


We’re back.
Six nights in Spain, perfect, perfect Spain.
To cut a long story short we left last Sunday: an interesting 5am drive to Stansted featured a long slooow convoy behind carfulls of local… youths?…. I repeat: 5am; 25mph; central London; weird.
Airport found, aeroplane upped and downed, we were in Spain. Hade did the honours and drove us an hour into the mountains on the wrong side of the road. Beautiful, beautiful town: Cadaquez. Quiet, blue, bustling. A Cuban night on the main square first night; Mojito might be considered somewhat passe in London, but on a hot Spanish night, made fresh, they’re lovely.
Football in the evening, Germany beat Poland, nothing much to rock our worlds there.
Monday: to Salvador Dali’s house in a quiet bay around the coast. Not open Mondays. Hang out on the rocks, watch the day go by.
Netherlands destroy Italy with some lovely football; great how they seek to move forwards so directly, but with the ball under control.
Tuesday: back to Salvador’s house, totally dig it all, as they say. It’s pretty crazy, but getting past all that and you’ve a converted fisherman’s hut on a quiet bay with loads of original and interesting features. Hmmm. Kind of want to live there.
Afternoon to Figueres: it’s Dali Day, and we take in the museum bearing his name and carrying most of his life’s work. Full of schoolchildren, English schoolchildren at that. Secretly wish them all to be somewhere else, England perhaps. Museum might be good but in foul mood.
Lifted as Spain trounce Russia 4-1. I didn’t think they were *that* good, but you can’t argue with four goals. Sweden beat Greece and I am half-asleep so only vaguely remember the goals.
Wednesday: out of our hotel is the main Cadaquez bay. Today we turn right and walk around the coast. Climb rocks, feel full of the joys of life. Climbing on rocks is great.
So are Portugal, surely the most gifted team of recent times. Kevin McCarra in today (Saturday)’s Guardian is spouting off how we may *never* see a Zidane/Henry partnership (c.2000) *again*. What absolute bollocks. This Portugal team can play with anyone. Turkey amuse me greatly with a spirited win over Switzerland in a downpour. Fantastic spectacle, and you have to hand it to Turkey: there’s something thrilling about watching them; a great, proper centre-forward’s goal to equalise, a wonderful goat-bugger of a deflection to ruin Swiss dreams and send Turkey ballistic. Football, eh?
Thursday: the best day yet, weather-wise. Everything is deep blue, so blue I could use that awful cliche “azure”. Sea: blue; Sky: blue; everything else: stuck between all the beautiful blue. We go the other way round the coast and find a series of secluded mini-beaches; first one has two ageing nudists spreading legs unappetisingly: no thanks; second has old lady reading. We patiently wait her out, seize the beach, and have a wonderful afternoon lounging, having noughts and crosses tournaments (8 wins for me; 7 for Hade; 6 draws). It’s suuuuch a perfect day, etc.
Croatia pick off Germany; Austria draw with Poland. My TV turned off after 88 mins: “That’s that”. Woops. Austria awful though; may as well have sent Fulham to play in the tournament.
Friday: Bad weather, bummer. Sit by sea watching overly optimistic man try to sail in high winds; capsizes frequently; wife looks on with mixture of pride and concern.
Evening meal in seafood place (first seafood of the holiday! I know! but I don’t *do* seafood! I’m from Bedfordshire! We grow Brussels Sprouts!). I get the fish with its head still on. I knew it!
France crumble under Dutch onslaught. Holland have it all worked out it seems: be brilliant, have a couple of hard-men, win games. I suspect the light blue socks have something to do with it too.
Saturday: home. Booo!
Back to Fulham tomorrow. Thanks for keeping things up to date, lads: great reading!