The road out of Mérida pulls you into nothing. Fields. Stunted olive trees. A ridge in the distance that never gets closer. Mary said it looked like the backdrop from a school play about Spain. Painted sky. Real heat. We took the N-630 because she said motorways ruin the mood, and because I couldn’t face the toll machine voice again.
Zafra’s only an hour south but it feels like crossing a border. Everything flattens out. Fewer ruins, more cattle. Big brown bulls dotted across dry fields like someone placed them by hand. Every now and then we passed a cluster of buildings too small to be a village but too stubborn to disappear. I kept the speed low. No rush.
We’re going to Zafra because it’s meant to be slow. Small. Andalusia’s front porch. Mary circled it in the guidebook months ago and wrote “maybe stay?” next to it in blue biro. I didn’t argue. You learn.
Pulled into a petrol station just outside a town I didn’t catch the name of. Only one pump worked and it had gaffer tape on the screen. I filled up while Mary went to buy crisps and a bottle of water, and that’s when the other Brits appeared.
Two couples, maybe early sixties, all beige shorts and Northern accents. One asked if we were “doing the whole of Spain or just the hot bits.” I said we were doing the slow bits. He laughed like he didn’t get it but didn’t want to look thick. His wife asked if I missed home. I said, “Sometimes. Then I speak to someone from home.” She didn’t laugh.
Back in the van, Mary handed me the crisps and said, “I think that one used to be a geography teacher. He kept naming valleys.”
I nodded, started the engine. As we pulled away, her phone buzzed.
“Grandkids,” she said, reading the screen. “Missed calls. Three of them.”
“Call them later?”
She nodded. “When we’re settled.”
Half an hour later she was reading restaurant reviews out loud from TripAdvisor.
“This place has four and a half stars and a photo of a flan.”
“Is the flan rated separately?”
“No, but the chairs look sturdy.”
“Sturdy chairs are underrated.”
We’ll stay a few days if it feels right. If it smells okay and the plaza’s not full of English menus. I want shade and wine and a wall to lean against. Mary wants a table that doesn’t wobble and maybe a church with pigeons on the roof. We’ll see.
Anyway. Nearly there now. A sign just said Zafra 7km. She’s already put a star next to the restaurant. I said, “Is that where we’re eating?”
She said, “It depends what the flan’s like.”
