Our holiday in Barcelona:

Wednesday 14 November

As I shut the door and left the house, I realised that while I may have remembered everything I would need for the holiday, I'd also locked my keys inside the house. Well, I wouldn't need to worry about that for another week. It was so cold when I met up with Marcus at Kings Cross, that I was wearing four layers of clothing plus a hat. I consoled myself with the thought that it would at least be warmer in Spain.

As it turned out, it wasn't that much warmer - it was overcast and drizzling. The hotel we'd booked was just off the Ramblas. They have a weird system of numbering floors in Spain - first there's the ground floor; then the entresol; then the principal; and then - and only then - do you get the first floor. Thus our room, which was supposedly on the third floor, was actually on the fifth. (Or the sixth if you're American.) And, no, of course there wasn't a lift. Our room was large, with a separate lounge, but looked directly onto a concrete wall.

We took a quick wander down the Ramblas to the harbour, then popped into a bar for a beer. Schilling (C/Ferran 23) is a great combination of a grand old cafe and a trendy bar, with a largely gay clientele. A colleague at work had recommended a restaurant for dinner, and - despite appearances - it was excellent. El Cafeti (C/Hospital 99) is at the bottom of a dingy alley in a run-down part of town, but the interior is charming, the food excellent, the prices reasonable, and the service - well, a bit surly to be honest.

We then went off in search of the city's gay nightlife. So many gay bars have opened in the area around C/Muntaner, C/Casanova and C/Consell de Cent over the last couple of years that this part of the Eixample is being nicknamed the Gaixample. On a Wednesday night, however, most of them are empty, with only Dietrich (C/Consell de Cent 255) getting busy. We called in for a nightcap in a small neighbourhood bar where it seemed de rigeur to own a small dog and be very camp. In what was to be a common occurrence, Marcus ordered two vodka and Cokes, which the barman somehow heard as two vodka and tonics.

Speaking of drinks, my god, they pour them strong in Spain. The formula for pouring drinks in Spain is something like this: put three ice cubes in a tall glass; now pour vodka in, and keep pouring till it's half full; now pour some more in; and a bit more, leaving an inch at the top to add your mixer.

Thursday 15 November

We had planned to go to the Dali Museum in Figueras, but we only surfaced around noon. We figured we could still make it, so we scrambled up and ran to the train station. We bought our tickets, only to discover we'd just missed a train and would have to wait an hour for the next one.

It was pouring, so after a half-hearted look at Gaudi’s Casa Batlo, we retired into a coffee bar on Passeig de Gracia. There are two types of train from Barcelona to Figueras: the express and the slow train. Guess which one we caught? Two hours later, we finally arrived at Figueras with just an hour to spend in the museum.

But what a museum! An amazing building, filled with brilliant art. And with a busload of slow, annoying, French pensioners. Marcus and I showed the compassion for which we are famed when one of the old dears took a tumble on the stairs and was surrounded by a flock of tutting old ladies offering her sugar cubes. “Out of my fucking way, you old bats,” one of us was heard to mutter.

After a quick meal in a restaurant that showed signs of last being decorated in 1974, we caught the train back to Barcelona.

We discovered the delights of Spanish supermarkets. In particular, the booze aisle. Our squeals of delight and amazement could be heard around the store. “Look at this: a bottle of Smirnoff, 1100 pesetas – that’s, like, four quid!” “And these beers, 58 pesetas each - that’s just 20p.” We didn’t just buy booze, though, honest. The chocolate was incredible, too.

Off on a round of the bars, which only started filling up well after midnight. The bars in Barcelona are all beautifully designed, with sleek, well-lit post-industrial interiors. They make the trendiest bars in London look like the drab pubs they really are.

In a packed Dietrich, we were approached by two friendly guys offering to sell us drugs. Well, it would have seemed rude not to, but we could have bought what we ended up with in the pharmacy aisle of the supermarket for, like, three pesetas or something.

This didn’t put us off clubbing, and we went to Arena – a small club filled with eccentric types. Not bad for a Thursday night.

[more to follow later...]