Heading Home

          Those of you who were looking forward to the next episode of Finca Follies will be disappointed to learn that they have come to an untimely end. The three of us left Fran’s finca last Monday. Not because of a falling out, but because the increasingly rapid spread of omicron threatened to lock down international travel and prevent us returning to England when we had planned. We decided to leave while it was still possible. Besides, the donkey shed project had already been put on hold until spring.

          Of course, I am also disappointed. I’m no horny-handed son of the soil and I have no identifiable soft spot for donkeys, but my urge to fix things is suited to the challenges of remote, off-grid living. I was actually pleased when the water pump packed up and left us dry for a day. Helping to sort it out exercised my DIY tendency and earned me community points. Also, the precarity of infrastructure may be inconvenient, but it does have the effect of ousting complacency and nurturing the pioneering spirit.

          And there is regret at not having time to explore the region, although we did get a taste of it when we visited Reus, a small town, but cosmopolitan in the eyes of us finca-folk. There I found what I craved – tapas outside, in the main square, where I could savour exotic tastes and traditions. I had a glass of Albarino and feasted on jamón Iberico, huevos y patatas fritas (a fancy version of ham, egg and chips) and took a moment to contemplate the ideology of veganism to which I had been exposed of late.

          Our departure had to be hasty, lest we run into Christmas closures, but trans-European train journeys are not easy these days. We could make it home in two days, as long as we could present covid-negative test results at the Eurostar terminal in Paris. Overnighting in Barcelona, we got tested, then found a tapas bar even better than the one in Reus. The next morning, we took the train to Paris. But what should have been a relaxing ride through the flamingo-strewn Camargue and beyond, turned toxic with anxiety when it transpired that our test results were not forthcoming. Over the phone, the clinic denied having any record of our appointments, so it was with grim determination that we pressed on to the Gare du Nord, hopeful that the gatekeepers would take pity. They did not.

          We were directed to a dodgy-looking testing facility outside the station entrance. It was a small marquee with temporary signage and, inside, a broken chair and a folding table. It was staffed by one man and he was wearing a token white tunic over the many layers of winter clothing protecting him from the freezing wind. He bade us download a form, fill it in, take the test and pay him 25 euros, whereupon he undertook to email the results in 15 minutes. We were sceptical but desperate, so we paid up. Thankfully, he was true to his word and the results came through, to our phones, as negative.

          Is it even possible to travel these days without a smartphone? They contain all of the required documentation, except passports (?), which sounds convenient but is not without drawbacks, such as attempting to retrieve various emails and pdf files while clutching your passport, having donned your specs, which keep misting up because of your face-mask, which must be worn at all times, except for when the passport controller reminds you, brusquely, to remove it and all the while managing your luggage and trying to stay in sight of your partner, whose ticket you have on your phone and who is suffering severe travel-related anxiety and may physically assault an official at any moment.

          It is not surprising that when at last we took our seats on Eurostar, we celebrated with Champagne. Not our departure, but our arrival.