We got to Mérida just after 8pm, which for Spain is still the middle of the afternoon, but for us meant tired, hungry, and one wrong turn away from a row. Mary had the map on her lap but had stopped pretending to read it about forty minutes earlier.
“I need walls,” she said, quietly, as we looped round the third roundabout looking for parking that didn’t involve a height barrier or a shouting man with a whistle.
“Parador?” I said.
She didn’t answer straight away. Then: “Yes. Sod it.”
We’ve never done a Parador before. They’re not really van-life compatible. But something about Mérida made us both feel grubby — the heat, the long drive, the ghost of the dog maybe. So we parked La Viajera under a tree that probably won’t fall down and dragged our bags through the square like we’d just escaped a very slow-moving disaster.
The Parador de Mérida is an old convent. Cool stone walls, long echoing hallways, air that doesn’t move. The receptionist smiled like she knew. “Do you want a room facing the garden?” she asked.
Mary said, “Do you have one with silence and no plastic toilet cassette underneath it?”
We ended up in a room with terracotta tiles and shutters that didn’t quite close, and it still felt like luxury. I lay on the bed for five minutes before Mary kicked me in the shin and said we had to eat before the kitchen shut.
We walked the Plaza de España, both still in our dusty clothes. Locals strolled like it was morning. Kids ran screaming with balloons. Someone was singing badly near the fountain. I said, “Do we look like people who used to work in a post office?”
Mary said, “We look like people who used to sleep in a van, and don’t tonight.”
We ate at a place just off the square — Restaurante Rex Numitor, I think. Good service. Bread that didn’t taste like fridge. Lamb so soft I nearly cried. Mary ordered flan. I had wine. We didn’t talk much. Just sat and let the noise drift past us. At one point she said, “I’m glad we’re not Roman. Too many sandals.”
Tomorrow we’re doing the proper stuff — the Teatro Romano, the Templo de Diana, maybe the Puente Romano if it’s not 40 degrees. Mary’s bought a paper fan with flamingos on it, so we’re practically archaeologists now.
I told her we could probably park the van again after tomorrow night. She didn’t say no, which is close enough.
Anyway. If you’ve not been to Mérida: go. Even if you don’t care about ruins. It’s got a weight to it. A place built on old things, still standing. I get the appeal.
Just maybe sleep in stone once in a while. You forget how quiet it can be.
