try it out for yourself...

Hello Friend... I needed something that would change my perspective this completely exceeded my expectations now I make my own luck I know youll pick up on this quickly http://www.mdzol.com/tools/redirect.php?rivos&qiqaqep=yahoo.com&josyda=aol.com&url=http://home45solutions.net/esubmit/bizopp_hw3.php bye

hey

Hunter I was thinking of you when I came across this http://www2.news13itonight.com/ get back to me

Pastures New

The time has finally come... to put this blog to rest. Okay, so it essentially finished eight months ago when my year abroad came to an end, and my complete inactivity on the blog scene since then would rightly give the impression of a challenging and hugely demanding final year of university. My education now all but over, and with a little more time on my hands I feel it right to give phginchina it's official send-off.

I'm going to keep blogging, but feel this blog has reached saturation point, and a suitable end, especially as I'm not even abroad, never mind in China anymore. So I will announce that I have moved on to pastures new, and gone for a more generic title to my new blog - http://pghunter.wordpress.com/. A flashy new blog, from a flashy new app on my flashy new iPad, I (ambitiously) hope to keep up blogging with a new post every week, and with a California road-trip planned a mere four weeks away to kick-off the blog return, expect much of the same melodramatic (mis)adventures, much of the same blissfully naive notions and painfully stubborn opinions on life. The Hunter begins; PHG in China finally comes to an end...

-FIN-

Week Forty-six – Mad dogs and Englishmen

I get into Grenoble around three in the afternoon after another hectic trip to Paris, and am positively bursting to get out of the crammed train and into the sun. It is for this reason that I miss my French friend Yoann several times, unsure whether to chill outside the station in the sun, or wait in a more obvious place, by the train. Uncharacteristically, however, Yoann is a little late – only by a few minutes but I am impressed that, for once, it is not me lacking in the punctuality stakes. By this prime time in the afternoon the midday sun is baking down, and ideally, and rather refreshingly, we have been invited to Yoann's friends' pool party – so before I even get unpacked I am jumping into a revitalising swimming pool in the foothills of the Alps as the warm sun smiles down belligerently. (pictures - me trying a bit of French cooking, playing with Pascha in the garden, the grounds at Vizille, Grenoble town centre, inside the Revolution Museum).

This in fact, turns out to be a family birthday, of two people who I don't know – and as I sit innocently by the side of the pool Yoann's mum recalls my skills as a 'bluesman' from my last stay in Grenoble and insists I play the guitar – my French too rusty to make excuses I accept. Talk about being thrown in at the deep end, my guitar playing is just as rusty as my French, but I wap out what I can whilst a large group of Yoann's friends and family look on. In addition to this there are three dogs running around the place – whilst I am not afraid of dogs now (a phobia I maintained from around the ages of five to fifteen) I am not used to being around these beasts too much, so I am furtive and on my guard as well against any stray French questions that might come my way and catch me off balance, as I sit down for coffee and cake.

The rest of the afternoon we spend by pool whilst the rest of the clan play boules out in the front garden, me slowly getting used to the French and the dogs – one especially which Yoann calls the pig dog – an amusingly boisterous pug which makes a loud snorting sound every time it respires. In the early evening, Yoann suggests we head back to Domene; I am very kindly offered Yoann's room for my stay. Understandably I am pretty tired so get a fairly early night. The next day Yoann receives a call from a family who want him to housesit and look after their dogs for them. While Yoann plans his odd jobs over the week, I begin to plan my university dissertation research (the reason I am here after all), and ask Yoann for any resources he might have on the revolution in Grenoble. He gives me a collection of leaflets on the various museums, castles and libraries in the Dauphiné and I soon decide I would like to visit the Chateau at Vizille, its library and the museum in Grenoble for some background history on the town. This will easily fit into my two week window, I assure myself. While I study dutifully, Yoann heads out to his new hosts, a rich family with two dogs and a cat which Yo has been asked to look after for a week.

In the afternoon I head to a lake in the mountains with Yoann, his brother Axel, mother and her man friend. We have a nice picnic by the side of the lake and then go for a swim. The lake has a large jet d'eau which we decide to swim to, and the water is breathtakingly but refreshingly cold. Once again I am basking in the sun and luxury of Grenoble and really feel like I should be beginning my research. That evening I do a good couple of hours to make up for this lost time, but soon find that I really will need to visit Vizille to get any solid foundations for my dissertation. The next day, we are heading off to Meylan to live in another house for a week as the family head off on holiday. As Yoann's van rolls up the drive, the loud sound of barking issues from inside the house, and it sounds like we will have a lot on our hands for the days to come. I am even a little nervous as Yoann turns the key in the door, and what comes hurtling out lives up to his bark. Pascha is a large golden retriever, and is possibly the most excitable creature I have ever seen, and though I am a bit tentative with him at first, he is a very friendly dog. His fellow canine, Wanda is roughly the same size, but much older, arthritic and partly deaf. Then there is the cat – a seemingly innocent feline who immediately jumps to its bowl and demands food from Yoann as we enter the house.

