It started with a pub bet and ended with a sunstroke-induced hallucination involving a talking carp. Summer of ’96. Maybe ’97. Back in Sunderland, we’d just had the wettest June since records began, and we were sick of dragging our gear through ankle-deep mud for a shot at a single sad tench. Then someone—I think …
I thought I was doing alright, y’know. I’d nailed “una cerveza” years ago, long before I even moved out here. Throw in a few confident nods, a thumbs-up, the odd gracias… job done. Fluent-ish. That illusion collapsed on a humid Tuesday morning in June, when I accidentally told my Spanish neighbour I’d like to adopt …
When I packed up everything in Cornwall and legged it to Spain at 60, most people figured I’d lost the bloody plot. “You’ll be back,” they said. “Miss the pubs, miss the rain, miss proper bacon.” I mean, yeah, maybe. Even I wasn’t entirely sure I wasn’t making a complete hash of it. Barely spoke …