• Wednesday, 19 Mar 2025 10:00 pm

  E & A in the UK: Wednesday

  Big day.

  Wake up to clear, bright sun in a watery sky and frost on the ground. Gather outside for a run. The air is brisk and shadows are cold, but it’s one of those days in early spring where the sun feels supercharged and the light on my skin makes me feel like I can fly. We take the scenic route through town, up over the old pit heap and past the allotments along the back way to Trimdon. On the way back along the lines the sun glitters through the bare trees. It’s already starting to warm up.

  Shower and then head up into Newcastle; Erika and Austin have an appointment to get matching bee tattoos at a semantically-adjacent spot called Bluebottle in Whitley Bay. While they’re getting 😎 inked up 😎 Sam and I take Ghyll for a stroll down on the beach.

  

  

  The sun has well & truly brought its A-game and the sands are buzzing with spaniels and labs chasing balls hither and yon. Ghyll intercepts an errant tennis ball and plays keepaway with a Saluki and we have a hard time returning the ball without Ghyll chasing it down again. We finally part them and climb a long-disused staircase back up to the promenade.

  At the top, a man in a tracksuit sits on a step with his head in his hands, chain-vaping from what appears to be a small robot and guzzling from a can of Carling. It’s 10:15 am.

  When we return to the tattoo parlour we find that the artist has successfully sold Erika and Austin on the Gospel of Greggs, so we dutifully trek down amongst the pigeons and OAPs and their trolleys and purchase: a) a steak bake, b) a cheese and onion bake, c) a corned beef pasty, and d) a sausage roll. Then we take turns passing them clockwise through the rotation until everyone agrees that Greggs is Actually Not Very Good.

  (I might be editorialising here a little bit.)

  Once the tattoos are finished and wrapped in hydrocolloid bandages, we head back south. We’d originally planned to visit Beamish but we can’t find our passes and anyway Beamish closes relatively early midweek, so we drive down to the North York Moors instead for a walk along the cliffs above Skinningrove. It’s a steep climb but the gorse is in bloom and the track is dry and before we know it the high tide is washing the cliff foot far below us.

  

  

  There’s an old WWII-era pillbox half-buried in a field alongside the track, so we have a look — but find it totally flooded. Instead we walk out up Hummersea Point and try to find our way down to the beach. Here too we’re thwarted: the walkway has been destroyed by a storm or a landslide or a floor or something, so no access to the beach. It’s high tide anyway. We walk back along the clifftops to the car.

  The sun’s making its lazy way over the horizon so we all trundle up over the moor to Egton for dinner at the Wheatsheaf, whence good room-temperature British ale, steak pies, and sticky toffee pudding. We finish up with a pint or two at the Witching Post next door and then fall into a bit of a stupor on the drive home in the dark.

  

  

  (Not me though, cuz I was driving.)

  Family

• ---

  Tuesday, 18 Mar 2025 10:00 pm

  E & A in the UK: Tuesday

  Traffic isn’t too bad on the way down to Manchester. We get caught up a bit in rush hour traffic around Leeds, and then again on the M60 around Manchester, but before we know it we’re pulling into the airport and frantically gesturing at signs pointing us to the short-stay parking lot. It’s weirdly empty.

  We go into Terminal 2 and sit in front of the big arrivals exit. The only people in the terminal are bleary-eyed workers in high-vis. The board has only a single arrival for hours, an A330 from Orlando with my sister and my brother-in-law on it.

  We both get a sandwich.

  

  Erika and Austin emerge and we greet them with hugs and delight, and then head back to the car. There’s an abortive attempt to fit the suitcases in the boot with Ghyll, but they sort of fall on top of him as soon as we start moving, trapping him between the back of the bench seat and the jumper cables. He whines. We leave the multistory and pay £12 for the pleasure of a 40 minutes’ stay. I now understand why the car park is so empty.

  -

  Manchester is sunny and bright and a little windy. Judging by the smell on the breeze, the entire population of the city is high. I guess 11am on a Tuesday is a good time for that kind of thing. We get a coffee and a donut at Tim Hortons and stand around in the shadow of some tall building while a group of kids count passersby for a school project. An old lady shuffles past and makes smalltalk with Sam about Ghyll.