The house itself is quite large, has a grand piano, and is piled high with books on philosophy and psychology; I am offered a room upstairs and essentially have the whole of the upstairs to myself. We spend the evening playing board games (and inevitably playing with Pascha as well, which largely involves grabbing a gnarled block of wood out of his slobbery mouth and trying to throw it as far as possible to lose it, subsequently confusing and preoccupying the crazy dog), and prepare ourselves to a trip to the Chateau de Vizille the following day. Typical of my luck which I seem to have packed with me on my travels, it is a Tuesday, and the museum is closed, though any other day would have done. We have a chance to stroll around the castle's grounds but I don't really bring back anything to help me with my research. We decide to head back the following day. Instead we head into the centre of Grenoble to visit sites relevant to the Revolution, the now commercial Place Grenette and the history museum offer some glimpses at pre-revolutionary Grenoble, but nothing particularly solid on which to construct a killer dissertation.

The next day I have all I need from the Musuem of the Chateau de Vizille – it is open and I have access to pretty much anything, its paintings and sculptures, all centred around the revolution around France. Not quite satisfied, however, I am lacking anything I would actually be able to use or quote in my project, and ask if it would be possible to visit the immense library of resources housed on the fourth floor of the castle. They tell me I will need to book an appointment for the following week, and will need a serious research project. That I have, and am quite impressed at the official nature of it all – we once again go for a stroll in the grounds, now laden with photos of the castle and its exhibitions, Yoann agreeing to ring the castle next week to book my appointment.

Pascha and Wanda are positively brimming with excitement when we get back, so Yoann sets out to take Pascha for a walk. The old arthritic Wanda also begins to trundle out of the house as well – knowing her legs won't make it we have been told not to take the poor dog for a walk – so I vain I shout and whistle to the deaf canine. I end up following it streets away, as she refuses to head back to the house. Eventually with the help of Yoann, however, we manage to steer Wanda back to the house, and when Yoann returns from walking Pascha I decide to get a fairly early night. At around two in the morning however, my door opens mysteriously and something seemingly steps into the room – though I see nothing in the dark. I get up to turn on the light, and at first I don't see anything, until I spot the fat cat sharpening its claws on the rug. Tentatively I clamber back into bed and watch and wait until the cat leaves, a bit a wary of the wicked glint in its eyes. Instead of leaving, the cat asserts its authority by jumping up onto the bed next by my feet, and there is no getting rid of it. I try and push it away but the cat lacerates me in annoyance, much to my surprise. The vendetta with the cat begins; I sit straight up in bed and turn to my Stieg Larsson reading material, throwing the cat occasional cagey glances, which it returns with evils. Having bagged only a couple of hours of sleep, and hardly daring to move, I have no choice but to spend the night with the cat and its savage claws.

When I awake the next morning, the puss has gone – though I am feeling fairly rough, I am somewhat relieved. Today the plan is to meet up with some of Yoann's friends for LaserZone, something both Yo and I have only done once before. So in the early afternoon I am introduced to a huge group of Yoann's friends, friends' siblings and friends' siblings' friends. In this group are Yo's friend Jonathan and his sister, his pretty ex Maud and her brother. Yoann, Jonathan, his sister and I would be allocated the red team, and Yoann encourages us to shoot Maud as much as possible. Once we head into the LaserZone, the reds take and defend a corner of the zone well and the Red fortress manages to fend off the marauding Maud and the Blues and Greens for an hour. We seem to work like a well oiled machine, and feel like I have, for once, maxxed up a very respectable score in a competitive event, sniping Blues and Greens left, right and centre from within my base. The lights come on and I recognise Yoann, keen to see just how well the Reds have slaughtered the opposition. In second place is Maud (and the Blue team respectively), some ten places behind come Yoann and I. With 50 points more than last placed Yo, I achieve an unimpressive 12^th place. At least I didn't lose. Suffice to say, thanks to us, the reds come far behind.

