and had a salt water swimming pool. It was flattened a few years ago to make way for a huge hotel that sits on its footprint.

My brother Stephen is six years older than me. He and I went to the panadería together everyday to get bread. We practised our minimal spanish and became enamoured of the country. He later taught himself Spanish and went on to teach Spanish at evening classes. About thirty years ago he bought a flat in Spain near Gandía which is where we are now staying. I learnt spanish at school and went on to study it further at university before teaching it as a teacher at school.

Stephen and I are in Spain together. We have a shared history and both love the country. We chat to people in spanish as we enjoy the Fallas festival when people parade in traditional costumes, firecrackers explode and sculptures are made to be admired and finally burnt.

We are in our element embibing everything spanish.