  We move on to Afflecks. We’ve been before, Sam and I, and have hearty memories of papier-mâché art in the hallways and hole-in-the-wall cassette tape shops. We take turns trying on those tiny glasses that Venjent wears. We scroll through a shop selling irreverent t-shirts, reading things like “The worst day of fishing beats the best day of withdrawing from heroin in jail” or “I AM FISH MAN” or with pictures of David Mitchell as Mark Corrigan from Peep Show.

  It feels like all of these t-shirts are just memes in real life. I look for a “i herd u liek mudkipz” one but come up empty.

  

  

  Ghyll makes a friend on the second floor, a shopkeeper from one of the adjacent stalls with a little spaniel that keeps rolling over on its back in an extremely cute way. The owner is effusive about Ghyll, who has sort of looked a bit bemused the whole time, only occasionally poking his head under a stool or a low table looking for snacks someone might have inadvertently dropped years ago.

  

  After Affleck’s we head to Bab for lunch. It’s ostensibly a kebab place but has that kind of 2010s urban millennial vibe. Red Stripe and Neck Oil on tap kind of place. The food is very good; the man brings Ghyll a couple of treats and then Ghyll spends the rest of lunch sort of standing around in the background looking forlorn and hungry for grilled lamb.

  The drive home is uneventful, but by the time we're on the A19 I've started to point out local landmarks, sharing touchstones with visitors in a way that I've (secretly) rehearsed dozens of times. First Leake Church, then the industrial vistas of Teesside, the first sign for Wingate. “This is Station Town; this is the traffic-calming measure; this is the butcher’s; this is my GP practice; this is our estate; that house at the top of the hill with the solar panels is us.”

  Erika and Austin make wonderful houseguests: they make themselves right at home, come loaded with a plastic bag full of tiny bottles of Bombay Sapphire, and immediately ask to head back out to pick up a case of beer. Now That’s What I Call Priorities.

  We grab a couple cases of Budweiser and then pop to the chip shop for a couple of cod’n’chips. They’re sort of lukewarm by the time we get home but it doesn’t take long for them to disappear.

  

  Then, exhausted, we turn in for bed.

  Family

• ---

  Tuesday, 31 Dec 2024 12:15 pm

  2024

  Here we are again. It’s been a busy December and in the wind-down days the house has been dim and quiet and I’ve had a chance to reflect on everything that happened this year. It’s been a full one as usual, but it’s also been characterised by a series of missed expectations and malfunctions that we’ve done a poor job of staying on top of.

  Winter

  January started with a fizzle. We’d decided to undertake some house work (replacing worn laminate with tiles, refurbishing the downstairs bathroom) but the work was slow going and we struggled to motivate ourselves to actually knuckle down and do it. The result was that, for much of the winter, parts of the house remained sort of semi-furbished.

  We were no luckier on the automotive front; our daily driver started producing problems from nowhere and we struggled to keep the Porsche that we’d bought at the end of last year running reliably. We did do some light maintenance work, but kept getting rebuffed by bad weather: driving wind, piercing chill, endless days of rain. The waterlogged fields we took Ghyll roiled like rough sea at our feet.

  

  

  

  Neither could I find solace in books: after finishing Jon Fosse’s bleak Trilogy I spent the following 5 months trying to fight my way through Dhalgren on a decade-old recommendation. This book broke me. I spent much of the rest of the year trying to rediscover why I read in the first place.

  I found a bright spot in running at the weekend in preparation for the Fellsman, a challenge I decided to undertake back in 2023 but which I didn’t write about in my previous annual recap. I planned a few really nice runs through the North York Moors and in the Yorkshire Dales over the weekends, and enjoyed every minute of them. Not so enjoyable, however, were the increasingly long weekly runs during the week: dark half marathons undertaken with Ghyll after work that kept me away from home for hours and hours at a time. In late January one of these long runs aggravated a longstanding strain injury and I wound up not running at all for a few weeks—which was maybe just as bad as running too much. Only the frequent application of extended stretching exercises made any difference.

  In February we had solar panels installed at the house, to nearly no immediate effect—in February the sun is weak and thin if it comes out at all. Still, it was exciting to watch the current flow through our house and percolate on savings to come.

  

  

  

  Later on in the month we decided to give ourselves a break and flew to southern Spain for a long weekend at a family member’s villa. I can take or leave Spain as a country, but the trip was just what Sam and I needed at the time: an opportunity to neglect our responsibilities at home and spend some time together in the sun.

