While we’re on the subject of lunch, I’ve just found a peaceful
new spot in central Lewes where I can enjoy my sandwiches in complete peace
and quiet.
Which reminds me, a little, of the time I lived in Barcelona, and used to write
for the ‘Time Out’ guide to the city.
There was a tightly-knit group of about five of us writing for the book, which was reissued
every other year. We were all residents of the city. Having scoured Barcelona
and its environs for interesting places to visit, it was our duty to divulge
these secrets to our readership.
This readership comprised mainly of weekend visitors to the city, who’d
picked up the guidebook prior to their trip.
So we’d let them know of good restaurants, interesting parks, funny bars,
and which was the best room to ask for in a particular hotel. We’d tell
them of great daytrips from the city, the most popular beaches, and which market
they could get the best mushrooms from. We would tell them where to go if they
were gay, or teetotal, or had small children.
But we were in two minds about telling them about the very best places. Those
that we didn’t necessarily want to share with common-or-garden weekenders,
however good their taste was in guidebooks. The little bar that had sawdust
on the floor and did fried squid and red wine at dirt-cheap prices. The great
beach to the north of the city, with the wooden shacks, and the paella restaurant
overlooking the bay. The dingy club you had to knock on the silver door to get
into, that opened all night.
In the end (and I’m not just writing this because the Time Out authorities
might be reading) we ended up nearly always doing the right thing, and putting
in the secret places anyway, figuring by the time the book came out, we’d
probably have found somewhere else just as alluring. It’s a great big
city, after all, and there’s a surprise around every corner. Only a few
we’d keep to ourselves.
Which leads me back to my new lunchtime place in central Lewes. That beautiful
little spot where I can be assured of being on my own, to read my book in peace,
while I’m munching on my Gruyere-and-sundried-tomato ciabatta roll, dappled
with sunlight filtering through the half-formed leaves of a large chestnut tree,
a carpet of bluebells spread before my feet. Divulge where it is? You’ve got to be joking.
