It’s Thursday morning, Espana are through to the World Cup final and the Goat is in the bathroom washing half a field of orange grove mud from his filthy garments. We lost each other during last night’s celebrations and both ended up walking back to the Hostal alone. The next thing I remember after leaving the Sevilla bar is being invited into the back of a Guardia Civil car by two cops who wanted to know what I was doing wandering the streets at whatever time of night it was. I told them I was looking for the Goat and tried to describe him to them which resulted in looks of confusion and horror. I managed to get Martin on his mobile and he gave me some directions that baffled the cops and frankly meant nothing to me either. So eventually the cops kicked me out and I came back the way we had come in and got back around two. The doors were locked by then and I had to get back in via the fire escape. Due to his poor navigational skills the Goat, when he finally decided it was time to go home, chose a complicated route that involved wading through a mud bath he found in an orange grove which he claims nearly took his life. To be fair, when I next saw him he was caked in mud up to the cannon on his Arsenal shirt! He arrived back at the hostal just after 4am. By this time the proprietor had opened up the bar to serve the early morning truckers their coffee and the Goat had to sneek in quickly to avoid the embarrassment of the truckers thinking was a midnight bog-snorkeller. When we staggered downstairs a few hours later there was a trail of mud leading from the front door and up the stairs to our room. Hopefully the 5 euro tip I left will help to pay for the additional cleaning materials required.
Finally we have wheeled into Sevilla and we are cleaning up and washing out the cycling kit for the last time. Unfortunately all are other clothes are covered in mud. The receptionist in the hotel is English and I’m sure I heard her muttering to her colleague, “Que pasa? I thought they’d gone upstairs to get cleaned up, but they’ve come down looking worse than before!”
Sevilla is a great city full of beautiful buildings and interesting people. Strange characters are not the provence of small town Spain - we had just sat down for our first beer in a Sevilla café to ask directions to the hotel (this is one of the Goat’s innovations to ensure he starts drinking as soon as possible) when we were joined on the next table by the most ridiculous man in the world. If you can imagine the smallest of the Chuckle Brothers wearing a bright blue tie-dyed T shirt, white shorts and huge blue shoes then you’d be close to the mark. It may just be that the sun has finally got to us, and I’m sure he was a very nice man, but we were both crying in our beer every time he spoke. Even a fat Spaniard pushing a shopping trolley full of dog food across the cobbled street paused momentarily to take in the strange sight. Thankfully he didn’t stay long and we were left to hone our observational skills over another beer.