  Spring

  February turned to March and a faint blueness returned to the sky in the last minutes of my workday. Light was, gradually, returning to the North East of England. This coincided with an increase in weekly mileage ahead of the Fellsman in an attempt to make up for missed training during my injury recovery period. If I’m honest, I don’t remember a lot of March and April: I ran nearly constantly, through forest and across fell, traversing ancient trackway and erstwhile railway, under and over bridges, through mine workings, past pubs and holiday cottages. Many of these were truly lovely runs, but so engrossed was I in trying to stick to my training plan that I don’t think I really appreciated them at the time. I was constantly on the internet looking up ultrarunning race reports, rereading mandatory kit lists, packing and unpacking my running backpack in anticipation. The whole season was unhealthy: I was burnt out on running.

  

  

  

  In March we received a bothy report indicating that someone had knocked a hole in the flue of the stove at Haughtongreen, so we went out to investigate: it turned out that someone had simply misplaced the hatch cover for sweeping the flue (it was later found hanging from the ceiling). This whole saga—investigating the hole, measuring for some repair, finding the hatch cover—took a couple of weeks to puzzle out.

  At length, British Summer Time began and the days suddenly got much brighter. Fellsman training wound up and then it was time for the race itself. After the ordeal of training, the race itself almost seemed like an anticlimax—especially given quite how much of the race I wound up walking due to a tendon issue in my left knee. In the days and weeks after the race I continued with some light running but couldn’t motivate myself to take it seriously; as a result I suffered during a pacing run for a friend’s Bob Graham attempt a few weeks later.

  

  

  Summer

  Summer rolled in without fanfare, a scattered handful of sunny days and warmish temperatures. On these days the solar panels kicked into overdrive and we wound up generating far more than we could produce. Still, the projects that we’d undertaken over the previous six months continued only in fits and starts.

  

  The tiling that we’d gotten started with back in January remained unfinished—the tiles had been laid, but we didn’t get around to applying the grout until May. Once the grout had set, we discovered that the grout clings to the natural stone floor tiles we used, and had to spend a couple more weekends on hands and knees scraping grout residue—followed by the relatively easy but time-consuming process of painting and installing new skirting boards. But by midsummer, the flooring work was (mostly) complete.

  Around this time as well, the Porsche sort of conked out, cutting out and refusing to restart. I suspect that it has something to do with the fuel system, but I haven’t gotten back around to properly diagnosing it, even today. With everything else going on, we also neglected to take the motorbike back out for a ride; the expiration of our Compulsory Basic Training certificates in May put the kibosh on any further riding over the summer.

  

  

  At the end of May, we jetted off to the States for a week to celebrate my sister’s engagement party. We’d been away from the family for a year and it was wonderful to get to celebrate with them, even briefly. We spent most of the time in the pool and stopped in Atlanta on the way home for some awesome barbecue. Back in the UK I started counting down the days until we returned for the wedding proper in December.

  Another couple of weeks, another trip—this time to France on a motorhoming expedition. I’d originally planned to participate in a sprint triathlon in Chantilly, but I’d done no training in the pool or on the bike up to this point and decided to skip it and loiter around in the Ardennes with Sam and Ghyll and fancy beer and cheese instead. In retrospect this was definitely for the best.

  

  

  

  

  We whiled away the rest of the summer on short walks and runs with Ghyll. Later on in the summer we even took Ghyll wild camping a couple of times, the first time we’d been out in the wilderness with him overnight. Over the past year, he’s either calmed down a lot or we’ve gotten better at identifying and avoiding his triggers. I can’t tell which.

  Autumn

  As the summer faded into autumn, we were back up at the bothy to finish up some jobs—painting, tidying, splicing a doorframe, clearing out some overgrown nettles. We left the bothy in good shape for the winter ahead.

  

  

  

  I also ramped up my running again, this time in preparation for the Loch Ness Marathon. The first few weeks of training went well, but a trip down to the office in Leeds shook my schedule up, and then Sam and I were struck down with covid—and in the end I never really wound up getting back into the swing of things. By the time that the marathon came around, I didn’t think that I was in particularly bad shape—but poor sleep and nutrition caught up with me and the wheels came off halfway through. I wound up missing my target pace by like half an hour and came home from Inverness pretty bummed.

