Extended version of Guardian article

  Back 60 years.

It is 1955. I am 20, living at home in South London, a dental nurse, with my wedding in view in a few months to David, 22, fresh out of university. We had met when I was sixteen.  He was shy and kind, dark and good looking.

 In the evening paper I see a tiny advert. “Two weeks in Spain, Portbou by train, full board -  £29”.      Package deal holidays have just started.    Inspiration… Why not go there for our honeymoon?  We could just about manage it.

 I ring Thomas Cook’s to check “Portbou?  There’s nothing there – just a  border railway station on the coast..”

 Newly married – I had hired a “model” wedding dress, complete with shoes and veil – we are en route for Spain.   It’s a long journey and I sleep lying across David’s lap.     We arrive at Portbou early morning.   Carrying our cases, we descend endless steps from the station down into the sleepy little town. It’s April, sunny but rather chilly.  Nothing is moving.  Ahead, the sea glitters.

 We find our small family run hotel in the main street. A vast police station is opposite, and we remember this is Franco’s Spain.   We are shown our small, whitewashed room, with a hand basin and cold water, and offered breakfast.  It is brought by Isidro, a fresh faced, handsome seventeen year old, the son of the house.   We realise we’re a novelty, the first English tourists they have had.    To Isidro, we are like aliens, and he tentatively tries out his few English phrases on us.  We are served whole fish most days, plus a bottle of wine. I don’t drink but David enjoys it.

   My shorts cause some consternation in the police station opposite.  I have no idea of local conventions.  Sun bathing on the rocky beach, we get to meet three local lads, students. We try French, mime and laugh together. Whenever we go off on the train, they seem to reappear on our return.

                  

 The second week some more people arrive. We meet two young Scottish teachers. They tell us they could not manage their classes without using a tawse – a leather strap for disciplining children – and we hear about “setting” in classes. Little do I imagine that I will become a teacher, once my children are settled in school.

  Sixty years later, talking about our anniversary, David amazes me.  “How about retracing our honeymoon to Spain?  We could do it all by train again.”  Wow, what an amazing idea.  “Do you think we could meet up with Isidro?”     A week later, I’ve made enquiries, and even rung the hotel in Portbou.   I get to speak to Isidro’s brother.  He says Isidro has been in hospital but should be around to meet us in April.  The hotel itself won’t open until May.

 We decide to stop off  en route in Paris and Barcelona and plans are made.

 April comes and we arrive in Portbou, which has changed very little. The vast police station is boarded up but the sea front is much smarter now.  Our hotel has a note for us from Isidro.  He will come to meet us at 6 p.m.  and we are elated that things are working out so well.

 At last, in comes this small, dapper elderly man, with a head of short silver hair. We are all so pleased to be meeting again, and he has clear memories of us on honeymoon, so long ago.   We take him for a meal and talk endlessly about his youth.

  At twenty he went with his  brother to study art in Paris and no doubt also worked in hotels and restaurants.  He had worked in England and become fluent and then wanted to get into acting and films.  Later, I find him in some amateur films on Youtube.  He has great presence.

 We give him enlarged photos taken sixty years ago of him and his parents outside the hotel.   The three foot high trees lining the street then are now twenty foot high and luxuriant and we now have eight adult grandchildren.

Dorothea Conti –