Between the Dazzling Sun & the Cosy Rain

Watching the crashing waves of the Atlantic on a day trip to Bolonia.

That time between Christmas and New Year, when it is mostly dark and damp and deathly cold in the North of England, is the time we mostly waver and think back with deep longing to the life we have left behind in the South of Spain. To the warm winters sipping wine by the chiringuito, the weekend trips to the picturesque mountain villages, the sound of children playing outdoors, the endless choices of tapas and drinks in cheap bars and restaurants.

We don’t remember the dwindling bank account or the scorching summer heat or the tiresome bureaucracy. After all, nostalgia was always known to bring back selective memory and fuzzy feelings, because like our romantic memories of youth, it is a time we can never go back to again.

A few days ago, John received an offer for a job in Gibraltar, for the clinic he has lobbied to be set up in the nearly two years we have lived there. It was a call he has been waiting for a long time and would have set into motion the fulfilment of a dream that had been halted prematurely when we were forced to go back to Britain a year ago for financial reasons.

Three years ago, when we were packing our life in Sheffield for the idyllic life in Costa del Sol, our hearts really fluttered. We haven’t lived long enough in the house we have just bought in Hillsborough to feel any sort of attachment. We had good jobs but not good enough to feel bad about leaving. We were naive enough not to be fazed by the upheaval, our child too young to understand what was going on. We really thought we were going to be there forever.

The view from our flat in Alcaidesa with Gibraltar and Africa in the horizon.

And we did have a good time, a postcard life of a seemingly endless holiday. Our first home had a balcony that looks out to the Mediterranean where we had the view of the glittering lights of fishing boats in the morning when fishermen set off to the sea before sunrise. In the evenings we watched the many colours of the sunset as the day faded into night, making way for the moon to rise and cast its reflections in the calm sea below.

Summer afternoons in the communal pool in our home in Guadiaro with Isaac's bestfriend Nico.

Our village of Guadiaro during the annual feria.

When we got tired of living like expats, we moved to a village where locals and expats happily cohabit. In the bus stop, John would speak to the neighbours in his broken Spanish while I happily conversed with the many other Filipinos who lived around us. Isaac went to Spanish school where he easily picked the language and played with our next door neighbours until it was time for bed. At the weekends, we visited his grandparents who lived in the coastal urbanisation of Duquesa which is all but British in location.

Our life in Spain wasn't all perfect of course. John couldn't get a job despite all his efforts and slowly the dream was turning into a nightmare. In the end he had to go back to Britain to save ourselves from financial ruin and we became a long-distance family like that, seeing each other every three weeks. It wasn't an ideal situation and eventually we had to admit that the grass wasn't always greener in the other side. But at least we tried our best and there wouldn’t be any regrets.

When we came back to Britain, we settled back quickly as though we really just went away for a long extended vacation. We realised how much we've grown from the experience when the world we returned to seemed to have stayed the same but we now look at it more differently. We got better jobs than the ones we have left behind before we went away. We moved back to our home and set it up like how it used to be. We found Isaac a good school where he thrives and he started football training with the club he loves. If there is such a thing as middle class contentment, perhaps this is it. We are in a good place, we can now afford little luxuries and it felt like a hard-earned success.

Our home in England is next to the park and the Sheffield Wednesday football ground.

We are surrounded by the beautiful countryside with the Peak District less than an hour away.

Still, there is of course that niggling nagging feeling inside that there is a better life out there waiting for us. In a sunnier place we were forced to leave behind.

Then the job offer came. There was excitement, then dread. Between a nice comfortable life of blissful predictability and a thrilling existence clothed in uncertainty, how do we choose?

Our decision would have been easier if we were in less a than favourable situation. If we needed a fresh start, if we were younger, if there was no Brexit, if we had more energy to throw away our already comfortable life to have one more shot at the life we still dream about.

“One day, a mayfly said this to a moth drawn to a flame. “you know that flame is a trap set by humans. It’s not like you only live for a day as I do. Why would you want to throw yourself at the flame knowing that you’ll die?” 

The moth said, “the flame is too beautiful not to throw myself at. There’s no beauty without pain.”

But experience has taught us that there is beauty in predictability too and in the end, though we allowed sensibility to trample over our dreams and there are regrets we must live with, we will be okay with that. 

