After
just one New Year drink too many, my daughter was asleep in the car
for much of yesterday. So, I took it upon myself to decide that our
next port of call would be Vejer de la Frontera. This is a lovely
Andalucian white village on a hill, where the streets are so small
and narrow the Rough Guide's map is even more useless than
usual. And where even a larger scale map can challenge your cerebral
capacity. Or mine, at least. After a tiffin and a tapas, I took to
finding a place for the night and this is where the trouble began.
All the hotels and hostels I tried were winter-closed and it took the
help of the kind owner of one of them (El Cobijo) to find
someone prepared to give us a room. And then, of course, I got lost
trying to find it. And again when I was returning with said daughter
and bags. Never was a siesta more deserved, or needed.
As
for said Rough Guide - once recovered, my daughter read the
section on Cádiz province and pointed out that the writer clearly
didn't know east from west. Nor possibly left from right. Normally
considered essential when giving directions.
Anyway,
she and I were talking about the excellent service we always
get in Spain and I said it had to be about speaking the language.
She felt, though, that the most important thing was the very
non-British ability not only to make direct eye contact but to
maintain it. I conceded that she might be right. She usually is.
Finally
. . . It's lazy stuff quoting menu typos but, nonetheless, here's a
gem from last night's:- Fried Baby Squips.
And
here's a translation challenge for the experts:- Prey (Dam) Pork.
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