Fairytale fortresses, shrimp fritters and sherry, ancient landscapes and illicit romance … our readers rekindle the magic of Spain
It was a rainy morning in Santiago, Galicia, in late November 1975. I was in my third year at university, studying languages, and was spending the entire year in Spain, ostensibly to improve my language skills. As I walked towards town I became aware of a large number of people in the streets, many shouting. One man thrust a newspaper at me with a laugh of amazement: “No sabes?” (Don’t you know?). Franco was dead. After 36 years of dictatorship, the seemingly immortal Generalissimo was gone. The university closed. Riots began, the Guardia Civil practised baton charges outside my apartment. I just went travelling for nine months. I still have the newspaper.