I almost forgot to get drunk before my flight to Barcelona. Late in the day on before departure, Joe reminded me via SMS that I should be drinking to ensure a sound hangover to fly with. I set about the task immediately, and forced down some lager while wrestling with the major decisions available to me at the time: was it better to watch Nigel Benn pummeling Chris Eubank, or Jeff Golblum turning into a fly on the available terrestrial channels.
The ensuing trembling in the morning made the plastic hours in the airport departure lounge more bearable, with only a few shandies to stop the shaking. I duly arrived in Barcelona and finally tracked down Joe, despite his protestations that the Ramblas was a square not a street, and in spite of his belief that saying, “Meet me by the three street performers who are dressed like trees,” would be adequate information to arrange a rendezvous in a city of two million.
Joe had a boat and a plan, so last night we rammed a deserted beach near Cadaques in a boat laden with sausages, firewood, and San Miguel, just as the sun set over the mountains surrounding the bay. His plan was simple and readily we set about achieving the major milestones – fires, sausages being cooked, and San Miguel being converted into beach urine. But the desterted beach was anything but. We could see the silhouettes of a human couple being cast by a torch on a green tent along the pebbles. We wondered who our strange pikey beach cohabitants were as we stared at the stars giggling.
In the morning, as we were striking a camp that consisted of little more than sun-lounger cushions, we were to find out their identities. They sauntered past us and nodded their nearly naked hellos in our general direction. And then the nearly naked hippy woman became the naked hippy woman. The naked hippy woman sitting spreadeagled on a rock while her speedo clad hippy friend took photos of her. Sniggering like schoolboys we loaded the boat and left them to their explicit photoshoot.