Of R♥nda and First Love

I discovered Ronda during the cusp of my very first romance. I was 25. Spain was an unfamiliar territory. Love was a concept I have only read about in the many books that lined my bedroom or marathon watched in the early years of my kDrama addiction. It was a new, exciting and different world.

Ronda was our first road trip together and that whirlwind romance turned into a lifetime commitment which led to the continuous discovery of fascinating new worlds, languages and cultures. But that one day remained rooted in my heart in a way that first love does, for it was, with all the nostalgic memories that still make my heart flutter.

Many years later when we briefly set up home in the south of Spain, I came back to visit with the little boy who felt more grown up than the three year old he had been and my friend Kamille who came to see us all the way from Dubai.

For no trip to Andalusia will be complete without the pilgrimage to what is often described as the most romantic of the Spanish pueblos blancos, perched on top of the many mountains of Serrania de Ronda, about 100kms from Malaga and reached either through a train journey as beautiful as its destination or through the long winding mountain road on a car for those who are braver (or more foolish).

We took the train from San Roque and as soon as we got out of the station, I realised that I had no idea how to get to the centre of town. I had thought that because I had once been there I could just as easily find my way around again.

But memories are often deceptive. How often do we remember the street names of the towns and cities we have visited? And yet we remember random moments made meaningful with the people we shared them with.

Under that tree we took a nap, my head rested under his arms, savouring that moment and dreaming of other places we were yet to explore.


On that vista, we listened to someone playing music, the melodies reaching our beating hearts.

In the park, on a path lined by trees, we sat by a bench and held hand while watching the world pass us by.

This second visit has been memorable too. By walking around without a map, we made took turns we wouldn't normally do and made discoveries we wouldn't have otherwise, looking at Ronda not as a tourists with a tick box but a travellers guided by our feet.

But we did find ourselves back on the tourist track, where art and inspiration was in abundance, from artists setting up their easels along the vista, to street musicians filling the air with passionate music and peddlers showing off their local creative wares.

We found a homely restaurant overlooking the valley below for lunch, filled our bellies and our souls and walked down the steep path leading down the ravine where we looked up Puente Nuevo, a 390-foot feat of engineering and the most famous bridge in Spain, to admire its full glory.

Alas, the uphill climb was not as easy as the way down, as they often are, but a promise of an ice cream cone when we reached the top was enough to make Isaac race to the top, well ahead of the adults who were left behind. It was an ice cream cone he deserved.

The harsh afternoon sun did not hinder the many tourists walking around the cobbled streets of the Old Town where we also found ourselves wandering. Later, while sitting on the picturesque square of Plaza Duquesa de Parcent, we marvelled at all the beauty we were able to see and experience in just a day.

My return to Ronda was like the reunion of first loves, bringing back memories of the rush of excitement that comes with the discovery of new emotions. And with it came the happy realisation that this quirky little Spanish mountain top village is as beautiful and romantic as I remember, just like the first and only love I know.

A Place Once Called Paradise

I remember that day clearly. A weekend in September. The summer has ended but the days were still long. Spain was an unexplored territory and the possibilities for adventures were endless, much like the love that has found me.

We were driving back after a day trip in Casares but before we could reach the bend in the coastal road where the rock of Gibraltar comes into view, we made a quick detour.

Playa Paradiso. Paradise Beach. And that was what it was.

Behind a neat row of white-washed houses with brightly coloured front yards was a vast expanse of clear blue sea against the pebbled shore. There was no one else around, the seasonal visitors have gone. For a brief moment, that heaven on earth was ours.



We sat in the beach for a long time, listening to the songs of the sea and watching the waves crash against the rocks. Until the blue sky turned into a palette of colours as the sun slowly went to bed and the full moon rose in its place, casting a pale band of silver in the Mediterranean.




In the years that we lived in England, we thought of that place often. Our idealised version of Spain – an earthly paradise that begs to be called our home. We wondered for a long time what it would be like to wake up with the sea in your doorstep and to watch those sunsets every day.

It took a while but we did follow that dream. And yet it was not until a year after we have moved to Costa del Sol that we found ourselves in that very same spot again. The reality has sunk in by then, the future was bleak and we have realised that our sunny spot wasn’t ours for keeps.

