My Summer Holiday by Alison Goldie aged 65½

My wish was granted as I was apparently fully invisible.

Aperitif on Alison’s last night

I’ve just returned from 12 days in Spain. Hardly a radical statement for a British person but my trip was quite distinctive. The first five days I was teaching drama at a hotel in a village in the mountains of Andalucia. I used to do this sort of gig regularly but the pandemic and years of suffering with Long Covid brought it all to a grinding halt. This comeback after regaining my health was a tentative re-entry into the ‘retreat holiday’, helped by facilitating in tandem with an old friend, and by most of the participants being benevolent ex-students of mine (made up of retired, mainly British people seeking fun and company on a gently active course.)

After the work bit, the holiday bit involved me going to nearby Ronda as a solo traveller. I had decided to blow the shreds of my savings on the best hotel I could find in this pretty old town, which sits on a plateau rising high above lovely countryside in every direction, dripping with history and swimming in tapas bars. I like going on holiday alone; I’ve done it a few times. I’ve never been married, am childless and currently without a partner and I’m confident about navigating strange places, sitting in restaurants on my own and keeping myself amused without a sidekick. When young on these solo trips, there could be holiday romances or suggestions from friends about people they knew nearby with whom I could meet up and do local stuff, but that never happens now. I was expecting to rely on my own resources.

I walked into the lobby of my plush hotel with the manufactured air of someone who does this sort of thing all the time, deliberately keeping my sunglasses on until the last moment and speaking in my best received pronunciation (it would have been more impressive to use fluent Spanish but the evening classes I did 25 years ago are barely retrievable these days). My room was understatedly elegant with some very exciting features. Fully functioning air conditioning! A balcony! Free daily mineral water! A bidet! Traditional Spanish welcome macaroons! I’m like a kid with this stuff and can’t believe my luck. My childhood holidays were mainly spent on rainswept Scottish beaches whilst staying with my nan. As an adult, I’ve holidayed in some very basic B&B’s, pensions and sheds on beaches and though through work I’ve had a night here or there in a posh establishment, this, The Parador in Ronda, was the finest hotel I’d ever paid for with my own money.

I’d spotted posters for a guitar festival held in the old library attached to the bullring (Ronda is famous for its bullfighting tradition, though the only spectator now is the ghost of Ernest Hemingway who loved it there) and the hotel receptionist told me how to find the ticket seller, so on my first night, I entered a lovely 18th century high-ceilinged room and quickly took advantage of my first perk of being solo: nabbing a stray empty seat on the front row amongst the couples. I was mesmerised by the guitarists, particularly the headliner, Paco Seco, who was a wizard of a player, both hands doing extraordinarily fast and fluent moves with lots of flamenco-style hard taps on the wooden stage from his shiny black shoes. Both man and music were sexy and exhilarating. I whooped at the end as I always do at a good performance, for a split-second wondering if an older lone lady whooping could be considered odd, then doing it anyway. That first night I hadn’t learnt any ropes or googled decent restaurants so had an inferior meal at a pavement café, but the bottle of icy cerveza helped lift it all and the waiter didn’t seem to pin me as a weirdo, though I could see no one else anywhere, of any gender or age, eating alone. And this remained the case…

Parador Hotel atop the gorge

I spent the next five days exploring every museum, art gallery, Moorish building, Catholic church, formal garden, rocky path, cobbled street and viewing platform I could find. I have the hungry instincts of a collector and if I do a town, I do it properly, so virtually no cultural or architectural phenomena of note in Ronda escaped my beady attention. I don’t go to see things just to check them off my list (I’m not like an old geezer collecting train numbers - though if that’s what satisfies you chaps, knock yourself out). I immerse myself like this because it makes me happy. I like to learn, I like to look at beauty, to understand how people used to live and how they live now, and it feels like food for my very soul. As I roamed the streets or rested with a café con leche, I was sure I was imbibing a lot more of this spiritual nourishment by being unaccompanied and not having to go at another’s pace or compromise my own whims.

