1968: DINING DELICIOUSLY IN SPAIN — 1967-1968: Diary of a Posh Schoolgirl

Monday, 5 Aug

Woke up to pouring rain and the blessed car wouldn’t start. Chump and me buried ourselves in our Agatha Christies (wish I could be as avid about my work). Nauseatingly written but the plots are marvellous.

I like Mr Bradley; he’s so amiable and willing to help. We wonder why he’s married to Mrs, as she’s manly and rather false.

At last we got going and went to Layrac. Had lunch at ‘La Terrace’, where a very tall, thin but weedy boy kept turning round to stare. We had hors d’oeuvres, fish from the tank (fishy and crisp), and apple patisseries soaked in liqueur. The place had a ‘Breath of French Air’ about it partly because of the proprietress - a vast ugly woman with a woolly blue waistcoat and hideous pink lipstick!

Went to the fireworks in Condom and sat on the edge of the river opposite. It was perfectly beautiful, and we clapped and hoorayed after the best ones.

Tuesday, 6 Aug

Disgusting weather. Went to Nérac (Pol’s birthplace). It’s a very, very nice little town. At lunch Pa told us how the Europeans have treated the Chinese like dirt for 300 years so no wonder they won’t have anything to do with us.

Back at the mill I wrote a four-page letter to London grandparents and 7 postcards.

Sat outside with the Dutch people. They tried to guess our ages and thought I was 16. It annoys me, I’m one of the older ones in our year yet people always underage me. I suppose 17-year-olds who are modelling or something look a lot more sophisticated.

Wednesday, 7 Aug

Decided to leave today. Wore Scallways dress and hair tied back. Chump and me said goodbye to adorable Tina.

Back streets of Toulouse very French of the sordid type. Stopped at Carcassonne, and went around the old fortified city. Pretty fantastic, but half of it is just reconstruction, of course. A few streets are extremely touristy with crummy souvenir shops. The best place was the guard room where they kept dead oxen under the floor; now it’s for wine-tasting. After that the journey was on winding, desolate roads cut off from civilisation.

At last arrived at Font Romeu. We got out and practically died of shock at the icy cold air! We thought the nicest hotel was ‘Le Soleil d’Or’ so we went in and that’s where we are now. Very mod sort of entrance - marble floor, glass front wall, white staircase and red sofas! Changed into turquoise skirt and mini pull, but fed up about my chronic look. I don’t think the mirror helped - it got us all out of proportion. Ma and Pa cheered me up telling me I’ve got “lovely features” and a “vivacious expression.” Good supper and an adorable waiter in dark glasses (rather like Pol).

Thursday, 8 Aug

Wore pink check dress though I look too young in it and the dark blue cardy Ma knitted. We had breakfast on parents’ terrace. Didn’t see the waiter who looked like Pol. Left at 11; Spanish border at 11.30; Aiguablava 4.30. Endless hairpin bends through the mountains, and the villages we passed through are very, very poor. I don’t think the rain helped, it poured and poured.

First we went to Aiguafreda to inspect an expensive hotel but nearly fainted when went in. The place is death: a war-type building surrounded by cars with an unpleasant man at the gate. Literally it was a hotel in the middle of the traffic jam. We made a rapid exit and drove to Aiguablava. Decided ‘Hotel Aigua Blava’ didn’t look too bad, but rather surprised to find no rooms left. Our spirits rapidly went down when we were told everywhere is full. But then - quelle chance!!! By pure luck, Dad happened to turn round and see this notice for some apartments. We enquired, they had room, and oh my goodness, WHAT A PLACE!!!

It’s high in the olive groves and VERY modern. Red stone floors, dark carved doors, beige linen curtains, a terrace, a garden, a washing machine in the kitchen and an incredible view! There’s a white settee with red cushions, a brick fireplace with a white flue, a thick rush mat, a white dresser, and the crockery is fantastic: yellow glass plates with everything matching. If we’d gone to a hotel it might have been £20 a night - this is £7. There are going to be 48 apartments in all.

Went to Hotel Aigua Blava for supper - celery soup, parsley omelette, veal with aubergine and choc ice-cream. Very nice but almost wrecked by the English - the type I loathe. Not absolutely cockney or ‘ye old yokel’ but sort of borderline pretentious. Ma was just getting some notes out of her purse when this man at the next table blared out - “counterfeits? Ha ha ha!” Of course, we didn’t really mind because we only had put up with it one night, but we certainly all felt intense disapproval. He had that unnatural Butlins’ type behaviour that’s rather foul. We’re not snobs, in fact, we’re the opposite. They’re the snobs, I think.

