Some days, the sun is shining, the birds are singing and everything is right with the world. And then other days you should probably just head back to bed and stay there until the planets are aligned, the moon is full, or the universe decides to pick on someone else. 

I should have known something was afoot when, on the last day in San Sebastián, the lads took the WonderDog for a walk on the beach and she nearly drowned. There’s some debate as to how it happened, but the combination of our dog being a nutter for the ocean, unusually large waves and glancing away for a moment, and Shadow was almost on her way out to sea. Mr T was to be seen running towards the surf stripping coat, hat and gloves off as he went just as Shadow managed to catch a wave back to shore. He’s my hero that guy. I have to imagine it looked a lot like this only chillier and perhaps with slightly less of a tan...

Disaster averted, we headed off to La Rioja, a wine region that isn’t as popular on the tourist route as say Bordeaux or Tuscany but produces a phenomenal amount of wine. In fact, Spain has the most vineyard acreage in the world. La Rioja promised to be a little off the beaten path by all reports so we were excited to head off into sunshine. 

Here’s the thing about travelling though. You never know where your unexpected delights and unforeseen disasters are going to come from. Sometimes they come all at once like dominoes. Sometimes you get the highs and lows at the same time, a little like a roller coaster. So without further ado, welcome to the fun fair of our stay in Haro.

It didn’t help that we arrived bang on siesta time, so everything was deserted. Then the sat nav bought us in through what I assume is the dodgy end of town where people stopped in the street to stare at us, as we quietly locked the doors with one hand whilst pretending to point to things with the other. 

We’d read all about the charming town of Haro, with it’s beautiful square where you can sit and sip coffee, an ancient town with bronze and stone statues on every corner. Sadly, it loses some of it’s appeal when the entire town is being ripped up. Streets were closed, the square (and I mean the entire thing) was a mass of construction and there’s heavy machinery everywhere. Right then. Not ideal but we'll make the most of it. 

The other "bonus" of the town being under construction is that roads are closed at seemingly random intervals, so we spent many a fun filled hour screaming at the sat nav when she told us to “turn left” and “turn around when possible” into blocked off streets. I can safely say we’ve seen the Haro one way system from every angle. 

We had some trouble finding an Airbnb here (they probably knew no one would want to come during the great renovation of 2018 so everyone left town) so instead we booked what they call an “Apartamentos Turisticos.” We got to the apartment at exactly 2pm, the stated check in time, only to find no one home. I called the number and had a delightful five minute chat with the lady on the other end about what time it currently was. It was 2pm. She said it was 1pm. I checked my watch and politely suggested it was indeed 2pm. She said it was 1pm. This went on until I felt like I was going insane. 

Me: <somewhat befuddled> "So then what time will you be here?"
Her: "At 2pm."
Me: "Ok. So remind me when that is again, because I’m looking at my watch and it says 2pm."
Her: "Yes I’ll be there at 2pm."
Me: "Yep, got that bit. But when is it 2pm?"
Her: "See you at 2pm."

After I’d hung up, checked the clock in the car, gone into a store to ask what time it was, and googled to see if there was some weird time change rule in Rioja, she texted me to say her watch was broken, but she still couldn’t come any sooner and would be there at 3pm. Right then. 

So with an hour to kill, I did what any self respecting English person would do when they arrive in a new place. I went in search of milk, a packet of biscuits and other provisions in the hope of making a cup of tea when we actually got into the flat. If I thought the fresh milk situation was bad in France, it’s dire in Spain. They adore shelf stable milk. Love the stuff. Two corner stores and a major supermarket later, I realized there was no fresh milk to be had. Alright then, let’s go for a coffee while we wait. Every single cafe has an oh-so-friendly “NO PERROS” sign on the door. I think I actually heard the WonderDog huff with indignation. Well I guess we’ll just sit in the car then because, oh I forgot to mention, it was -1 degree centigrade as we were hauling around town in search of sustenance. 

As we sat in the car trying, and failing, to see a funny side, Mr T got the news that somehow that massive box of wine that we went to all the trouble to ship back in La Rochelle had “suffered an incident.” La Poste won’t tell us what said incident was. They won’t say if bottles broke, and if they did how many, but short of dropping if off the side of a cliff, I fail to see how all 14 bottles of wine could break. None the less they refuse to deliver a single bottle and they told us we have to file a claim. Ok. And you can only file a claim in French, which we don’t speak. Right then. 

