In the spirit of having some time off and making good use of it a couple of days ago I decided to get out there again and travel some more. This time, it’s a little different as a new job is on the horizon, so all the sensible life-admin has already been dealt with. The last little jaunt to France had clearly worked its magic—either that or it was the cheese. Hard to say. So after some feverish Googling and weighing up all the options like a low-budget remake of Planes, Trains and Automobiles minus John Candy but with significantly more browser tabs, I found myself heading to Madrid! A city I absolutely love, one of those places that feels “right up my street”… if my street happened to involve late-night tapas, strong coffee, and people who eat dinner at a time most Brits are considering brushing their teeth.

I would have loved to get the ferry from Plymouth to Santander and then continue to Madrid, but time is not on my side as I need to be back in the UK for Monday. So, getting there meant flying, and therefore enduring Bristol Airport and Ryanair, two experiences I hadn’t subjected myself to in quite some time, rather like open mic nights or assembling IKEA furniture. Still, for £70 return, I was willing to give it a whirl. The parking, however, came in at a cool £100, meaning I paid more to let my car sit around doing nothing than I did to transport myself across Europe. A financial model that would make even a Madrid ice cream bill look restrained.

For me, the real joy of regional airports is the people watching. The departure board reads like a glossy holiday brochure; Malaga, Ibiza, Faro…with the occasional rogue city thrown in like Madrid daring to be slightly cultural. The airport itself, especially early in the morning, is a living theatre (or cabaret?). The first thing you notice is that half the passengers are already dressed as if they’ve checked into their hotel and claimed a sunbed. Flip-flops, vests, sunglasses at 6am…committed. Meanwhile, with an England match on this evening, there was a strong showing of families in full England kit, looking ready either for football or a surprise international tournament in the departure lounge for XXXL players…..And then there are the tracksuits. Full matching ensembles. You can’t help but admire the dedication, it does suggest they may break into a spontaneous shot put or hurdles event somewhere between boarding and baggage reclaim. It’s quite something. Naturally, the prime habitat for early morning chaos is the airport bar. It never ceases to amaze me how many people treat “last orders before boarding” as a personal challenge. Today was no exception, stag dos, hen dos, and large families all settling in for what looked like a pre-flight marathon. Given that low-cost flights can occasionally feel like a test of both patience and spinal endurance, perhaps they’re onto something. I spent a good few hours just watching and sketching, it’s like a live-action sitcom, with Brits abroad as the main cast.

The flight itself was fairly unremarkable, though I was deeply grateful for noise-cancelling headphones. There seemed to be an announcement every two minutes: offers, scratch cards, app reminders, seatbelt instructions, and the occasional increasingly desperate “sit down please… SIT DOWN PLEASE.” Two hours later, we touched down in Madrid. Contrary to the headlines, there were no queues at all, which almost felt unsettling, as if I’d accidentally skipped an important European ritual. Walking from Terminal 1 to the Metro, however, felt like a pilgrimage. At one point I briefly considered that I might end up walking all the way into the city and arriving just in time for tapas anyway.

I absolutely lucked out with the hotel. Budget, yes, but perfectly located, about five minutes from Sol and Plaza Mayor. Right in the heart of everything, which means dangerously close to an unlimited supply of jamón. It’s set on a single floor of an old palace, with the family living there too, giving it a homely feel… although when I returned later and found what seemed to be an extended gathering of “family” in the corridor, I did wonder quite how inclusive that definition was.

By this point, I hadn’t eaten much all day and it was approaching 5pm, practically breakfast time by Madrid standards, so I headed straight to Mercado San Miguel. Yes, it’s touristy, but for good reason: the food is fantastic. Knowing the layout all too well, I made a beeline for my favourite stalls and promptly overindulged in tapas. Highlights included a new discovery: octopus meatballs, which sound slightly suspicious but tasted absolutely brilliant. Somewhere between “amazing culinary find” and “don’t ask too many questions.”

At this point, fuelled by tapas and questionable decision-making, I decided to walk to my favourite Madrid institution, Casa Mingo. It’s about a 40-minute stroll, taking you past the Sabatini Gardens near the Royal Palace.

Last time I visited it was autumn and they were closed, so seeing them in full swing was a real treat, if by “treat” you mean standing in 42-degree heat, as helpfully displayed on one of those glowing green pharmacy signs that seem to double as weather warnings.

By the time I arrived at Casa Mingo, I was roughly three stone lighter through sheer dehydration. Fortunately, this place keeps things blissfully simple: roast chicken and cider. That’s it. No nonsense, no quinoa, no “deconstructed” anything. Just plates of perfectly cooked chicken and enormous bottles of cider that somehow evaporate alarmingly quickly. I ordered a whole chicken (naturally, it would be rude not to), plus a salad to maintain the illusion of balance. At around €10, it’s practically a public service. The place has a fantastic old-school charm, complete with grumpy waiters who clearly believe friendliness is an optional extra. And they’re absolutely right, it wouldn’t work any other way. The chicken, by the way, is the best you’ll ever have. No debate. Madrid may be known for tapas, but this place is in a league of its own.

After dinner, at which point movement became more of a theoretical concept, I very wisely decided to get the Metro back to Ópera after a little walk along the river. That short two-stop stretch from Príncipe Pío to Ópera feels a bit like the Waterloo & City line, only with fewer commuters and more people gently recovering from food comas. Popping out at Ópera gives you a perfect route back through Puerta del Sol, a wander past Plaza Mayor, and then back to the hotel, soaking up the atmosphere. By now, it already felt like I’d been here for days… probably because I’d eaten enough tapas, chicken and octopus for a small village.

As the light was really great, I decided to go back to the hotel and get my camera. This trip, I’ve left the trusty Corona 120 film camera at home (I’m still developing the film from the French trip) and I’ve got an old Canon T70 35mm that I picked up on eBay for about £10. It’s behaving …just… so we’ll have to see what the pics are like. It has, as usual got people baffled when I changed the film in a cafe…

Tomorrow, there’s a train ride to a town about 30 minutes outside Madrid, no doubt involving more food, more wandering, and possibly another entire chicken. Watch this space…