  At work, we completed a long-running project to transition from an old system to a new one. I also spearheaded a project to modernise the UI of an internal application, addressing a bunch of accessibility and experience issues—which felt like progress! I can tell, however, that I’m moving into a period in my career where I no longer really care about What’s Going On in JavaScript. I’ve spent a not-inconsiderable amount of the last seven-ish years trying to keep up with the meta, listening to podcasts and following blogs, wondering whether I should lean more into producing Web Development Content—but I just don’t care anymore. Liberating.

  Around the time that the clocks went back, Sam and I, along with her dad and his partner, started volunteering with a local Scouts group in Hartlepool. It’s been a fun way to get involved in mentorship for kids, though I feel like we haven’t quite had enough time to properly make a difference yet. More to come in 2025.

  At the end of November, Sam and I took some time off for her birthday and we did some local sightseeing, including a tour of Durham Cathedral, a night out at a fancy restaurant, a day at Beamish, and a walk with Ghyll in the snowy hills of the Lake District. There's so much to see and do in our little corner of the country, and we'd spent so much of the year in our home or out on running trails in the dark that giving ourselves the space to enjoy a week without expectations was expectedly refreshing.

  

  

  

  

  Winter again

  And so it started getting cold again, and dark. Since the Loch Ness Marathon I’d decided to focus on more speed work in my running, to positive results at the Brampton to Carlisle road race and at the one cross country fixture I’ve made it to.

  With the prospect of a full December looming, we made one last push to finish the projects that we started at the beginning of the year: stripping the remaining adhesive spillage from the tile floor, fitting the remaining hardware in the bathroom, laying carpet runners on the stairs, sorting out the bedroom where, in a few short weeks, dad and his partner would be coming to visit.

  

  Before that, however—a return to the United States, for my sister’s wedding in south Georgia. We flew into Florida and celebrated an early Christmas with my family before heading up to Georgia for the wedding at a stunning hunting lodge (with stunning taxidermy). The whole wedding weekend was magical and transportive, an interlude in a world away from the last year. I found myself unexpectedly sorrowful on our departure—whereas much of 2024 didn’t quite go my way, I felt (and feel) that my family has grown a lot closer over the last year in a way that’s surprised and touched me.

  

  We had only a couple of days back home before dad and his partner showed up in the UK to visit for a few days. We spent most of the time in the pub, but managed to get out for Christmas dinner with Sam’s family and for a walk up Roseberry Topping on what turned out to be the capstone of a spectacular week, weather-wise (and experience-wise).

  And so it goes

  It’s a dark December night once again. The years are passing with increasing speed, and I feel I’m struggling to keep hold of them. I find myself looking back on the way I’ve changed, the differences I’ve made, the people I’ve impacted, in a way that I didn’t think I would until I was in my 40s, at least. These questions of, How have I changed? or Whose lives have I touched? or What difference have I made in the world? are middle-aged person questions—I'm not middle-aged yet, right? The past year wasn’t bad—but the prospect of another string of years like this one, another forty or so, doesn’t excite me. I feel that something needs to change in 2025.

  

  Previously: 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023

  Year in Review

• ---

  Friday, 23 Feb 2024 11:00 pm

  Spain: Friday

  I sleep in and wake disoriented. Sam has gotten up before me and has started opening all of the windows in the house, to help clear the air, and the whole place feels preternaturally bright. I retreat to the dark bedroom and and re-emerge to use the toilet with sunglasses on.

  The daylight amplifies the sense of isolation. The town of Los Montesinos sits quiet down the shallow slope below the house, a tight cluster of whitish buildings devoid of sound or movement. A broad salt lagoon, popular among tourists for its pink water, lies beyond in the low basin between Los Montesinos and Torrevieja on the coast. Fields on fields of citrus trees—Valencia oranges and lemons—make a patchwork with empty fields and crusty scrubland. A light wind tugs at a pair of palm trees down the street. Their shh-ing sounds distantly like waves.

  We drive down into Los Montesinos for breakfast and park up next to an mechanic's garage. The mechanic inside is working on an 80s-vintage BMW; an old MG and a Ford hatchback stand nearby. A much higher proportion of cars on the road, we've noticed, are 20+ years old. Apparently Spanish drivers don't get rid of cars as readily as their British counterparts. Cars don't rust in Spain's dry, warm climate; rubber and plastic parts are consumable anyway. A Mercedes from the 70s trundles by behind us, clattering loudly over a raised pedestrian crossing, trailed by two men on carbon bicycles, wearing lycra and aerodynamic helmets.