So the magic hour arrived (whichever hour that was, I’d given up trying to figure out the time) and we got into the apartment which was a whole new level of wonder. I won’t bore you with all the details except for these fun facts. Both of the fluorescent kitchen lights flickered constantly leading to something of a dizzying strobe light effect. The boiler in the kitchen would hum at just the right resonance that I expect the CIA could use it for sound torture to break the spirit of prisoners. And when you have the oven and washer going, and then put the kettle on (why is it always the kettle?!) the whole house plunges into darkness because the electrics blow.

In amongst all of this, we had to go to a wine tasting at 5pm that Mr T had booked, which was an hour drive away. You can imagine how much I felt like doing that. But Mr T, in his ever persuasive manner, made me get my ass in the car. I’m so glad we did as it was one of the best wine tastings we’ve done so far. We were honoured to meet Juan Carlos Sancha (and his regal dog Kinga) at his house, where he told us how he learned to make wine with his father and grandfather. At first they just made wine for family and friends, but then Juan Carlos started to study wine and didn’t stop until he became the Professor of Enology at the University of La Rioja. Not content with simply making the same wine as everyone else in La Rioja, he discovers, develops and rescues different local grape varieties from extinction. We were luckily enough to see some of the oldest vines in his vineyards, planted by his Grandfather in 1917. He took us up the side of a mountain in his four wheel drive, slip sliding through the mud. It was majestic. And then there's the wines, each one completely organic, every single one we tried was delicious. You don't need to take our word for it, the Master of Wine Tim Atkin just voted Juan Carlos' wines some of the best in La Rioja.

Invigorated by our wine tasting, we headed back to Haro, went around the one way system a few times yelling at the sat nav, and went to bed after a dinner of green beans and salad cooked in the black site torture chamber that is the kitchen. At least we had Juan Carlos’ wine for company and that made it all ok. 

The next day we went for a hike and it was bitterly cold with a fierce wind that blew straight through every layer. For some inexplicable reason, when I get cold, I get mad as hell. I’m not really an angry sort, but get me chilled to the bone and I’ll go off like a frog in a sock.  Having spent a blustery winter day at Port Arthur in Tasmania with my mother a few years back, I know exactly where I get it from. That woman will rip your throat right out if she gets proper chilly. But here we are, in a beautiful wine region, on a trip of a lifetime, and I don’t mind telling you friends, I was PISSED. Mr T is the perfect man for the job, if indeed the job is navigating a savage, fire breathing, one-wrong-move-and-someone-loses-an-eye wife of his. After Mr T expertly dancing with the tiger, we were off up the hill and I'm big enough to say right here in writing - Mr T was right, I was wrong and it was a truly spectacular hike that I was thrilled to have done (you only get one of those a year Mr T, enjoy it). Very glad I went and very glad no one was maimed in the process.

Invigorated once more, we headed back to Haro, promising ourselves to keep happy and enjoy some home cooked food and some more of Juan Carlos’ wine. Pasta, we decided, would be nice and easy. We just needed hard cheese and anchovies. Shouldn’t be too hard right? Mr T came back 20 minutes later with anchovies that when opened we discovered went out in February 2017 and a packet of parmesan that when opened was like the stuff they give you in the pizza joint. Still we were upbeat, cooking in the dark so as not to develop epilepsy, we could do without cheese and anchovies and keep it simple. The mood was good. 

And then discovered the parking ticket. The parking rules here are odd, on Monday there’s no charge, from Tuesday- Friday you have to pay between 10am-2pm, and again from 5pm-10pm. The weekends are something different altogether. We thought the charges started at 6pm not 5pm, so we'd set the alarm for 5.55pm to go and feed the meter. Turns out 5:15pm we had gotten a ticket, what are the odds? It was at that moment Mr T reached for the iPad and, using a heart stopping amount of points, booked us into the Hotel Marques de Riscal, a Frank Gehry designed chateau about 25 minutes away. To quote the great Kenny Rogers, sometimes you need to know when to walk away. And when to run. So we ran right to the nearest five star hotel. 

It wasn’t all doom and gloom, Haro did have it’s lighter moments. On the first day, we were unloading the car when an elderly lady stopped us in the street and made a bee-line for Shadow. I stammered an apology because I couldn’t understand what she was saying, and told her I was English. She held my arm and told me a story with such passion that I was enthralled even though I couldn’t understand a single word. Mr T could understand just enough to figure out she was telling us that 40 years ago she had an English boyfriend. By the look on her face, I’d say he was the one who got away. She was so friendly and such a delight to talk to that when she patted my arm and went off down the street, I wished I’d invited her in for a cup of tea. And then I remembered that if I’d turned on the kettle in the flat, we’d all be plunged into darkness and with a sigh, I trudged upstairs.

So here we are, in the lap of luxury, enjoying every moment and living like Kings, Queens and Royal Corgis. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and everything in the world is right once more.