Hello Everyone, S’me!
As Mummy is currently battling a non-stop onslaught of germs ‘n bugs ‘n other delights (sinusitis,
the squits gastric flu, nasty coughs, heavy colds – all with the most inconvenient side effect of rendering dog walks a scarcity), she has requested that I take over the SV reins, for the purposes of this post at least.
As inconvenient as this is – I am being kept rather busy monitoring the cosiness factor of our new pellet heater – I agreed to do it for you, dear readers, just for you.
But despite having been in a state of preparatory mental tusslement all day long, I am forced to report an alarming and inexplicable dearth of my usual sparkling repartee and rapier wit.
I will instead have to fall back on that faithful old chestnut: the holiday snaps.
Me enjoying Parc Güell, Barcelona
I think we have all experienced that frisson of delighted excitement when our pink-nosed and peeling-shouldered loved ones hold a tacky souvenir to ransom in return for a lengthy stroll through those alarmingly bulgy and numerous Quik Pix envelopes.
So as Mummy was not generous enough with pocket money to enable me to purchase tacky souvenirs for anyone other than myself (who would have thought a Kiss Me Quick hat would be so pricey), I will make the flick through my photo album a relatively short and painless one.
No need to thank me.
Me enjoying a not scary at all, honest, horse and carriage ride through Valencia.
Me and Mummy hadn’t been on a road trip for quite some time, so I admit to being pretty darn excited when we were finally packed into the car, excessive numbers of bags, rucksacks and all.
When we stopped to collect one of my most favouritist aunties along the way well, then I knew for certain that a fab time was guaranteed (especially when my peepers alighted upon the bag of snax she had so thoughtfully prepared for the journey).
Ooooo! A Valencia fountain! I wonder…
Apparently I am a Spanish dog, so I expected to enjoy a bit of light relief from the constant adulation I am faced with elsewhere, as I blended seamlessly and indigenously into the local fabric.
It was not to be.
In Barcelona especially one would think they had never before seen a dog, such was the fawning I was forced to endure by all and sundry.
It is as I previously suspected: I are a particularly speshul hound – I just hope Mummy noticed, and took the time to once again thank her lucky stars for her good fortune.
Me performing vital stone-searching services for Valencia County Council.
Barcelona was hot and we walked A LOT.
Valencia was also hot, and we also walked A LOT. But then we found a fountain, so that was ok.
But it’s just the right size to be my bedroom, please can it be my bedroom?
Granada was undoubtedly the fullest-of-sniffs cities I have ever had the opportunity of visiting, but for most of the time I was cruelly imprisoned in the hostel room and left to twiddle my paws in frustration. Mummy claimed to be worried about all the large stray dogs that roam the city, but I think she was just being a fusspot; after all, it’s not as if I would have had the energy to rip them all limb from limb in that heat.
From Granada we drove to another place called Marbella, and there I was struck by a feeling of familiarity that I couldn’t quite pinpoint.
My legs, which had been flagging a little from all the sightseeing nonsense, suddenly started inexplicably whisking me hither and thither, stopping expectantly outside apartment buildings and vet clinics – my tail wagging in independent and excited anticipation of goodness only knows what.
It occurred to me that maybe I had seen the town on an episode of Place in the Sun, or a similarly nauseating program designed to inveigle A Certain Sort of Brit into abandoning their natural habitat.
Yes, that must have been it.
Anyway, my confusion was soon forgotten when my favouritist aunty dropped her g-string in the lobby of the hostel, much to the delight of the two male guests who were checking in at the time.
I’m still chuckling as I write this.
If this really is a porthole, Mummy, where are the leaping dolphins?
Mummy was very hop, skippy and jumpy about returning to Portugal. I was a bit less that way inclined having caught a glimpse of the annoying talking map thing stuck to the window.
The thought of seven hours in a car was not appealing quite as much as it once did.
But Portugal turned out to be very nice indeed – it even had a river, which is always a bonus.
Oooooo! A Coimbra river! I wonder…
It was in Portugal that Mummy appeared to be briefly relieved of her marbles.
It might have been a pickpocket – don’t know, wasn’t watching, too busy being cuddled by strangers – but she disappeared one night, only to return with a twinkle, not in her eye, but in her nostril.
She also appeared to have had her right buttock sort of branded, in the manner of a newborn calf or suchlike.
She calls it her “last rebellion” and says it makes her feel a smidgen “alternative”.
I just try to pretend it never happened, but can’t help suspecting that mummies should behave with more decorum, especially after a certain age.
I’m just saying.
Me providing vital squeaking and splashing services for Coimbra County Council
Regardless, I was sad to leave Portugal especially as something seem to go very wrong between Porto and Santiago de Compostela.
Wrong in a “sunny 32°c abruptly launching into a cold and drizzly 9°c” kind of way.
My delicate little lugs were also buffeted on several occasions by the bizarre torture of an as yet unidentified animal.
Those Celtic barbarians actually get their kicks from manhandling the poor creature into a legs akimbo position, then squeezing brutally on its plump little abdomen whilst blowing viciously into one of its orifices.
Mummy said it was a baggpieps. Perhaps some sort of large rodent? I’m not sure, but I’ll be on the phone to PETA about it just as soon as I can tear myself from the hypnotic flame of the pellet heater.
Begin a pilgrim in Santiago de Compostela is not all it’s cracked up to be, especially when it rains.
The cold weather stayed with us all the way to Burgos.
Burgos was an undoubtedly beautiful city, with a selection of interesting sniffs, a river I wasn’t allowed to swim in in case my willy froze off, and a nice fast food pizza joint which Mummy and Favouritist Aunty probably wouldn’t have admitted to visiting if I hadn’t decided to out them here (they didn’t get me any chicken wings, so I think I’m justified).
By the time we got to Pamplona, I think we were all a little tired of travelling. I know I was.
And I’m guessing by all the rude words Mummy said when we got lost in the one way system, when we lost our map before we ever found the city centre, when we discovered someone had tried to break into our car and when she realised she had left her passport in the hostel photocopier, that that particular city was her point of no return too.
It was definitely time to go home.
Does my bum look cold on this?
Mummy says we can’t afford any more holi daze for a very very very long time.
I can’t say I’m that bothered, our Little Italian Village is extremely nice.
And we’ve got a pellet heater.