by Ric Erickson

On Holidays:- Wednesday, 28. August 1996:- The first place I ever stayed in Spain was in an amiable Moroccan-style pension named Apartamientos Briales on an unpaved road in Andalusia. The room was a ground-floor cell with no glass in the window - but with a lemon tree outside and an inoffensive spider lived in the shower stall, which was fed from a barrel on the roof over my head.

I have been going to Spain in many ways, from package tours to whole-country round-trips in little cars and I have always found you don't get a lot extra for the money you put out for three stars instead of, say, two 'keys.'

There is one place I want to go and stay in, on the coast road east of Malaga. The new coast road goes around it, but if you are a bit sleepy and are driving from habit you stay on the original road and it goes through this place that I call Ratlands because I do not know its real name and that it what it looks like - Ratlands.

The old road was never good or wide, but now it is the main and only road in 'Ratlands' as the whole rest of the place is sand. There are no buildings more than two floors high, no sidewalks, no parking meters, not many trees - if any - and the village land just continues into the sea. I don't think there is much glass in windows or doors in doorways and I have never seen anybody with a suit of clothes on. I think maybe, you get there and take off your clothes and shoes and put on a swim suit and flip-flops and that's it for the month.

'Ratlands' is too far away now and I'm sure they don't take reservations, so we have a place that is closer and a bit more up-market, with sidewalks, although it lacks authentic bars with string-beads hung in the doorless entries.

You will never find this place so I can say it is in the middle of the Costa Brava, not far from a fair-sized town, not far from France; and you won't find it because it is in a dead-end - and since you know of my affection for the original 'Ratlands,' I don't expect you to look for it.

Basically, where we are, me, Mrs. E. and the kids, is on a beach. The sand is golden and fine-to-medium grained and it is fairly clean. The beach has a gentle shelving so it is no problem for three-year-olds and if they are not afraid of waves, so much the better.

The sea water is warm and clear and there are a lot of little fish in it even when there are a lot of people in it. The only annoyance are the nearby motorboats and it is the smell of that junk they use as fuel that is the matter - otherwise they have their lanes and mostly they keep to them.

These northern beaches are not so organized as those of Andalusia - no cane-shades or windbreaks - no mozo to carry out the mattresses and watch for thieves and sell ice creams to kids, and no fishermen to drink with - but even 'Ratlands' doesn't have all those luxuries either. No, here there is really a lot of open beach and that's about it.

There is a line of sad and bored cafés under the piscine-cum-pizzeria and a pin-ball and games parlor on the corner, and over on the other side of the rock there is a bus every half hour for the fifteen minute ride to town. The bus driver smokes and the radio is on all the time - 'Radio Costa Brava! - and he will stop to pick you up or let you off where you want. He is from Malaga but he has been driving this bus a long time.

Behind the beach there are a couple of take-out kiosks, a supermarket and a post and magazine shop and I think there is a hairdresser - what for? - and all the rest is villas, row-houses and small apartment buildings; just a little neighborhood of them and you need no car - unless you want to go to a big supermercado for heavy-duty stuff or get cigarettes or a paper not locally available. There is no disco, and there are no fancy restaurants.

Since it is a dead-end there is no through traffic and about the only thing dangerous is falling off rocks or swallowing a bit of water while snorkeling. Every once in a while a boat will drop anchor off the beach or an airplane will fly over with an advertising banner for an aguapark. Kids catch calamares with their hands and drop them on hot backs and this might be good for about 90 seconds of interest, unless it is your back.

Do you get the idea, of this place which is not 'Ratlands,' but which has a lot of aspects of it? If you don't have to watch your kids a lot, you get a good bit of peace here.

Some people - those who live in year-round climates where their skin does not look dead white - would call it 'bronzer idiote' but I call it having a peaceful time, being outside and warm with nearly no textiles on; with nowhere to go and in no hurry to get there.

When it gets too hot - and this is often - I jump into the sea and it causes my system no shock and I think it is being really close to where we all came from when I put my head under water and yell bubbles out of my mouth, saying 'Hallo Fishes' and do it until they come around to see what goofy thing is going on. I knew a guy once who swore by 'counting the waters' but that sounds either too intellectual or too much like work to me.

Do you remember what I wrote about that 'Club Vacances' in Metropole number 26 two weeks ago? Well, back during that summer, we could get - luckily - only two weeks there and the other two weeks were sort of a surprise! booking at this place, sight unseen, and we've been coming here since then. That 'Club' place is only about 10 kilometres away - ah no - it is a more like a million miles away.

At the end of the summer we will hit the road for Paris and drive through France again, but I don't have to think of that now. We are going to stay in sort of a 'ratlands' place on the way and I am thinking that we will have a local cassoulet and I can look forward to that - before I have to think about the insanity of the rentrée and the 47 weeks that will follow it.

If they are a good 47 weeks, maybe I can go to 'Ratlands' for the first time next year. According to some of the books Mrs. E. reads - if I think about it really hard, it will happen. ¡Hola Ratlandia!