Barcelona. Lovely sunny day again. We caught the free shuttle into town and were dropped off near the Christopher Columbus statue. His index finger is half a metre long and there's a strange anomaly because the statue's been placed with him pointing towards the Mediterranean, not towards America. It was the hop on, hop off bus for us again. I only had faint memories of our previous visit as a series of problems had made it a somewhat stressful time. Let me tell you about it. It was back in 1969 and the end of our two years in Britain and Europe. In 1967 we had bought return tickets to Southampton which were good for two years. We'd sailed from Sydney in November '67 and had to leave Britain before the two years were up. We'd booked to leave for home on the 'Fairstar' and were having our last trip to Europe before we left. We'd been travelling around in our Triumph Spitfire, stopping and camping wherever took our fancy. Our fancy had taken us to the island of Ibitha in Spain and we'd figured that we'd have a week there and then have time to drive back to England, sell the car, pick up our things and still have time to get to Southampton to board the ship for home. Well, it didn't quite work out like that. When we'd tried to buy return tickets to the island we'd discovered that we could only buy a one way ticket. 'Spanish logic'? A good example of an oxymoron. We'd have to buy the return part once we got to the island. That was OK, though, we thought. It was not a real problem. What we didn't think about was that it was very late in the summer and everyone else on the island would be wanting to buy a ticket, too. We spent the first week on Ibitha enjoying ourselves, The day before we wanted to leave we went off to buy our tickets. Oh, oh. The queue wound its way out of the ticket office, snaked down the street and disappeared around the corner. We joined it and shuffled along with everyone else. A couple of hours later, just as we neared the door, the office closed. It was siesta time. We returned in the afternoon. Same thing. Same thing again the next day. And the next, and the next. And so on. Each morning we'd take our folding camping stools, our books and drinks and set off. Each day we'd go back to the tent empty handed. Eventually we decided what to do. We'd abandon the car and fly back to England. Simple? No way. There were no flights. They had ceased because the season was over. Two weeks passed. Desperation was setting in. Another half week went by and then it happened. As we were sitting on our stools in the queue Alan spotted a man coming in with some tickets in his hand. The tickets! He was cancelling the very tickets we needed - for two people and a car. We couldn't believe our luck. We escorted him in and had them transferred to our names. We were saved. Still, we were very, very short of time. The tickets were for the next evening's overnight ferry to Barcelona which left us with two days and a night to drive back to London. The day after that we were sailing from Southampton. It was possible to do. Late on the next afternoon we were all ready on the dock. It was a large ship and there was an opening about halfway up the side of the ship from which a fairly steep ramp led down to the dock. A couple of deck hands were loading vehicles by driving them up the ramp and into the hold. At last it was the Spitfire's turn. Alan was nervous and refused to watch. I was braver. The young Spaniard jumped in and started to rev up the engine. He thought he was Fangio. The Spitty was low to the ground so had only a few inches clearance. It started up the ramp. Nearly to the top, I told Alan. He turned to watch, breathing a sigh of relief. Just as the car reached the top where the angle of access changed from the steep ramp to the flat floor of the hold the Spitty's exhaust system clipped the edge and down it went, splashing into the sea. We spent a miserable night on the ferry. Our tickets were only for seats, not a cabin, and we couldn't sleep so spent the night wandering, trying to find somewhere to lie down. By daybreak, when we coming into Barcelona, it felt like we'd covered the whole ship. We were tired and still angry. Then the next problem arose. At some time during the night Alan had lost the bag containing our important things like passports and money. It was eventually located, thank goodness. Some honest person had handed it in to the captain on the bridge. We heard the Spitfire long before it appeared from the hold. It was roaring! We couldn't drive it back to England without an exhaust. Somehow, we found out where we could get a new exhaust system and we set off. The car roared through the cobbled streets, the noise resounding off the nearby walls. At last we found the place to buy the exhaust. No luck. They didn't have one but they rang around for us but again with no luck. They gave us an address for a mechanic who might help. We finally tracked him down and didn't need to explain our problem, luckily, as he spoke no English and our Spanish was nil. He told us to come back at midday. Time was ticking by and we were naturally anxious. When we went back for the car it still wasn't ready. Eventually, it was ready at about three that afternoon. He'd made a whole new stainless steel exhaust system which was a work of art. So that's why I didn't remember much about Barcelona. This time it was better. It was Sunday and the city looked lovely. There are many wide boulevards lined with shady trees and attractive buildings in Barcelona and we were enjoying the sights from the top of the bus. Finally Gaudi's famous Cathedral came into sight. We had already seen several other quirky buildings he'd designed but they were nothing compared to this. It is magnificent - lofty, unique and strangely beautiful. That other time in Barcelona I'd never heard of Gaudi; now, I'll never forget him. Back on the bus to Columbus' statue where we had a beer and quite a good coffee in a pleasant little pavement café. Great place which is well worth a visit. Off to Gibraltar and under the knife.