We head back to the house in Meylan, followed by Maud and her brother, Jonathan and his sister. The excitement is too much for Pascha, and he almost seems a bit shy, heading to me every time rather than our visitors when he wants to play. Like it or not, I've got a new friend. The evil cat is of course on the prowl for attention with so many people suddenly at the house, but I have no time for it, still nursing my wounds. We spend the afternoon drinking beer and basking in the sun. We make some pasta and take Pascha for a walk, followed by ice cream and a ridiculous amount of Chantilly cream. We wind up the night playing a seemingly confusing card game called Jungle Speed, which bamboozles me at first. The complicated game is not widespread, somewhat unsurprisingly, only popular in France and Belgium and it takes a while for the enthusiastic French to explain all the rules to me. Needless to say I lose the first game, still reeling in the sheer intricacy of it all. The second game I fashion my own tactic for Jungle Speed, however, which, while it never quite gets me first place, earns me a fairly respectable finish. After four games at the end of the night, I am amongst the top three players, and a Jungle Speed addict. This game needs to come to England.

Friday brings welcome reprise, Yoann is working as a medical receptionist in the morning and evening, so I have time to relax, research and blog. I also make an effort to tidy the house while Yoann is out, and take Pascha for a walk in the middle of the day. I have a feeling I will miss this dog a little when I leave the following day. The following day however, I am feeling very rough and phlegmatic, and am sneezing all over the place. Yoann suggests I am allergic to something, and I assume it must be the animals – I am not, in truth, used to living with animals. As Yoann finishes the cleaning I try to sit as far away from a ridiculously excited Pascha as possible, sneezing and spitting out phlegm. To make matters worse, the cat comes up to me and starts rubbing against my leg. A sign of affection possibly? No such luck, the cat just wants to shed hairs all over my shorts and this just makes me even more enrhumé. It has been a nice stay, but I can't wait to get out of there. Finally Yoann and I jump in the van, wave goodbye to Pascha and Wanda and are off. We have a whole week of surprises ahead of us, starting that afternoon. Grenoble is getting good.

Week Forty-five – La Venise Verte

Our staggered journey slowly weaving out of Spain makes its first stop once again in Extremadura. Unsurprisingly my parents have decided to meet up with an olive-grove owner who has put an Extremaduran olive-grove up for sale and so we spend most of the afternoon going from one field of his in the rolling Spanish hills to the next. When we finally reach the last field, a storm is rolling in – much to the terror of my little brother and the sky lights up angrily as we descend the hill to head on, much the wiser about olive cultivation. (pictures -the Marais Poitevin, Ragondin hunting, Bordeaux, Bordeaux, San Sebastian)

Our first hotel is also in Extremadura, and boasts a swimming pool (which is unfortunately closed by the time we arrive), and an incredibly posh restaurant. After a tiring day of travelling and having feasted ourselves on gastronomic delights, we head to bed for the next day of journeying. We won't start this leg until mid-afternoon, wanting to capitalise on the swimming pool opening times – and spend a good few hours swimming and diving in the midday sun. When we do eventually head off, the journey is not that long – little more than four hours and takes us close to the Franco-Spanish border – and we wind up in Rioja in the late afternoon, in time to jump into another pool. The Northern Province feels much more continental, much more like France or Germany than Spain, in the look of the towns as well as the milder weather, and soon we are heading deep into Basque territory. Our last port of call in Spain is the heavily Basque border town of San Sebastian.

Whilst the buildings are all very plain and grey the city seems to glimmer in economic prosperity and there is a stark difference between San Sebastian and some of the towns we have seen in Andalucía. The city hosts a film festival to rival Cannes and a famous jazz festival and is, in some parts quite picturesque, the islands and boats bobbing in the San Sebastian bay as we edge closer to the French border are our last pictures of Spain – and soon we are caught up in a mélange of French holidaymakers and lorries hauling goods from Spain to France. As soon as we enter France, the roads are uncharacteristically packed with vehicles and this is where we spend most of our afternoon, wasting several hours on a stretch of road somewhere between San Sebastian and Bordeaux.

Eventually we reach Bordeaux, still about an hour away from our final destination – the holiday home of my father's cousin Rachel near Niort in a region called the Marais Poitevin, otherwise known fondly to the French as la Venise Verte. And my geographical spanning of mainland France is nigh on complete. Essentially in a year I have been to nearly every major city or region in France – surely a comprehensive year abroad? I feel a true traveller as I gaze out of the window at one of France's proudest cities, Bordeaux, recalling my times in Paris and Dijon, Lyon and Marseille, Lille and Strasbourg, Brittany and Normandy, Besancon and Grenoble. It is really only a fleeting glimpse of Bordeaux; we don't get out of the car, but make a conscientious effort to see the sights of the city by car.

As smart and dignified as Bordeaux waterfront palatial buildings are, we are soon heading onwards and upwards, la Venise Verte and Niort in our sights. Before long we are rolling through the lush greens of the Marais Poitevin, complete with canals and bridges as the name might suggest. Eventually we wind through the corn fields which disguise Rachel's house and when we come up the drive, our second cousin Brendan seemingly appears from nowhere. We are soon greeted by Rachel and her partner, Michael and allocated rooms in the house for the next few days. As the house is built on marshland many of its floors seem to be sloping one way or another, and the sloping stairs give a dizzying effect. My room is on quite a slope, and has a great view over the green of France's Venice.

After a great tea that evening we head to bed to steel ourselves for a day of boating the following day. Boats and bikes are the way to travel in the Marais Poitevin, much like in the real Venice itself, and Rachel and Michael have two boats with their house – a three-man canoe and a larger, flat-bottomed boat. I opt for the much speedier canoe, and we shoot of down the network of canals, originally engineered by monks in the middle ages to bring water and irrigation to the Marais' farmlands. After much ducking and diving under stray branches and nearly getting entangled in barbed-wire, the canal reaches the river, and we moor in a small village to buy ice-cream.

I head back in the flat-bottomed boat, on the lookout for ragondins – a rodent introduced to Europe's waters from South America, it now is a menace for farmers in the Marais Poitevin – so it is just as easy to glimpse ragondin traps on the banks and even ragondin pate, which the Marais' boutiques boast, than the little rats themselves. Brendan is a big fan, and has spotted many before, but it us that spy rodent heads bobbing in the water as we glide back to the house. Before we moor outside the house, Michael insists we collect some figs from the tree next door, and before long we have the fruits rolling all over the bottom of the boat. They are great, the perfect refreshment for late afternoon boat trip.

The next day we decide to head off on the bikes; my dad has three places in the Marais that he wants to see: Damvix, Arcais and Coulon. Four of us head out towards the first of them, the honey-producing town of Damvix, on the bikes, another group heads out again in the flat-bottomed boat. Damvix is easily reached by bike – and while we wait for the boaters we head to a beekeepers to buy some honey as a souvenir; I decide to pick some up for Xavier, my host in Dijon for when I return in a fortnight. Keen to get going, I head off in the direction of the next town, Arcais, and soon lose sight of the rest of the group. I am a little concerned, as the Marais Poitevin seems to be the ideal place to get lost, with its silvery streams and canals mirrored everywhere. When I reach a fork in the road, I think it might be a good idea to head back up some of the track to see if I can find anyone. There is no sign of anyone on the path, and so I choose the road to the left and head towards Arcais. After travelling around Europe on the rail network, this is child's play.

And hey presto, I do reach Arcais without any trouble. I must have done about 10km already, and in order to not miss the rest of the group, who must have headed to the village by a different route - or the boaters, for that matter – I cycle around its narrow cobbled streets a few times. No sign of anyone I know, all I see is the familiar name of Coulon marked on a road sign – some 11km away. Not sure of the address of the house, I assume Coulon is my only viable option. I am far from exhausted, despite the sun baking down on my topless torso (having left my shirt with the rest of the group), 11km seems like a breeze as long as I can bump into someone there I know.

I stick by the side of the canal as I begin the long trek to Coulon, just in case the boaters head that way. Around 3km away from the town, I get off my bike and sit by the river, dipping my parched feet in the water for a good ten minutes, before clambering back onto the bike to do the last little stint. I reach Coulon with ease; I even find the very museum of the Marais that my dad has mentioned he wants to see. I linger outside for around ten minutes before admitting the inevitable I have been trying to avoid facing up to: nobody is coming to Coulon. Realising that I am not with them, they have probably headed back to the house, assuming I can find my way back. I'm happy with that, I think as I begin the 11km back to Arcais (and probably double that back to the house).

By now I must admit I am sweating profusely, a little sunburnt and very saddle sore. By the time I reach Arcais, I must have done some 40km on the bike, and lactic acid is beginning to build up in my legs. I don't feel like stopping though, it would only serve to make me more tired. Instead I take the route back to Damvix, assuming it is the only way back to the house – though I distinctly recognize the corn fields on the other bank of the river as I head past bridge after bridge. Finally a familiar Volvo rolls past on the road to Damvix, and my parents offer me a much needed drink and a t-shirt. No lift back though, and to be honest I am pretty annoyed to find that they have sent out a search party after me, and have even told the beekeeper to keep an eye out for me.

I have no choice but to head back to house on the bike as it won't fit in the car. The cornfields on the other bank are the ones next to the house, but by this time I am just outside Damvix and the next bridge: I will have to do a pointless U-turn when I reach the honey town and retrace my tracks on the other bank. To add to this aggravation I have my parents behind me in the car, and am finding it fairly tough pedalling now, having stopped for a good while on the roadside. Eventually the fields outside the house come into view, and I immediately jump into the refreshing paddling pool with Ben, Brendan and a beer. As if a pointless three-point tour of Marais Poitevin by bike wasn't enough I will have to do the same thing on a national scale the following day by train. I am off again, the next morning I am at Niort station with my suitcase, on my way to Grenoble, rather annoyingly via Paris – were it not for the Massif Central in the middle of the country I would be able to triangulate this six hour journey and head straight across France. But no, after much hassle with my tickets (my dad pressing the wrong button in his beaming eagerness at SNCF's ticket machines and making me buy a ticket for the following day – something I have to explain to the train driver after been politely shunted from what I thought was my seat by an irritating grinning Parisian) I am back in Paris. C'est partie.

Week Forty-four – Bem Vindo a Portugal y Adios a Espana

After the madness of the week before, our trip to Portugal will be a fairly quiet affair, the antithesis of their partying Iberian neighbours. Whether this is true for the whole of Portugal I cannot be sure, having not visited anywhere in Portugal other than the tranquil Algarve since I was two – but the towns closest to us in Sanlúcar – those right on the Spanish border offer the stark contrast between the Spanish and the Portuguese. Whilst Spain, where any event in their vast history or devout religion calls for a weekend of fiestas, is permanently full of life and sound; the only thing that seems to echo through the quiet foothills of Portugal as we cross the Guadiana River that marks the border, is a distant decadence, almost a melancholy at the loss of their greatness, their fall from once, long ago, being the most powerful nation in the world. (pictures - Sanlucar from on high, the Salt-Carpet)

The first place we stop at is, unsurprisingly, an olive grove – my parents back on the hunt for the ideal place to cultivate olives. The place is incredibly tranquil – even though it is little more than a hamlet or stronghold the place gives the impression that absolutely nobody lives there. Apart from a lonely donkey in a field and the constant whirr of cicadas in the air the place is lifeless. I imagine this will change as we get back into the car to the nearby town of Alcoutim. Interestingly, this town lies directly across the river from another Sanlúcar, Sanlúcar de Guadiana – and whilst the Spanish town is smaller than our Sanlúcar, it certainly seems livelier than quiet Alcoutim. Nobody is on the streets as we wander around to find somewhere to eat. It almost gives the impression of a town in Latin America, especially when a group of children pass us, speaking in an incomprehensible tongue that in fact sounds nothing like that of its Iberian neighbour. Whilst I felt I could roughly understand Portuguese on signs in the town based on my Spanish, my knowledge of oral Portugal is practically nonexistent, unsurprisingly. I work out 'hello' and 'thank you' pretty quickly, but this will be the extent of my Portuguese. Even my multilingual dad will do little better.

We stop in a quiet bar for lunch, and it is my mum that orders, after the old waitress soon realises we are foreign, and starts speaking in German. The Portuguese seem to have very innocent looking faces and, unlike the Spanish, do not assume that everyone will know their complicated tongue – this again echoes the country's lost greatness – despite the fact that Portuguese is still one of the most widely spoken languages in the world, the days when the Portuguese were the envy of the seven seas has long gone. Everything in this part of the country seems to be resigned to this dwindling fate, from the news reports on TV in the bar, charting the progress of their footballing greats abroad – long since left their native Portugal: Ronaldo, Deco, Simao all choosing bigger leagues abroad; down to the economy – Portugal being amongst the hardest hit by far by the financial crisis. After another little stroll around town, we decide it is time to head to somewhere a bit livelier, and head south to Tavira.

Unsurprisingly the Algarve coastal town is not much livelier than its riverside neighbour – but we find a little more life here, despite most of it being English and French tourists. We stop in a café and get cakes and coffee and sit by the fountain in the centre of town for a while. Even in Tavira it feels like not a great deal is happening, so we are soon heading back off to Spain in the early afternoon. Portugal was an interesting journey for me, simply because it was so different to lively Spain – and even felt more subdued than the more composed France. It was an enjoyable experience to see another country and culture, but I'm not sure I'd be able to hack Portugal for a long period of time.

I meet Santi in the early evening and head into Sanlúcar with him and his sister Ana for a few drinks. We head up the hill in the old town towards the Castle, only to find that the bar that Santi is looking for is a restaurant, we head back down the hill to Sanlúcar's main plaza, to a nice bar called Minimum. We have a long conversation in Spanish about summers gone by, about what we are going to do that week, and about the future. I can feel my Spanish coming, and by now, having settled back into Spanish life, am very keen to come and live in Sanlúcar next year. If I can knuckle down to my university studies this year and get a decent grade, my plan will be to come and live in Sanlúcar to work as an English teacher in one of the many academias for a year in 2011– and Santi tells me he will make sure I don't miss out on any of the fiestas in the lively town. I insist that Santi comes to stay in Manchester as well, and he is enthusiastic to come over in October.

