It's “next time”, but also, confusingly, the same time, in that we are back at June 1st, at the bottom of Las Ramblas, with the finger of Chrissie Columbus pointing the way. Feeling rather light and free having left our not-so-beloved backpacks at the apartment, we set out to climb what will henceforth be referred to as a mountain, but was in fact probably no more than a (not insubstantial) hill. En route we encounter raging, traffic-filled motorways, loud dance music coming from an unidentified source which leads us to think we may encounter either a riot or a music festival at any given turn, and an impressive array of amusingly fat-bottomed palm trees.
The walk itself is not difficult – although obviously I moan anyway, just so Al doesn't get any over-complementary ideas about my athletic ability – and soon find ourselves gazing down on stunning panoramic views of the city. We have one of many our synchronised “we're on holiday” moments there and then, gazing at each other goofily before pointing out that Barcelona, like London, also possesses a gherkin tower that looks rather like a penis.
After taking the requisite photographs we sit down on a bench to bask in the awesomness of our holiday (and to spy on some model-looking girls posing for photos) when the Maggies strut across our field of vision. They are wonderful, all three of them. Same orange rinse, tan tights, starched white shirts, stiff navy blazers, complete with broach on the lapel and matching calf length skirts.And not a trace of sweat anywhere – Madam Thatcher couldn't have done better herself. They even walk perfectly in step with each other. One is revealing the merest flash of white satin petticoat which rather lets the side down, but otherwise the effect is mesmorising. I want to take a photo but I'm scared, so instead we play pinecone football with a three-year-old angelic blonde German child who is entirely ignoring the command of his parents to come see the view because he's just discovered that this pinecone is without doubt the most entertaining, amazing, super, smashing, fantastic, great, awesome, incredible, ace, absolutely bloody BRILLIANT thing ever. He has a point, it's a great pinecone.
Eventually we cease our game, after one too many weird looks from his parents, who appear to be wondering what our excuse for finding pinecone football so engrossing is, given that we're not three. We decide to explore a bit more and a little further up the hill are greeted by a sign which promises a Bon Jovi concert will be taking place tonight, presumably somewhere on the hill. This gives me rather more incentive to get my fat arse moving than the promise of Roman ruins and maybe even a cannon that Al's been blathering on about (actually I have no idea if they're Roman, I wasn't listening to him. I just always assume ruins are Roman because, to be fair, they appear to have left a lot of stuff lying about over the years).
On our way up we walk through some beautiful botanic gardens, simply laid out and very effective in providing relaxation and respite for the weary traveller (as I now consider myself to be, having spent nearly two whole days abroad). At the top I am not amused to discover a distinct lack of tight jeans, poodle perms and over-abundant chest hair, but even I have to admit the fort/castle is rather impressive, especially when what I had previosuly assumed to be Al's inane ranting turns out to be a rather interesting commentary on the mathematical layout of such structures to ensure that even if the enemy do manage to scale the outer walls, they will find themselves trapped in an impasse, surrounded on all sides by men with big crossbows/cannons/whatever on even higher walls and will be, in a word, fucked.
By the time Al has finished posing next to large cannons it is growing dark, and we elct to head back down the hill and seek out somewhere eat off the top of Las Ramblas, near our apartment. We wander around aimlessly for a while, enjoying the atmosphere of the city, until some men outside the hotel start singing a rude song about my breasts as we walk past (mental note: higher-cut top tomorrow), and we decide to make a decision. The restaurant we choose looks lovely and the Rioja is cheap. The staff also speak a little English and are kindly tolerant of our fledgling efforts at Spanish. The meal is good enough for the price, and my duck crepes with some sort of fruity sauce seem to prove my theory of eating in a foreign country, which states you should always order something where you have no idea what any of the words mean, to keep it interesting. Unfortunately when we get outside we see that there is an English version of the menu on the door and my duck was, in fact veal. At which point I start to feel rather sick. I have a thing about eating baby animals. The thing being that I don't do it. The reason for this is that for some reason the knowledge that I have eaten a baby animal makes me feel irrationally ill, something to do with a Blue Peter campaign against the bad practices involved in importing claves for slaughter that doubles up as an early childhood memory, and a bad first experience with eating piglet when I was an au pair in Austria. I don't claim it makes sense, it doesn't, especially given that I'm normally first in line at a barbeque.
We head for home, tired, content (and a little green around the gills courtesy of an early evening hangover and – I assure Al – the veal). Tomorrow we will head to La Sagrada Familia and I will not eat veal, this I am sure of.
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