Postcard from Spain - Bar none

When on holiday, your behaviour is somewhat determined by your nationality. If you’re a German, you lie on a sunbed from dawn to dusk turning a disturbing mahogany colour. You do this topless. Note – German men invariably have bigger boobs than German women.

If you’re a Brit, you head to the bar for respite from the sun, Germans and whoever you are on holiday with and drink for a bit, noticing that all the Spanish in the bar are nursing small but incredibly powerful coffees – this is because they are trying to stay awake during siesta time. The bars are deliciously dark and cool, surrounded as you are by wooden panelling on the walls and cooled by regular wafts of cold air from the fridge being opened and closed to get you a fresh, cold glass for your beer.

The thing about this area of Spain is that they acknowledge that it gets hot as the hobs of hell. This is why they have siesta (best time to invade Spain, 2-4 Monday to Friday). It’s also why their bars are wee hole in the wall affairs, long and narrow, the better for creating shady areas at the back, like a cave, with a beer pump and tapas.

In a major concession to location, I patronised a bar/restaurant on the beach. There’s a lot to be said for a shady nook (my favourite example of the art is in Seville), but also a lot to be said for sipping a beer a few feet from the Mediterranean gently washing back and forth. I mean, if you’re in danger of overheating, you can always paddle.