Sun, sea, sand and sleep

Another early morning and, full of a cold that had infected our hosts too, we headed off (too early it turns out) for the airport. Normally Mr B chooses the time for the taxi to arrive and I get to berate him as we race through the airport hoping our flight won't be closed... This time I chose and he smugly didn't berate me for the hour or so we all sat bored and tired in the terminal, longing for nothing more than the comfort of another half an hour in bed...

Katherine mostly held it together airsickness-wise and Gerona proved to be as warm as we had hoped. We headed straight for our favourite bit of the coast - St Marti d'Empuries - and our favourite restaurant on the square where Mr B had been fantasising about the chicken wing tapas so much that he had to order two plates. It was at the restaurant that we realised that there had been a mix-up at the airport and we had in fact brought the wrong seven year old boy with us. The one we had picked up decided to taste an olive, and then decided to eat another four he liked them so much. Later he ate calamari, claiming he'd had it "loads of times". Hmmm. Somewhere a family is mistifyingly ordering yet another plate of mashed potato in a restaurant for their cuckoo son and wondering what is this 'Oatibix' of which he speaks....

To allow the delicious rose, tasty Sangria and unexpected peach digestif to wear off, we headed to the beach. As you can see, it was blowing a hooley, so we scurried against the wind into the lee of an ancient Greek harbour wall and sheltered there for a snooze (Mr B), read of a fine book (me - thanks Lesley) and some wave jumping (kids).

On then to the bird park for the usual wander about amongst the storks, harriers and ducks and finally the long drive home. We had been intending to camp down here for a few days, but our increasing sniffles, the cold north wind and some forecast rain sent us fleeing home to our duvets. Missing the exit to the border shopping town of La Jonquera proved an error not just in that we missed out on buying fabulous cheap tat, but also in that it put us at the back of a very long queue up the motorway that leads to the french border, instead of being able to nip onto the old road instead. By the top of the 10km hill the car was overheating, and with the aircon turned off so were we. Conor was sensibly sleeping off his culinary adventures (and a huge ice cream), and remained that way even despite being carried out of the car through the rain and changed into his pjs for bed. I wish I could sleep that soundly!

So, despite the warmth of the welcome in London (and of the central heating) it is nonetheless good to be home. And to have, I think, a place after all our wanderings that really feels like home.