Trying to keep up the gym routine while travelling can, at times, feel less like a noble pursuit of physical excellence and more like a particularly cruel Symbolist metaphor….man versus mattress, with the mattress usually winning. Ordinarily, it’s my thing: rise at some ungodly hour, shuffle heroically towards the weights, lift heavy objects with exaggerated seriousness, quietly judge anyone posing in mirrors, and glare with theatrical disdain at the local grunters. A fine way to begin the day, equal parts discipline and low-grade social satire. Today, however, was decidedly in the decadent decline category.

Madrid, you see, has been obscenely hot. The sort of heat that doesn’t simply sit politely above the city but instead drapes itself over everything like a velvet curtain in a slightly overwrought Fin de Siècle opera. I read somewhere that Madrid’s record is 41°C, which frankly feels optimistic, bordering on fiction as that seems too low. For the past few days, it’s been hovering around 40, and I suspect the sun has been cheating. Friday, in particular, left me feeling like a half-finished Impressionist painting, blurred, wilted, and in need of shade. So getting up early for the gym was… an existential challenge. And yet, in a triumph of stubbornness over common sense, I went.

The gym itself was the usual low-cost theatre of the absurd. Clusters of bewildered men attempting to out-lift, out-flex, and occasionally out-think each other (mixed results on that last one). A couple of dedicated grunters, though today there was a surprising plot development, as one particularly enthusiastic lady was producing noises that suggested either extreme effort or some form of clandestine melodrama unfolding behind the squat rack. All in all, plenty to keep one amused while pretending to focus on form. Stepping outside at 9am into a gentle 28°C was, frankly, impressive. Not “pleasant”, not “refreshing”…impressive. Like being applauded by the sun as it prepares to ruin the rest of your day.

With that accomplished, I declared it a lazy day, or at least, as lazy as one can be while still wandering through art collections like a mildly dehydrated aesthete. I headed to one of my favourite galleries in Europe: the Thyssen-Bornemisza. A place that, much like the era I’ve been channelling, is both lavish and faintly ridiculous in its completeness. Its origins are rather marvellous, Baron Thyssen-Bornemisza essentially rescuing European masterpieces from American millionaires offloading them during the Great Depression. A sort of grand, cultural reverse-heist. The collection lived in Lugano before being expanded by his son, who then married Miss Spain (as one does in these stories) and eventually brought the works to Madrid. The result? A private collection so comprehensive it feels as though someone simply decided to collect art itself.

Also, inevitably, the name “Thyssen” will forever make me think of escalators. It’s impossible now to descend into any Tube station without mentally associating it with a Rubens or a Rothko. Civilisation peaks in strange ways.

One of the first works you encounter is a David Hockney—coffin-shaped, delightfully unmissable. But there was a jolt of melancholy: the plaque now reads Born 1937, Bradford – Died 2026, London. The first time I’d seen one of his works since his passing. A curious moment, that, standing there, in the cool hush of the gallery, with the outside world roasting, and feeling time quietly tap you on the shoulder.

From there, the collection sweeps you through the 19th and 20th centuries in a manner both orderly and indulgent. I found myself lingering, as usual. Madrid’s galleries are gloriously cold, less climate control, more existential refuge. I spent a good half an hour in front of an Edward Hopper, which feels entirely appropriate. His paintings don’t just draw you in-they quietly absorb you, like a heatwave for the soul, but considerably more stylish.

Eventually, even art-induced introspection gives way to hunger. I made my way to Mercado San Antón, lured by the promise of food….and air conditioning. The journey, however, was… heroic. