This year, I had a hybrid holiday. I had booked to go to Catalonia, to Saint Antoni de Calonge, a gorgeous little town on the rocky coastline of northern Spain. Four of us had booked a villa, set back from the seaside promenade, which was perfect for people watching – anyone who knows Spain knows about el paseo – where people of all generations put on something smart and embark on a leisurely stroll, through streets, along the sea front, or across squares as a prelude to dinner.
Everything was perfect, from the morning swim in the almost still sea, weaving around groups of older women enjoying animated gossip sessions, to the coffee and tiny custard doughnuts served by smiling waiters. The relaxed warmth and friendliness of the (mainly Spanish) tourists and locals were infectious. Even I chilled out.
But back to those dinners! In the week we were in this beautiful place, we ate some of the best food I have ever had. Baked artichokes with cheese and Iberica ham; razor clams; coca bread spread with sweet tomatoes, garlic and olive oil. And exceptional grilled baby clams, mussels, and roasted garlic. The standout dish for all of us was a carpaccio of red prawns, seasoned with Picada, a mix of saffron, salt, almonds, parsley, and yes, lots of garlic. Bottles of Macabeu, Parellada and Garnatxa Blanca cost a quarter of their counterparts in France.
After dinner, we would stop in at one of the many heladerías for a tub of smooth pistachio ice cream, and more people watching – these parlours are usually packed with families, couples, and individuals chewing the fat and crunching the delicious barquillos handed out gratis.
After an idyllic week, I headed off on the train with my long-suffering partner to visit first relatives, then friends, all of whom, for some godforsaken reason, choose to live in the French countryside. Of course, the French leg of our journey to Sète was a bus replacement service, adding a miserable four hours on to the journey. On arrival, we were given the wrong directions by a surly stationmaster and glared at by passers-by who appeared to find our very presence offensive. Or maybe their faces are fixed that way. Before our taxi arrived, I had seen two separate men urinate against a wall and missed standing in dog excrement (I assume it previously belonged to a canine) by a millimetre. When we arrived at our hotel, which cost a fortune as French hotels in cities always do, my heart sank at how grotty even the reception area was. Our room was tiny, stuffy, and ugly.
France demands appreciation; Spain just wants you to enjoy it
Dinner was OK, in that we had reasonable wine, oysters, and a salad, served by a waiter who made us feel like we should be grateful to have a table, and when the bill came it was impossible not to compare and contrast with prices in Catalonia.
Why is Spain as a holiday destination for Brits seen as low rent compared to France? Popularity and accessibility breed contempt. All-inclusive resorts in the Costa del Sol and Ibiza have a bad reputation, mainly because such destinations have been accessible to the British working class from the 1960s. The image of these tourists is of lager louts demanding a full English and rejecting Spanish food. Effectively, it’s class prejudice. But having spent a fair bit of time there, and knowing some expats, I reckon most Brits go to Spain because they love Spain, not just because it’s relatively cheap and will serve them egg and chips. France, and therefore its visitors, is seen as cultured, with its vineyards, chateaux and antique markets, and art.
I’m coming out and saying it boldly: I dislike France, as much as I love Spain – the ridiculous bureaucracy, the constant rail strikes and airport disruptions, the unfriendliness, and the unnecessary complications of everything from ticket machines to rules and official procedures. The food and wine can be great, but, like the officialdom, they’re often overly complicated.
In Spain, life happens outside, in its plazas, promenades, and pavement cafes. Food is treated as sociable rather than formal, just like its restaurant and café opening hours. Try ordering a late lunch or an early dinner in France and you will very probably find all the restaurants closed outside limited hours.
France may have superior cheese but give me Spain any day. I like its noise, its late-night culture, its anchovies, and delicious manzanilla olives. There’s something about upper class British people visiting (never a ‘holiday’) feel that they have to ‘do’ something, such as look at old ruins, or visit a gallery. Being in Spain made me, a bit of a workaholic, feel that doing absolutely nothing for hours on end in 32C heat while eating anchovies it’s a perfectly respectable pursuit. France demands appreciation; Spain just wants you to enjoy it. Salud!
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