You would hardly think it possible to get lost between the departure gate and the plane, yet somehow we managed it. The result was that we found ourselves back at passport control and couldn’t get to where we were supposed to be. It genuinely looked like we were going to miss our flight, even after they presumably delayed it to take our luggage off. So there was only one thing for it. Yes, get the police involved. We begged, grovelled and squirmed in front of a bemused young officer until he kindly agreed to use his special pass to guide us through a succession of glass doors and onto the plane. Needless to say we’re very grateful, and more than a little embarrassed. But it was 15 minutes I would not want to relive.
Other than that little piece of drama, our 48 hours in Barcelona turned out great.
We visited La Boqueria (big scary market)...
...we stood and gazed at La Sagrada Familia (big scary church that’s still not built)...
...we went to Park Guell (home to a big scary lizard)...
...Jamie had his caricature done on Las Rambla...
...and so did Charlotte...
...and, two nights in a row, I had a paella that looked like Wayne Rooney...
...served by a very nice man. (Yes, there are hundreds possibly thousands of restaurants in Barcelona and we went to the same one twice).
And that, my friends, is that. Happily, none of us seem to have that depressed feeling you often get at the end of a holiday as we did everything we wanted to do and we’re all in need of a proper sleep. Plus, Coleraine are playing football live on Sky Sports tonight and I wasn’t confident that many bars in Barcelona were planning to show it. C’mon the Bannsiders!
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