So we’ve hit July, which marks the high summer season on the Spanish costas, and indeed all round the Mediterranean.
The beginning of the month sees the start of the school holidays in France, and so we get the French influx as people hop across the border. They are followed by ever growing numbers of Dutch and Belgians and Germans. Then, at the end of July, the Brits start to roll in. And once we get into August it’s the Spaniards, many of whom stick to tradition and have the whole month as vacation.
From now through to August 31 the beaches will be packed, the restaurants and bars mobbed, the roads chock full of cars with foreign plates driven by people who haven’t a clue where they’re going.
It’s both a boost and a bane.
I hate the fact that I can’t even get in the car park at the local supermarket, and that the check-out queues will stretch back to the ends of the aisles. That the idyllic and almost deserted beachside pathway we stroll along most days out of season will become so crowded that there’s now a 50-50 chance of getting run over by a cyclist or out of control roller-blader.
But I like the life the summer, and its tourists, bring to the place. Like so many coastal places, our little fishing town can be somewhat ghostly through the winter. But in summer it’s pulsing.
And of course we get to enjoy the blessed golden days and balmy nights that attract the tourists in the first place. It’s the price, I suppose, of paradise.
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