1978.
One last Catalan bay story.
I was, of course, a bit of a beach god – rippling muscles, golden tanned body – the works! Um, well, not quite.
In reality I was a bit on the thin side – not an ounce of fat on me. Being fair haired and fair skinned meant that the sun and I were not the best of bedfellows. In fact, we had a pretty poor relationship truth be told.
So, a draft to Gibraltar for a year would pose a few sunny problems for me.
Obviously, one of the main attractions for most was the sun and beaches of the Rock. My light skin did pose me difficulties – one look at a hot sun usually meant redness, pain, peeling and quickly back to a bright white finish again.
A strategy was called for. For the first few weeks of hitting the beach I would lie for the most part completely covered in towels, occasionally breaking cover for a swim and a cool beer. I could often be seen with the local seagulls standing on me, seemingly not bothered that the towelled rock was rising and falling with my breathing.
I was able to ditch the towels in favour of copious quantities of sun screen. After a year on the rock, I returned home with a slight, very slight tan. Impressive.