Perhaps that’s why the place we returned to was no longer the paradise we have remembered. The shore has been littered by debris, remnants of the storm that has passed only a few days back. The houses facing the sea looked a bit rundown, a few structures remained unfinished. The fishing boats looked discarded. And yet it was this version of Spain that we prefer to cherish in our memories. More than a piece of paradise, it was a place with real people and real problems, one we fondly called home, even if for just a short time.

It's Not Always Sunny Here

We woke up late this morning with the sky covered with thick fog brought about by the humid easterly 'levanta' wind blowing across the Mediterranean.

On most weekends we head off to explore the quaint little villages perched above the mountains of Andalusia or stroll along the beach towns dotted along the Costa del Sol. These kind of days are well-documented in our Facebook posts, eliciting countless likes but very few asking what our idyllic life is really all about.

For we do not live in paradise. Occasionally, on days like today, we plunge in despair. That feeling of being trapped in between the rock and the deep blue sea (the same views we see from our balcony). "Going nowhere, going nowhere"...like the lyrics of my all time favourite song (Mad World).

Someone in our expat chat group made a controversial statement that "Andalusia is a land of broken dreams". Not everyone agrees, of course, but it is certainly a sentiment that more than a few would share.

Most of us who were brave enough to leave the security and comfort of our lives in Britain have come here with a few dimes and a bag full of dreams. Those who were lucky enough would never go back, but there are also countless others who do not make it.

Andalusia is one of the poorest regions in Europe, with 35% unemployment rate. Most British expats who attempt to relocate relies on the job opportunities that Gibraltar provides. But with the open European border and strict rules on public sector jobs only for the local population, there are not a lot to go around. Even when you try, public sector jobs and opportunities are not like for like from country to country. Despite your experience and qualifications and most probably because of your British passport, it is an uphill battle.

The lack of job prospects can dampen the spirit of even the most resilient individual to the point of disheartenment. The blue skies and bright sunshine, instead of giving us joy, reminds us that our state of permanent holiday is no longer fun but a burden. That sooner or later we have to decide whether here is still where our dreams lie or if we have actually left it buried underneath the palm tree we have planted in the garden of our own little house in Hillsborough, near our beloved football ground overlooking the park where we have fed the ducks. Where life was cosy, albeit without the cheerful skies that the Spanish coast provides.

This gives us comfort at least to know that if ever we have to go back, it wouldn't be the end of the world. That we have a home and plenty of friends to welcome us back.

Meanwhile, by midday the wind has changed its direction and the sky has cleared up, becoming an empty canvass. From our balcony, we can see the brightly-coloured umbrellas dotted along the shore as our beach front urbanisation began filling up with holiday makers frolicking with the glistening sea amidst the strong smell of fresh fish cooked by the heat of the sun. Tonight, once the simmering temperature cools down, we will be heading off to another feria to drink in the cultural spectacles of the Spanish life we have come here to enjoy and will then remind ourselves that we must live for the moment.

Despite the ups and downs of the expat lifestyle, we can still take pride in the knowledge that we have the courage to chase after our dreams and perhaps, when it comes to it, the strength to admit that the grass isn't really greener on the other side. 

What is Free in Sotogrande

The drifting mist that has veiled the Rock of Gibraltar is slowly dissipating like a curtain before a show. The thick layer of shapeless clouds is gradually breaking up, allowing a patch of blue sky to peak through. The calm sea waters of the Mediterranean was heaving softly as it danced with the gently blowing trade-wind.

There by the crags where we stood in trance are some of the few pleasures in life that we do not have to pay for - the sea, the sky and the wind in our faces. But these are perhaps the only things that we can get for free in Sotogrande, the Spanish luxurious holiday estate of the super rich and powerful.

Tucked away from the cheap seaside resorts that dot along the Costa del Sol and the rural villages that overlook them, the estate has an air of exclusivity that attracts its high end market. When the property markets crashed in Spain, the house prices in Sotogrande remained stable.

Money likes to clothe itself in respectability. Around the neighbourhood, we walked along streets that are lined with palm trees and admired a huge collection of boats docked around the marina that hugs the coast. We followed the sea going inland through a canal that goes through the back of the houses where more boats are moored. Along the sea front are a selection of bars, restaurants and artisan shops buzzing with activities. It was such an an idyllic setting you almost forget that you are in Andalusia, one of the poorest regions in Europe.

