The sun had sunk behind the mountains that surrounded the harbour of Cudillero, a small fishing town in Asturias. My hair was still wet from the sea. Two old men were sitting next to us, chatting loudly in Spanish while my husband, father, and I ate bonito pate.
Despite being a shy child, my grandfather was keen to prove his masculinity as a shepherd
‘It’s full of English and Germans with their caravans,’ said the man with a baby-blue jumper slung over his shoulders. ‘Yes,’ replied the other, ‘always the same.’ My father turned to the men smiling and said in Spanish, ‘I live in Spain, in Extremadura, and my grandmother was Asturian.’ That’s why we were there. My father has lived in Spain for 14 years and often talked about visiting my great-grandmother’s village. Now we were on a road trip to our ancestral home. ‘And we don’t have a caravan,’ I added.
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in