  We sidestep a tumbleweed and meander down to the town square.

  

  A handful of people mill about in puffy vests and sweaters and canvas trousers. I wonder if I stand out as a tourist for thinking that 20°C is shorts weather. Around the borders of the square are a number of basically-indistinguishable cafes, with cerveza-branded seating under plastic awnings, and patronised by the same group of four cockney septuagenarians. We choose a cafe with elaborate Valentine's Day decorations, and I order in Spanish when the waiter comes by. I feel extremely proud of myself when the waiter returns to deliver our huevos revueltos and tostada tomate in total silence. Job dispatched, he retires to the shady side of the patio for a smoke. I eye my coffee, a cortado that I've ordered on the advice of a coworker. I don't know if this is one of those coffees that you shoot all at once, Italian-style, or sip delicately, Italian-style. I drink it down in two gulps.

  ---

  After breakfast we decide to head into Torrevieja, a salt mining town turned haven for expats. We leave the car by a park in the suburbs and walk into town. The sidewalks are paved with slick patterned tiles, which seems indulgent, but also dangerous during the rainy season.

  

  

  Low villas give way to a mix of midrise apartments and shuttered businesses as we near the city centre, coming eventually to a large square (plaza?) abutting an impressive-looking church. The square, somewhat predictably, is lined with cafe-bars patronised by groups of elderly expats—and, incongruously, a single elderly Spaniard struggling with the misfortune of being downwind of a cockney septuagenarian's high-calibre vape.

  

  Weary and bedraggled after a solid 20 minutes on our feet, we find a table in the shade and order: two beers, two individually-plastic-wrapped magdalenas, and a ham toastie. Then two more beers. We sit and listen to the wind and Sam takes a couple of pictures of me in which I appear to be unable to make anything better than a grimace of pain. Sam by contrast oozes sprezzatura.

  

  

  Glasses empty and plates clean, we pay and continue to make our way down to the waterfront. I can't remember ever seeing the Mediterranean before, but I'm pretty sure I have. The water is surprisingly clear and the marina is full of sailboats with tall clattering masts.

  

  

  We turn and walk down a boulevard lined with palm trees and shuttered stalls: most of them open, I assume, only during the high season. A single stall open for business at the end of the rank sells enormous bottlecaps decorated with logos and slogans, e.g. "You'll never walk alone" and the crest of Liverpool F.C. I'm not sure what the purpose of these are, nor the kind of person who buys them. We head back to the car.

  ---

  Sam naps while I go for a short run in the afternoon. I follow some very new cycle paths along well-paved roads between the fields. I pass an empty reservoir sitting in an empty field, and then a full reservoir surrounded by orange trees. Tall fences on all sides keep would-be citrus thieves at bay. A pair of men lounge in the back of a box truck. They look at me and I try to say buenas tardes but it comes out of my sticky mouth as mostly th-sounds. I run on.

  

  

  The sides of the road are lined with spiny little grasses and construction detritus: individual gloves, fragments of concrete block, plastic bottles, tubing, rubble sacks, metal sheeting, paint cans. The fields are mostly rock and hard dirt. I wonder idly how anything grows. An old Seat sedan trundles past, ramping a nearby raised pedestrian crossing at speed. The suspension groans audibly and the back of the car bounces into the distance. A bit later, two cyclists whoosh by in silence.

  On my return to the house, a British man wanders by and lets me know that we've left our car door open. Forewarned that the neighbours are a bit nosey, I introduce myself and namedrop Sam's dad and his partner. The man seems placated and wanders on with his little dog. I head up to the rooftop to get 7.5 minutes of sun on each side of my body.

  ---

  

  In the evening we drive out to a fancy restaurant called Kinita on the coast for our anniversary dinner. The restaurant is at the far end of a holiday park—which is the European term for a nice RV park—on a narrow strip of land between an airport and a shallow saltwater lagoon. This doesn't sound like a recipe for a fancy dinner, but the restaurant is stunning. The waiter recommends a red wine to go with our meals and we can both tell immediately that it's one of those wines that you don't find (easily) in the shops. We have a lovely time.

  After dinner we wander out onto the empty beach. The moon's big and casts shadows. We walk out to the end of a jetty and sit in the dark and listen to fish leap out in the clear black water.