There are (says the dictionary) two types of snob: the snob whose superiority is based on heritage and/or wealth, and the snob whose superiority is based on taste. The food snob, the brand snob, the music snob, the design snob… My family fell into the fourth category. This came down the line from our Dutch grandmother, a painter with a modern and original eye. The upshot: our design aesthetic was Heal’s, not Harrod’s.

To be a snob is to feel superior. Obviously, not everyone who loves good wine or design is a snob. However, our family was. Then there’s inverted snobbery, a more modern phenomenon. Inverted snobbery found full expression in the sixties, when the bourgeoisie (not the poor) were the looked-down-upon. It was this that drove my rant above. With hindsight, those annoying but well-meaning diners were, quite simply,‘the nouveau riche’.

Friday, 9 August

Had a battle in the night with a mosquito and woke with a bloodstained nightie. As Chump put it, Saint George and the Midge!

Wore my Scallywags dress and frittered away the morning dealing with my foul locks. Wrote letters in the sun, to Tig, Lucy and the Reids - took hours. Had spaghetti for lunch, but not on the terrace but inside - it began to rain. Felt miserable, then walked into the glass door and burst into tears. Lay down on my bed and sobbed away, until Mummy found me and brought me outside. We drove to the beach after tea, but not the sand one directly below. Then into Begur to book a table at the ‘Playa’. They have a jolly nice boutique there, with wide colourful combs and enamel flowers for the hair.

We changed to go out. Ma looked lovely in her orange dress, and smelt superbly of Ma Griffe. Got to the ‘Playa’ at 9.15. It was crowded with Spanish, informal and very gay. A gorgeous boy in a green shirt gave me a lingering look as we came in. Had tomatoey tomato soup, fab potato omelette, fab charcoaly lamb cutlets, chocolate ices, and a marvellous white wine that tasted of fruit juice! There was the sweetest girl who took the order, and two waiters - one terribly shy with dark glasses, and one who threw the knives and forks down. He looked like Jeremy Thorpe and attempted to teach Pa Spanish.

Out on the square the band struck up and everyone formed circles and danced. Funny hearing Spanish everywhere, it gives a gangsterish atmosphere.

Saturday 10 Aug

Just sunny patches most of the day.

At tea we watched this huge ant (they’re big here). It made a 15-minute journey with a crumb of plum cake between its pincers to its home, a tiny hole teeming with ants - I could have watched for hours.

At 9 left for ‘Hotel Begur’. Hair quite good, in artificial light anyway. Had tomato soup, spiced paella with chicken, lobsters and mussels, and creme caramel. Delicious but very filling. The waiter was about 15 but thought he was a real slink.

Just discovered Rosko is on with his fantastic Saturday show! Chump and me have been dancing away, with Ma and Pa in stitches.

Pa is considering buying one of the three remaining apartments as they only cost £7,000. An aprtment in France would be twice as much.

Sunday, 11 Aug

Felt guilty not working so read Chapter 2 of Heinrich Böll.

It was the hottest day we’ve had. So decided to go to L’Escala because of its long sandy beach. (I would have to leave my bathing-costume behind!). The suburbs are foul but the quayside area is rather nice - trippers but gay with lots of fishing boats. Pa and Chump went to look at a Roman wall while Ma and me sunbathed by the rocks at the far end.

By marvellous luck there’s a Greek and Roman city here (Empúries). It made Pa’s day. Saw Greek mosaics in pale oranges and whites, gold jewellery, and big gorgeous buttons engraved with circles. But Pa annoyed me: “fantastic civilisation, not like our own degenerate times: bingo and rock and roll,” he said. It makes me so mad when he assumes something’s bad just because he doesn’t like it. It’s conceited. I felt a little less fed up when I told him so.

Had dinner sitting outside on the terrace at the ‘Jim’ but I felt scruffy and sticky. Saw a staggering boy in sunglasses and a red jumper, and thought for a split second it was Zavier. We had mixed fried fish which was pretty good and talked about babies. I was born with hair on my back (thank God it’s gone!) and London grandma was disappointed I wasn’t a boy. (How feeble.) Leaving, we saw a fishing boat being lit and launched. The place was packed, street cafes all along and a fantastic atmosphere. Pa says in northern countries the only people who can create this atmosphere are the artists. I agree.

Left at 11.30. Then, 3km before Begur, we ran out of petrol!! Stopped the first car that came along, and some very amiable Spanish drained a gallon out of their tank, and refused to accept money. So decent of them. That got us to Begur - then it cut out again!! Fortunately the rest of the way was downhill, so we careered all the way down as though we were in a film. It was hilarious.