Freedom of choice

Choices you shouldn’t give your children on holidays: Would you like to admire the Spanish countryside as we drive to the historic town of Guadalest or bury your head in a Doctor Who book the whole way? Do you want to try a delicious local speciality of meatballs wrapped in cabbage for lunch or order the baked beans on toast? Would you like Sprite or water with your meal? Do you want to climb to the fascinating castle ruins at Guadalest or sit in a cafe eating ice-cream? Would you like the blue plastic dolphin bracelet with diamantie eye as a souvenir or the local artesan-made stone necklace? Do you want a banana or a chunk of baguette as a snack? Would you like to go swimming or sit drawing faces on rocks with textas? Do you want to try tapas for the first time or have pizza for dinner? Would you like to watch a DVD or come shopping with Mummy and Daddy at the local supermarket? Actually, the last one was a trick question, as Husband and I have a foreign supermarket fetish that’s best enjoyed without a chorus of Sprog whining. All those weird and wonderful things to buy or chortle about (or in the case of Farton bread stick thingies, both). My favourite foreign supermarkets are the American ones, filled with horrifyingly delightful things like choc-chip cookie breakfast cereal. Spanish ones have a more limited appeal as 75% of the produce is pork-based and Husband hates pork. It rules out the whole, cured pig legs with their trotters still attached, piled high in the deli section. Actually, the whole deli section is a bust, stacked with lovely chorizos and iberico ham slices and quiches with jamon and queso. The liquor aisle holds its own fascinations, crammed almost exclusively with 2 euro bottles of wine. Tricky when you’re searching for something special to give your hosts to thank them for letting you spread your grimy possessions through every room of their house, but a boon for cheap quaffing. Then there’s the disappointment of finally arriving at the checkout and having most of your weird little snacks confiscated because you didn’t weigh them downstairs and attach price stickers. Damn. Ah well, at least we’ve still got the Fartons.

LAST NIGHT’S MENU: Pizza for the kids, tapas for the grown-ups (yummy cod croquettes and patatas bravas at the first bar; revolting stuffed, crumbed and deep fried mussels in the shell serve by surly waiters at the second) all sloshed down with vino rosado.