Sotogrande is quite popular amongst tourists, fascinated perhaps by the the lifestyle of the worldly, and have found it charming. But there is very little of Spain within it and I've always preferred the simple attractions of its much poorer neighbours. It's still a worthy place to visit, even if its just to enjoy the free pleasure of looking out to the sea and sky and feel the wind on your face. 

Where There Are Horses

"There's the caballo. Ayun!'.

Isaac squealed in his jumble of English, Spanish and Filipino languages that usually make up his sentences, to point to the horses that ventured close to the fences, along a tree-lined path that leads to the Spanish village of Guadiaro, a ten-minute drive from our house. We have just had our €2 breakfast from our favourite cafe with Isaac's grandparents and decided to show them around the community we have come to love.

The area is actually made up of connecting villages, as most of them are in Spain. We have started off in Pueblo Nuevo de Guadiaro, passing the restaurants and retail shops which caters to the affluent crowd of Sotogrande just across the road, and carried on the path that leads to the bank of the River Guadiaro. In the distance, the village of San Enrique de Guadiaro is perched up the hill.

In this part of the world, we don't need to go far to come across the famous Andalusian horses, those fabled creatures of beauty, whose dance is often described as poetry in motion. They graze on the fields visible from the motorways or trot up the hills and the beaches, to give delight to children who are occasionally treated for a ride on their back. Isaac is too young to get a ride but the horses are happy to let him stroke their beautiful coat.

This is what our weekends are like nowadays - coffee mornings followed by lazy walks. Spain, we have discovered, is so family friendly you can find free entertainment anywhere - parks in every corner, blue flag beaches, farm animals in the fields - everything that would keep a little child happily stimulated. This alone is perhaps enough to justify the decision to move here in the first place, not that we need to convince anyone!

Living the Spanish Dream

By now, most of our friends would have been fed up by the stream of photos in our Facebook pages. Of our sun-kissed faces, sipping wine by the beach after work watching the magical hues of the sunset mixed in with the dust travelling as far as the Saharan desert. Of the sweeping views of the Mediterranean with the backdrop of the Rock of Gibraltar and the Atlas mountains of Morocco from our balcony window. Of the weekend trips to romantic hilltop villages and lively seaside resorts that dot along the the Costa del Sol. The last four months, for it has been that long, still feels like being on a holiday.

Just before Christmas, we left the cold comfort of our friendly neighbourhood and the easy security of our jobs in Sheffield to chase after our Andalusian dream. It was raining when we boarded the plane in Manchester, a fitting farewell to the life we were leaving behind. It was sunny and warm when we landed in Gibraltar. A perfect homecoming.

For it was here where our adventures really began, where John and I met and got married. And soon after we left for Britain, we have longed to return. It took us six years of convincing ourselves that the life we already have is worth giving up to chase after a romantic dream of life in the sun, embracing a different culture and mastering a new language. But we eventually made it back.

Spain is everything it promised to be - sun, sand, tapas bars and colourful festivals. But our longing for it has blinded us to the things that it doesn't have. Jobs don't come easy. The unemployment rate in Southern Spain is the worst in the EU and Gibraltar has toughened up in employing foreign workers in favour of the local workforce. Public transport is not frequent and often unreliable, so we are gripped with guilt for contributing to the global warming because of our reliance in the car. Language barriers and close Spanish family ties also mean that we are yet to be welcomed to a Spanish family home.

Yet these are things we can live with. We have family around and expat families tend to forge a community of support and friendships. We are slowly settling down, having found a home by the beach and gradually easing our way back and expanding our social circles. We have been exploring new places, embracing the new culture and learning the language. We have slipped easily into our new routines and very seldom think of our old life.

But we do think of home. Isaac still talks about his friends and remembers our street in Hillsborough. We think of the tulips and the daffodils we have planted in our garden. We look forward to seeing our friends again when we go on holiday in June.

In talking to expat friends about their own experiences, some are adamant that they are never going to leave. Others say that sometimes they are tempted to pack up and go back to the comfortable and familiar. With Brexit looming ahead, we are not quite sure what the future would be for us but it's nice to know that we always have the option to go back. For now at least, we are relishing the sunshine and patting ourselves in the back for having the courage to chase after our dreams.