I get to the bar first, bang on time. You can take the woman out of England but you can’t take English punctuality out of the woman. Miguel makes my coffee and disappears into the miniscule kitchen to tip some brown sugar into a tiny espresso cup for me. I roll my eyes at him and he says he’s decided to order some sachets of brown at last. ¡Por fin! I’ve teased him often enough about it.
New routines have now become normality. The morning bakery walk, round the outside of the village to the stunning views from the horse-trough. Squeezing fresh oranges for breakfast. Driving past the lake down to the coast for coffee and intercambio. A bit of writing. A bit of reading. A tapas or two. Planning an excursion. Pointy-hooded processions and olive-spitting competitions. Walks in the mountains. Catching up with friends in the UK via Facebook. Continue reading