We stay at Minimum until around 2 in the morning, and by this time the night is not even nearly over. Despite being not used to this, and thus quite tired, my body reluctantly agrees to head down to the beach with Santi and his friend Gabriel, my mind of course more than up for it. By now an English night would most definitely have ground down to a halt, much to Santi's surprise, but I'm doing it the Spanish way, I think happily as I sip a strong Ron Barcélo rum and coke, sand seeping into my jeans. Just down the beach Santi tells me there is gitano party, a festival at one of the beach bars for the gypsies. I even spot someone trotting along the beach on a horse – this is the weekend of the horse races on the beach, so this fails to surprise me that much. Every year Sanlúcar hosts a race in which jockeys of many different nationalities race across the water front, but the most fun part is that children set up betting stalls along the beach where adults place bets on the horses and have the chance to make a very small profit. I had tried my hand at one of these casetas earlier in the week, betting on an English horse, and lost 50 cents. By half past three the party is still going on, but I am far too tired to take part, and after a little too much rum, decide to head home.

What I will find based on the amount that the Spanish drink, and the times they get back home, is that it will take most of the next day to recover and recuperate. So essentially this is all I do the next day, interspersed by perhaps a sweltering hour at the beach. The following day, however, I am back a la punto – and meet up with Santi and Gabriel at a bar in the plaza to watch a band that Santi is friends with. Le "Gilet en faille" (a French name, oddly) or the Corset in Spanish or English, play a great set, with a number of English songs, and the lead singer speaks perfect English, and at the interval I have a chat with the band members. The little bar is packed and the atmosphere is great, my brother Edmund and his girlfriend Frances even pop in for a few songs. When the setlist finally winds down there is still a number of us in the bar – the band, their girlfriends, Santi, Gabriel and I and a couple of groupies who offer to pay for all our drinks. So as we leave to head to one of the girls' houses my pocket is none the worse for wear, and my mind is in pretty good nick too, considering the amount of Barcélo no doubt swimming around it. A Thursday night in Sanlucar grinds down to an end I didn't really expect – hanging around with a rock band on a rooftop terrace as the sun begins to clamber off the horizon and into the sky. This is one of the few times I've done a sunset to sunrise, but it won't be the last.

Again I need the whole day to recover, and Santi has mentioned going to the Castillo this Friday night. However, thankfully he pulls out, as none of his other friends can make it, and I have a chance to get some more sleep. Saturday however, brings a whole new bag of treats – for the children there is the salt-carpet, where a design is laid out on the streets in chalk, and the kids fill it in with different colours of salt, delivered days before in huge skips. The finished product gives the impression of a huge, long carpet running along the main streets of the town. For the adults, and anyone who can stay up that late, there is barbecuing on the beach. Tame as it may sound, this is barbecuing done the Spanish way, so it is no surprise to walk past a man stood by the beach hacking into a whole pig while his girlfriend looks on, for example. Or for people to be dancing sevillanas in a line on the promenade down to the beach, no – tonight the beach is more packed than if it were the sunniest day in Sanlúcar and little clusters and clans of families sit round in the dark on their deckchairs tucking into BBQ goodness, from the old great grandma to the toddlers. Santi's family is no exception – apart from his mother (who hates this fiesta, and is in town instead) and Ana, his sister (who is at a wedding) the Salazar clan are all there, and I am introduced one by one to his aunts and cousins, uncles and granny.

We spend a good while eating chicken and kebabs on the beach as the other groups slowly intersperse, and around four in the morning the Salazars decide to do the same. The night is still young though for Santi, Gabriel, their friend Isa and I – and we head further down the beach to a bar called Africano. The beach is still packed with clusters of young people stood around dance tents and beach bars – and even at half four this beach bar is no exception. We get chatting to several groups of people Santi knows (as he seems to know everyone in this town) and fail to notice the morning sun rising up out of the sea. It is nearly eight o'clock in the morning by the time we are heading back down the beach homewards – and the police are already on the beat, combing the beach of rubbish and illegal campers. Incredibly when we head to the beach for the last time the next day (or later that day) the beach will be spick and span and ready for the horse races to resume again the following weekend.

Sunday is essentially just a day of packing though and getting the house tidy – I plan to meet Santi, Gabri and Isa for a coffee at six in the evening the next day (not entirely sure I understand as 6pm seems such a bizarre time). I am there on the dot though, and Santi and I head to the Duchess's Palace in the old town for a last coffee before my long journey the next day. We do a lot of chatting, about Sanlúcar, about Manchester, and despite my being enormously sleep deprived, I am in good spirits. One last sleep in Sanlúcar, and by around two the next day we are heading back up north – next stop France. Goodbye Spain.

Week Forty-three – Moors and Christians

By now as bronzed a chestnut, reinvigorated and holidaying to the max, I decide to embark on a few long journeys across Andalucía as a welcome change to beaching all day. By the end of the week I will have headed to seaside Tarifa, hilly Benamahoma and even into the tranquil foothills of Portugal, in a whammy of fiestas that boast the weird and wonderful side of Spanish life – and that I am soon beginning to develop a great liking for.

