Viva España!
Howard Robinson recalls a trip to Spain in 1966, when he took a step into the unknown with his new wife Jeanette…
Apackage holiday abroad? In 1966? Not a common thing for people from the South Wales valleys.
Jeanette and I were thinking of setting up a home after courting for a few years and were now engaged. As far as we were concerned, it was a choice between a three-piece suite for the house that we didn’t yet have, or a honeymoon in Spain. We decided on Spain…
Booking with Clarkson Tours – ten days on the Costa Dorada for £52.90p – we were to fly from Southend Airport in Essex. Neither of us knew anything about airports, but here we were taking the plunge, signing on the dotted line and committing ourselves not only to marriage, but to a flight to Spain.
The wedding reception over, my Uncle Rees drove us down the valley to Newport in his ‘Hillman Super Minx motor car. There we caught
‘Realising that bullfighting was hugely popular, we distanced ourselves from the man and the argument’
the train to Paddington Station and a few days later flew out of Southend in a Viscount Jet prop aeroplane. Less than two hours later we were at Barcelona Airport!
Liaising with the Clarkson Rep we took a bus to our hotel. Through the window the towns and villages had very few street lights and looked dry and dusty. At last in the early hours we arrived. Dark brown wooden Venetian slats covered the windows and it did not look very inviting.
We were both tired out after such a long day but pleasantly surprised by the provision of a shower in the bathroom, at home few people had such a thing, they existed only at the swimming baths!
We were determined to try it, but no hot water came through. The night duty porter on reception could understand nothing as I tried everything to get the point over; but the words for hot and cold in Spanish were unknown to me or Jeanette. We both had a cold shower…
The sun came up on a lovely day, warm and pleasant. Through the window of the room the first thing I noticed were the tree-lined streets below, oranges and lemons in their branches. The smoke and the dirt of the industrial valley that we had left behind faded from our minds.
One day a short stocky Spaniard accosted us at reception, wanting to take us to the local bullfight. Being animal lovers we declined his offer but were dismayed to find that he did not want to take no for an answer. “Why you not come?!” He questioned. We said that we both thought it was cruel. He was not happy. “I read of little old ladies having their handbags snatched, stolen in your London town, now that is cruel!” he replied, getting quite heated.
Realising that bullfighting was hugely popular among the Spanish, we took the first opportunity to distance ourselves from him and the argument!
After ten days of unforgettable holiday fun including ‘Champagne’ tasting (before France imposed a monopoly on using the word), and a visit to Barcelona, suddenly it was time to go back to the Ebbw valley.
Spain was very different back then under Franco, with horse and cart a common sight in the streets, but our experiences certainly made for a memorable honeymoon!