Better late than cancelled

Up at seven thirty, out of the house by eight twenty to walk to the coach station for nine o'clock coach to Bristol Airport. Slower than usual, due to heavy backpack and dragging wheeled cabin bag. The bus was on time, and I was in the departures area within fifteen minutes of arrival. 

Getting through security despite the volume of early travellers was efficient and swift. The flight was 45 minutes late arriving, even later departing, as the disruption to airport ground traffic from a late arrival led to extra waiting time for the bus transferring us to the aircraft. It was gone two when we were airborne. The pilot told us that the headwind of 120 mph which shaved 20 minutes off the flight arrival would add even more flying time to its return journey - nearly three hours in the air. I read my Spanish novel for much of the flight, and dozed a bit, so the time slipped by hardly noticeable. The same weather front disrupted air traffic in some parts of Europe and flights were being cancelled. Nothing to complain about here!

I was in the second row of seats, and among the first to disembark and get to passport control, a long walk through empty corridors and spaces, it seemed. I passed through without a hitch, no questions asked, and was quickly spotted by churchwarden John on my way out into the arrivals area. We reached Nerja about seven thirty and went straight to a Chinese restaurant for a meal - spicy duck for me. It was getting dark by the time we arrived at church house in a seven house terraced row half way up Paseo Tamango Hill about a kilometre from the sea in a steep verdant valley whose slopes are covered with avocado and aubergine bushes, I think, though I can't be sure as they're not yet showing.

The house is puzzling at first. As you enter from the street you go straight upstairs to the bedrooms and downstairs to the lounge and kitchen with a balcony, then downstairs again to another suite of rooms including an office and a shower, and a terrace overlooking the small swimming pool each house in the terrace possesses. It'll take some getting used to. 

The fridge has been stocked with veggies and the means to make a pasta sauce for tomorrow. There was a freshly baked loaf and amazingly, a bottle of unfiltered oil pressed from olives grown on John's finca, which is an hour's drive away to the north east in the mountains of Granada Province. And the oil, poured on to fresh bread to be consumed had a flavour like nothing you could but in a run of the mill supermarket. What a wonderful welcome. 

Despite a lot of walking today I made 90 percent of my daily target, before turning in, too tired to care about the rest.