Ah Barcelona, I knew I’d love you, even if you didn’t have “wiffy”. Fortunately “wiffy” is up there with kettles and bathrooms on the accommodation essentials list these days. Our host Biggi (short for something unpronounceable, apparently) proffered our precious “wiffy” code with our keys. God bless you Biggi. Immediately after checking the “wiffy” connection (very good) we headed out for our latest lunch ever, at the perfectly respectable Spanish time of 3.30pm. Husband and I had a heated, hunger-driven dispute over the venue. The menu listed risotto, melon wrapped in ham etc, so I reckoned it was Italian. I wanted Spanish food. Husband pointed out that pork with roquefort sauce and salted cod didn’t sound very Italian to him. We finally conceded it was “Mediterranean” and agreed to go inside. You’d think feeding your children three courses at 4pm would suffice as dinner, but no, they started moaning about being hungry again at 7.30pm. Tapas time! Biggi was having a fag outside, so we asked her advice. She said we were in the “Chinese” part of town and didn’t like our chances, but pointed us towards the Japanese buffet near the train station (blissfully unaware of our food-origin brawl over lunch). We struck out towards the station in search of anything other than Japanese buffet. Shutters were closed everywhere – despite it being the “Chinese” part of town – as the retail sector apparently only does a half day on Saturdays and nothing on Sundays (how very Newcastle in the ’70s of them). What we found instead was a park heaving with locals celebrating a fiesta. There were strange sculptures being erected everywhere – blow-up ones filled with waving seaweed stuff, amusement-park-style ones with old toilets for seats, seagull mobiles flapping in the sky … A concert was due to start at 10pm, but hungry bellies were aching, so we headed to a bar across from the train station and ordered food alongside our fellow travelers and their suitcases – a plate of Manchego cheese, olives, meatballs and fried calamari. I ordered a vino rosado, polished it off and ordered another. The bartender plonked a stoppered bottle in front of me and left. When he didn’t return, I presumed it was a help-yourself situation, so I did. Three glasses later, fireworks started going off in the park. We oohed and aaahhhed, then tottered off to bed at 10.30pm, just as the Spanish were getting their night started.