Our first trip takes me, my dad, my brother and his girlfriend across a large stretch of Andalucían coastline to the seaside resort of Tarifa, if not the Mecca of surfing then certainly one of the Medinas, and without doubt the lesser-known kite-surfer's paradise. At first we stop by one of the beaches to look out from the most southerly point in mainland Europe across to a northerly point of mainland Africa. The winds are strong (perfect kite-surfing weather, it turns out), but the sky is clear and a huge bulk of that immense continent is easily visible looming up out of the water. As we hit the streets of Tarifa, we soon find the other obvious reason why a certain kind of people flocks here. The streets are lined with surf shops, and though I have never tried to surf, failed at body boarding and haven't the faintest clue about kite-surfing I am keen to give it a go. We head from shop to shop, all of them boasting surfing lessons and in many we are greeted by enthusiastic Germans, keen to teach us their trade. We opt for kite-surfing as it is the perfect day for it, but at each place they tell us we will have to spend the day practicing on the beach before we can go into the water. If we want to actually surf, we'll have to come back another day. Pricy as it is, and far from Sanlucar, we decide to give it as miss, hoping we will bump into someone on the beach who will give us a better deal.

Before leaving the town for the beach, we first grab some food. We finally opt on a pizzeria which looks good, but we are soon disappointed when the pizza arrives and turns out to be potentially the worst meal we eat in Spain. We then head to the top of the hill in the town to get a perfect viewpoint from the end of Europe. The port is visible, and there are relatively regular ferries to Morocco, with tours of the commercial but exotic Tangiers which we did a couple of years before. Interestingly, as a fitting reminder of the dangers of Africa, a car graveyard sits by the side of the road leading to the ferry – cars that people have left long ago to escape the financial hardships of Europe – only to be thrown into the financial lion's den of Africa, never to return. The African dream, sadly, soon seems to develop into a nightmare for many, and it is in Tarifa where the rusty cars await their long-lost owners.

Likewise, and on a much lighter note, Tarifa welcomes a plethora of different cultures, for some North Africans it is the first port of call – and for some Western Europeans it is the definition of paradise. I can't say I fall into this bracket; as I hear English, French and German hippies and surfers with weather-worn faces harp on about waves, wind and water; but there is something very uplifting and invigorating about the lively sea air blowing free and easy through my hair as I stroll the streets leisurely. We clamber into the baking car and head about twenty minutes down the coast to a kite-surfing beach. A rainbow of coloured kites adorns the sky as we roll up in the car and are once again greeted by a group of weather worn, enthusiastic long-blond haired Germans. This time the prices are better, but our German friend again tells us it may take a good number of hours before we can actually take to the water. It looks as if kite-surfing is not for us, at least not for today.

We would have been foolish to spend the whole time practicing with a kite on the sand anyway, as the water is crystal-clear and amazing – a fresh blast of Atlantic Ocean blue. Compared to the gritty river which we have been accustomed to in Sanlúcar, Tarifa's beach really is a paradise. If it wasn't for the overly crowded nature of the place I would have enjoyed spending a while there. After an hour on the beach, however, we decide it is time to leave this surfer's haven; this boarder's paradise; this kiter's Mecca and begin the hour-long trek back to Sanlúcar. All this culture clash of Africa and Europe would prepare us for our next trip the following day – the weekend of bizarre festivities that would be the fiesta of the Moors and Christians at Benamahoma.

Up in the north of Andalucía, Benamahoma is situated in the hills and is one of the province's 'pueblos blancos' or white towns. Since the reconquest in the days of Ferdinand and Isabella Andalucía has celebrated not only the victory of Christian Castilian Spain after hundreds of years of siege but also their proud Moorish heritage. Whilst the latter may be more obvious in towns such as Cordoba and Granada with its world famous Alhambra, it all comes to a head in the small town of Benamahoma this weekend. It is here that every year, the townspeople act out in turn, the victory of the Moors over the Christians in the Arabic conquest, and the victory of Christianity in their reconquest. At first the town seems silent, but as it is all on a large hill, it takes us a while to walk up and find the crowds. Hoardes of mainly Christian onlookers line the streets, some of them, rather amusingly, dressed as Muslims – as it is the Moors that win today, it's cool to be a Moor.

