Madrid was loud, fast, and exhausting. We’d spent weeks in the quiet of northern Spain, where the biggest decision of the day was where to park the van or whether we fancied another coffee. And then suddenly—bam—city life.
We weren’t ready.
But we couldn’t not stop. It’s Madrid. We gave ourselves one day.
Doing Madrid (Badly)
We hit Plaza Mayor first. Big, grand, touristy. You know the drill. Street performers, waiters trying to drag you into overpriced cafés, tourists paying ten euros for a pint because they didn’t check the menu first. We walked around a bit, nodded at the nice architecture, and left before we became those tourists.
Retiro Park was a breather—big trees, fancy statues, people pretending to know how to row boats. Mary wanted to sit and watch the world go by, which was code for “let’s have a nap on this bench”.
I convinced her to keep moving by reminding her there was food waiting for us.
Tapas, Vermouth, and the First Mistake
La Latina sucked us in. Tiny bars, locals eating like they had nowhere better to be, and that low hum of people just enjoying themselves. The kind of place you accidentally spend five hours in.
We went in for a quick bite.
We came out slightly drunk.
Patatas bravas, jamón, pimientos de padrón. The usual. Things we’d never order in Hull but feel compulsory in Spain.
Then the waiter brings over vermouth.
“Locals drink this before dinner,” he says.
“Yeah, go on then,” we say.
Which is how we ended up in a bodega at 8pm, still drinking.
Wine Tasting Gone Wrong
This bodega wasn’t one of those posh, polished places where people swirl their glasses and pretend they taste oak and berries. This was a bloke behind the counter pouring drinks and telling stories.
“You have to try this,” he said, handing us a glass before we’d even asked.
And that was that.
We worked through the lot. Tempranillos, Garnachas, stuff aged in barrels older than us.
Then we got chatting to Michael and Sarah—Brits who did the thing everyone talks about doing but never actually does.
“Found an old masia for sale near Barcelona,” Michael said. “Never left.”
They told us about lazy mornings, long lunches, and swapping office life for vineyard life. Sounded nice. Sounded too nice.
“Spain has a way of keeping you,” Michael grinned.
Mary gave me a look.
Because we’d been saying the exact same thing.
Morning After: Regret, Hangovers, and One Question
We woke up half-dead.
“Why didn’t we spit the wine out like normal people?” Mary groaned.
I tried to sit up, regretted it instantly.
Madrid had chewed us up and spat us out, but we were glad we stopped. One day was plenty. We needed quiet again.
Back to the road. Back to somewhere small, somewhere peaceful.
We had a lot to think about.