We didn't make it this year. Because of Covid 19. The first time we went there as we stepped off the plane it felt like we were being fanned by a gigantic hairdryer. The engines were doing that weren’t they? No, the air coming from the engines was actually cooler.
Mike's instructions had been good. After the ugly cement factory the scenery becomes better. Little town after little town huddled by the sea.
"Don't drive straight into the town," Mike said. "Carry on along the coast road."
All was well until we came to the brow of a hill and could see not further. I got out of the car. Yes the road carried on, swinging sharply to the left.
We loved the place.
Year after year market traders handed us a fistful of prawns, an extra slice of steak or a juicy plum "para ella", our fair-skinned daughter.
We still visit the same supermarket that always has exactly what we need.
"You just have to make sure you think of it twenty-four hours in advance," says my husband. A shoe horn, a casserole dish, just right for two, and flip-flops without a toe stem have turned up that way.
This is the place that gave me my writing mojo. The stories came when we visited some magical caves nearby, when it rained in August even though it never rains in August, and when people gathered around the pool with their colourful tales.
There was an ad on Twitter today. "Come back," it said. "We're waiting for you."
Now I just want to feel the soft warm sand beneath my feet, the hot sun on my back and the salty sea breeze on my cheeks. And find another story.
About the author
Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.
She edits CafeLit.
She writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation
She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writinghttp://www.gilljameswriter.com