Soon we begin to hear the sound of musket shots high up in the hills. The Arabs have begun their conquest of Spain. This must be streets away, but the sound is still surprisingly loud, and we can tell as the sound grows steadily louder and a grapeshot fog hangs in the air that the retreating Christians are approaching. The sound is deafening, but it soon stops, and we see the two groups of Moors and Christians stop in the middle of the street facing each other. Each has a leader, who strolls brashly in front of his army shouting taunts to the other to the sound of cheers and jeers from his followers. Supposedly this is a form of negotiation, but this unsurprisingly gets nowhere, and suddenly a huge fight ensued – one Moor to one Christian – perhaps not an accurate re-enactment of the age-long war which embroiled medieval Spain, but certainly an entertaining one as the two faiths tussle and roll about in the street. One Christian is thrown onto a police car by a Moor, much to the glee of the crowd.

Finally the battle is over, and though the result isn't clear, it is evident that the moors have won. The Christians are resurrected, and are soon firing their muskets joyfully, ready to re-enact the battle some streets on. It is on this street however, that we bump into our neighbour, El Presidente of our housing block in Sanlucar – Ahmed, himself a proud Moor. Of course he is ecstatic that the Moors have won the day for the umpteenth time running and is delighted to see us. He hurries us into a bar and insists on buying us a beer – and before long he is talking about our staying in the Pueblos Blancos in order to see the culmination of the reconquest. He even swears that he will introduce me to any number of Benamahoman girls I want, insisting that I get a Spanish girlfriend – a hollow promise, maybe, but in good faith – and I happily take up the offer, impressed at what I have seen so far. Three houses is enough for us, but the rich acupuncturist that is Ahmed owns five – and demands that we stay in one of them in nearby El Bosque. For now, however, we are invited to spend the afternoon at his good friend, Guillermo's house (one of his eleven), complete with acres of olive trees, a pond, and a swimming pool. We can't turn this down, though he already had me on the mention of chicas benamahomanas…

Unfortunately, what this does mean is that I will have to turn down my friend Santi's invitation to a party at the castle in Sanlúcar, and I text him to let him know. I feel I've let Santi down a bit – but at the same time I can do the Castle next weekend, I'd have to wait another year for the town dance at Benamahoma. We spend a good five or so hours in and out of the pool, enjoying a delicious barbecue, complete with prawns from Sanlúcar, and around half past five we head up the hill again to witness the first bull-running on the streets of Benamahoma. Interestingly the Spanish do not join us for this, it is new for me and my brother Ben (though I have seen a bullfight before), but something tells me our hosts do not approve of the animal cruelty – this comes days after Barcelona voted against bullfighting. It will be a long time before these kinds of measures take place in proud cultural Andalucía, but it is strange that it is us, the English, that should rush to the streets to watch a defenceless animal being taunted, some would say inhumanely. It would be hypocritical to say I disapprove of it; I take part as I want to immerse myself in the culture – the same can be said for eating foie-gras in France, or any number of things I may have seen in China. If anything, what annoys me more is the animal way the cocksure bull-runners love to show off to the senoritas (but this is for more obvious cynical reasons), it is entertaining viewing, even if we do only have a small spy hole between a gap in the trees by the road.

We wander around the town for a while, and do get a good view of the bulls as they charge up and down the narrow streets of Benamahoma. Day turns to a clammy dusk in the white town as we wander the streets packed with onlookers. We head back for once last dip and to get ourselves ready for tea and the dance. It turns out it is me, by far, who is most up for the fiesta tonight – after a whole day of Moors and Christians and swimming my parents and brother Ben are understandably tired. I have venison for tea and then we plan to meet El Presidente in town when the fiesta begins. When we reach the covered area which will house the party it turns out to be a little bit of a disappointment, at best there are only old couples dancing. I try to act cool and stand by a tree, but my family soon come and cramp my style. A sevillana band take to the stage and start to play – and I am very impressed, the male and female leads are exceptional at dancing and singing at the same time, and the brass accompaniment is fantastic and puts me in a party mood. However, after about half an hour of trying to catch the cantanta's eye, my family decide it is time to head back to the house, el Presidente not having even finished his tea (and thus not yet ready to live up to his promise), and when a power cut hits the party, I reluctantly agree. It takes about half an hour to say goodbye to Ahmed and his friends, who plead us to stay for 'just one more dance', so I grab another few minutes of dancing, and days later the President will brag, rather dubiously, that there were Benamahoma girls there 'begging' to talk to me. You have to take everything the acupuncturist says with more than just a pinch of salt, more a heaped teaspoonful – but is clear he wanted us to have the greatest time in Bena, and this we did.

Sunday comes quietly in the bigger town of El Bosque – though no doubt just up the valley in Benamahoma the Moors and Christians party is just starting again. We decide we can guess the outcome of today's conflict and head home, where we will need a good couple of days to recover from the madness of Bena, and steel ourselves for another big trip some days down the line – when we will be heading off to Portugal. But for now, the tides of Tarifa and the people of the Pueblos Blancos have given my imagination more than enough to think about…