Don’t get me wrong, I love our life in Spain, but Andalucia in August can be hellishly hot. Time to head somewhere cooler. Where the humidity doesn’t make me look like a frizzy-haired alpaca and I don’t get mistaken for a pop-up food tent in my huge-but-oh-so-comfy dresses.
So this summer we headed to Tarifa. At Europe’s southernmost point, where the waters of the Mediterranean meet the cooler waters of the Atlantic, Tarifa is simply stunning – steeped in history but with a chilled, bohemian vibe. Every time we approach, driving up that last hill before dropping down into the stunning bay, I gasp as I look down at the 10km-long golden sandy beach – a view that never ceases to amaze me. A special place. A place where you can relax, hang out, do watersports – or wander around its gorgeous, whitewashed-walled old town, discovering little tapas bars, hitting the hip boutiques for a spot of retail therapy – before heading to the beach to grab a cerveza and watch the sun go down.
And this year it came with a bonus: Mario.
Let me explain. You see, the apartment we had booked was apparently tricky to find so the owner said he would meet us at the uber-cool Waves Bar. Great, we thought. How helpful. So, at 2pm there we were, in the car park as instructed when, out of the corner of my eye, I spied THE most gorgeous-looking guy walking towards us. Think a Chris-Hemsworth-surfer-style-Thor. Wearing nothing but surf shorts and carrying a sign with my name on it. Smiling, I waved. Not smiling, Lord Muck snarled.
“Hola. I am Mario. The Kitesurfer. I am here to take you to my bed,” the gorgeous guy said. Oh my, I thought. I do so love it when Spanish folk mix up their nouns.
“Hola, I am Cathy. Not a Kitesurfer but, please, do take me to your bed,” I responded with a giggle, much to his Lordship’s annoyance.
And off we went. Me, looking ridiculous, twirling my hair and trying to keep pace with this 6ft 4 block of male magnificence, swaying my cougar hips so violently I almost put a hip out. Poor Lord Muck, trailing behind us, carrying all the bags, harrumphing. Things did not improve once we arrived at the apartment when Mario started waxing lyrical about kitesurfing and offered to give us a day’s instruction. Checking his lesson schedule, the only day he was free was in two days, when Lord Muck was already booked to head over to Tangier with friends. Such a shame… but in the interests of Anglo-Spanish relations, I dutifully signed up there and then.
And so it was that his Lordship spent a morning riding a smelly camel and an afternoon being mobbed in a Moroccan souk, whilst I spent a day wearing a tight-fitting wetsuit and being clamped in and out of a harness by Mario as he talked endlessly about the importance of lift, thrust and drag. What can I say? Tarifa rocks.
Right, must dash. My new Lady Muck book is out next month and I somehow need to convince my agent to add Mario The Kitesurfer to the launch party guest list…
Postcards from Andalucía, Lady Muck Style
By Catherine Saunders
Read more at www.ladymuck.style
