The campo in Espana

“D!!” I could her Abbey calling my name, but couldn’t see her. “D!!”

I looked past the bus, across the street where a red Volkswagen van parked on a bed of gravel, and there was Abbey, waving her arms around.

Ahhh … to be with a friend again!

After two nights in Lagos, the second of which I did nothing (although the Aussie who worked at the hostel suggested I hit up a beach party at 4 a.m., to which I replied “if i remember to set my alarm”), I had gone to Faro for the night in order to catch a bus to Sevilla to catch another bus to Vejer de la Frontera, to meet up with Abbey who would take me back to her little campo, San Ambrosio, where she was working at Los Alamos, a horse-riding resort.

If I could have run, I would have. But, I was weighted down with a heavier than usual backpack (I credit that to the multiple books about Merida and two new items of clothing — yes, it exceeded my budget, but it had been so hot in Merida, I just had to get some lightweight and cute new clothes).

On the ride back to the village, most of which was on a dirt road, Abbey and I caught up on our lives since we departed in Galway back in March. As she drove down the dirt road, we traded stories, confessed our mutual love of Spain and our similar dreams to live there.

That night, we went with the vacationers to a restaurant and enjoyed some paella and a Flamenco performance — my first Flamenco experience. It was amazing. The dancer was beautiful, the singer was ridiculously talented and the group of us fed off of it, savoring the moment and the experience.

The next day, Abbey worked and I took it easy, helping her with the horses in the afternoon. Then, that night, we went to an amazing party outside, tucked into the mountains below the wind turbines. We sat and enjoyed beers, crepes and live music and then went out even longer to Miguel’s,  the bar by her house.

Sunday, my day of rest, meant laying out by the pool and occasionally taking a dunk to cool off. That night, we went down to Barbate to the feria (just to check it out) and then to the little hippie beach town of Los Canos de Meca for some Internet time (naturally).

When I said goodbye to her at the same bus stop she had picked me up at only a few days earlier, it wasn’t the normal “see you soon” I typically have.

This one was different.

“See you when we live here!” I said, smiling and boarding the bus, which would take me back to Sevilla to take the next bus back to Faro, where I would spend a day at the beach, followed by two flights to get me to Belgium, which would take me on to RWANDA.

Published by dtravelsround

Awakening the soul while traveling ... a story of being on the cusp of adulthood.

2 thoughts on “The campo in Espana

  1. Ahhhhh!! D!!! I just got so excited reading this. I feel like it’s been AGES since you were here but it wasn’t that long ago at all! I’m so glad we get to share this Spain obsession and am SO happy to not be going through this whole immigration process by myself. Miss you tons and see you soon! XX


    1. I know, it does feel like ages. I was in Marrakesh a few weeks ago and thinking about how long it seemed since I was looking out on the country with you in Barbate! I miss you heaps. Partners in immigration. We should start a hashtag. 🙂 Miss you love and YES, see you soon in Espana!! BESOS.


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