In many hours of tourist rambling, I only had two interactions with my fellows. At the Arab Baths, I eavesdropped on an American man who was explaining some history to his wife and stood by to listen. The guy was bullishly masculine and could have been a MAGA-type. Extremely polite, he looked very put out when I corrected him on a point about the Baths’ plumbing that I’d learnt in the information video. He complimented me on my bright orange palazzo pants in a way that implied he really hated them. His wife was very relieved that the Catholics had expelled all the Muslim Moors in 1492 even though we were standing within a superb example of their engineering and aesthetic brilliance. We were not destined to be friends. Later, I was heartily congratulated by a British woman for walking up a steep hill at a brisk pace. I discovered she and her husband had come up on a coach from the Costa Del Sol for the day, and I would have nattered further as I was feeling qualified to act as a tour guide by this point, but an ambulance appeared in the urgent way of such things, and in accommodating it in the narrow street, we were separated.

After a few hours of exploring, I’d retire to the hotel and avail myself of the pool, a lounger and my novel. Ah bliss! There were no children there at this point of the season, just well-heeled older folk and occasional stylish young couples (I was keen on the younger Japanese guests because their clothes were always the chicest). I’d bought a new swimsuit from T.K. Max at home – black, with substantial coverage and no painfully tight straps or gimmicky cut-outs. It was the dullest swimsuit of my life, and I felt a bit sad it had come to this, but I was glad not to draw attention to myself as the old bod is looking weighty and crepey these days and I wanted as little evaluation from stranger’s eyes as possible. My wish was granted as I was apparently fully invisible. In six days of visiting the garden and the pool, no one so much as glanced at me - apart from the pool-boy I bumped into having a sneaky cigarette as I went to take a photo from an obscure corner; his bashful grin felt absurdly precious.

The most sumptuous meal of the day was breakfast in the hotel’s creamily elegant restaurant. Tottering piles of every fruit, cheese, cured meat, pastry and curious tiny pudding greeted me, and though I was scarcely ever excessively hungry, I felt obliged to lay waste to my share of it, also surreptitiously tucking a couple of filled rolls into my bag for later. The headmistressy maître d’ greeted me in Spanish each day, the only words of which I could understand being ‘una persona?’ which sometimes sounded accusing, sometimes pitying. I braved it out as if being the only single person in the huge room was especially noble. Sometimes, I snuck observations at weathered couples who had long since run out of conversation and felt superior as I necked a gigantic pot of oil-black coffee and another of foaming hot milk all to myself.

On day five, a housemaid knocked on my door and gave me two complimentary jars of candied fruit. I don’t know why that happened, but it felt encouraging.

Catholic and Moorish art plus Alison!

Day six was my last full day. I had very little left to see. I did a slow amble around streets that were already well trodden by my sensible walking shoes (the first time I went abroad on my own was a week in Paris when I was 22 and I wore a pair of jelly sandals for the entirety - plus one pair of trousers, and two different T-shirts). I marvelled at the tourists sitting on stools outside bars at midday, giant jugs of sangria on the table between them. What’s the point of that? I mused. It’ll give them an afternoon headache, and they’re not doing anything they couldn’t do at home. Maybe just being in Spain and quaffing some orange slices in red wine, with the sun beating down, makes them feel like they’re in a holiday commercial and that’s what they want. Fair enough. I didn’t think me squinting at a seventeenth century lintel would ever feature in a brochure. That night I ate at the swankiest restaurant I could find, overlooking the incredible El Tajo de Ronda, a massive gorge with a stunning bridge that is the very centrepiece of the town. I was more exposed as an eccentric spinster here than ever before, but the waiter was impeccably polite, and I listened in on various exchanges about property from the groomed British bourgeoisie around me.

My final luxury was a cab to the airport, a 90-minute journey. My driver was a Spanish woman who had lived in London. I had the best and longest conversation of my trip with her, and when we said goodbye, she gave me a hug.

It was a great holiday. I may not have met many strangers, but I forged a relationship with the town and that felt strong and special. I enjoyed my solitude, I even enjoyed being unnoticed most of the time, but by the sixth day, I did start to want to share the odd experience or observation. Next time, if I can’t persuade a friend to do the holiday I fancy, I’ll go on one of those group things (not one for the very geriatric – a mix of ages would be good, and as you know, I can still walk fast up a steep hill). If it all gets a bit claustrophobic, I’ll scarper off to town on my own, stride through the streets and let the atmosphere feed me. More adventures please…!

Socorro Square

All photos by Alison Goldie.

Do check out Alison’s own Substack. alisongoldie@substack.com