  Spain '24

• ---

  Thursday, 22 Feb 2024 11:00 pm

  Spain: Thursday

  There is, to my eye, not a single Spanish soul in the queue for the Ryanair flight that will take us from gloomy Teesside to sunny Alicante on a Thursday late in February. I'm used to flights with a bit of give-and-take: flights out of Orlando a hodgepodge of Europeans on their way home from a manic five days at Disney World rubbing shoulders with Americans en route to Dublin or Edinburgh or Berlin or wherever they claim they're "from" via some great-ancestor whose name they don't know.

  This is not that: all hundred and twenty some-odd souls aboard are pastywhite, sneaking drags on vapes hidden in their sleeves, sporting sparkly sandals and neck tattoos and the cheery lassitude of someone who's just finished their third £6.50 San Miguel at the airport bar. The overhead display indicates that our plane will depart at 16:05, but it's now 16:25 and FlightRadar24 indicates that the plane that will take us to Alicante is somewhere above Sheffield. Somehow we've all been duped into queueing for boarding.

  

  The plane arrives, by and by, and the overworked Ryanair staff turn it around for us in record time. Ryanair has situated Sam and I in separate rows, middle seats both, as punishment for not purchasing some kind of aviation lootbox. As soon as I sit down, the chap next to me leans in close and asks if I'm going on holiday. I tell him I am. He explains that he's going on a holiday-on-a-holiday, which he explains is a bureaucratic requirement of his employment on a Mediterranean cruise liner. I tell him that I suppose he must get to take lots of holidays-on-holidays all over the Mediterranean. He tells me that not really. Then he tells me that he's got Avatar downloaded on his iPad Pro, and that this flight is going to be a breeze. I assume he's talking about the recent Jim Cameron flick and I tell him that it's supposed to be a real beauty of a movie. He doesn't really respond, but proceeds to put on M. Night Shyamalan's critically-panned 2010 live-action The Last Airbender. We don't talk any more after that.

  Sam texts me that the aisle seat next to her remains unoccupied after the cabin doors are shut, so as soon as we breach 10,000 feet and the Fasten Seatbelt sign is extinguished, I hightail it.

  ---

  The Spanish immigration officer speaks at extremely high velocity with his coworker and barely looks at me when I hand him my passport. He stamps it and hands it back, and when I say gracias to him, the returned gracias is barely distinguishable from the surrounding logorrhoea.

  Later, in the multistory car park, the lady at Budget tries to upsell us on automatic rental car. We've just walked past a row of fifteen gleaming Fiat 500s and tell her that we want the smallest, most economical car they've got. We get a Hyundai crossover. It's fine. It has nearly zero torque and all of the controls feel like they're conveyed through a council of algorithms that determine whether or not to increase speed, shift gears, turn corners, etc. At seemingly random points on the highway, Lane Assist will subtly try to direct me into the centre of the lane, which is frustrating e.g. on bends or near a big truck; disabling this setting only works until the car is turned off, at which point Lane Assist is re-enabled.

  When we arrive in Los Montesinos, the night is cool and clear and the town is almost totally empty. Opposite and a little ways down the slope from the house are a row of derelict holiday homes; beyond them, a dusty little park and a farm compound in the midst of a field of lemon trees. Dim streetlights trace the roads down into the town and to the highway beyond, where a modified car's distant whine is the only indication of life to be found. Far off in the distance, more lights in geometric patterns reveal the city of Torrevieja on the Mediterranean coast. Dark cragged forms on the horizon indicate isolated mountain ranges of indeterminate size. Southern Spain is much hillier than I'd thought.

  Unwilling to contemplate the logistics of dinner as midnight approaches, we both agree on the nearest available fast food, which turns out to be a Burger King. We're pleased to find that Burger King is exactly the same in Spain as it is in the UK. The big panels for ordering even come in English. We eat our food in the car park. A cat wanders out of the brush, eyes us with disinterest, and wanders off through a gap in a fence. We finish our food and negotiate a call with Sam's dad, who is following our progress with keen interest using the Find My app. He asks if we're at Burger King. When I respond in the affirmative he tells me that he saw that we used the service road to get down. It's hellish, isn't it? he asks. I agree that it's hellish, but it's midnight and I couldn't see nearly enough to determine its hellishness.

  Spain '24

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