SUMMER is here and like the much maligned and misunderstood lemmings of popular folklore most of Spain flocks to the shoreline every summer

August is of course the high point and one can hardly move for tattooed and frequently topless teletypes sunning themselves.

I, however, do not do the beach.

There are several reasons behind this. The most obvious is the fact that, as you may know by now, I live in splendid semi isolation on a lake.

I have little need to cool off or dip my tootsies in the Mediterranean when I have a huge body of water right in front of me.

Added to that is the fact that packing for the playa is always something of a hit and miss affair. More often than not one always forgets some small yet vital piece of beach equipment, from bat and ball to factor 40. Living on the lake with my entire house behind me means that everything I own is within 30 seconds walking distance. No brainer.

Busy beach in Barcelona
Tourists on a beach. By Federico Giampieri / Unsplash

Then there are the crowds. The beach in August, even in the middle of a pandemic, still sees the usual suspects lying next to each other like boquerones fritos.

Even worse is the thought of a beach club. Don’t get me wrong –  I used to love lazy hazy days of summer afternoons and  evenings in a slightly shabby chringuito.

One of the great specialties of a Spanish summer is a well timed siesta. Snoozing at any modern beach club in summer is a nigh on impossibility due to the frazzled and frenzied crowds frotaging against each other. There is bound to be a live DJ, saxophonist or, even worse, electric violinist belting the latest summer hit ( I’m thinking of inventing my own massive LED decorated triangle to compete with their din).

The other thing that I miss about the beach is the informality. Now beach bars are more like open air nightclubs, I was once famously barred from one beach club  for writing that it was a beautiful place where beautiful people did beautiful things to each other and the permatanned orange octogenarian with the sniffling alabaster skinned 18-year-old Eastern European was merely a proud uncle treating a favourite niece to a day on the beach.

That didn’t go down well with the owners.

Oh, and did I forget to mention. The sand gets EVERYWHERE!

European Cricket Championship

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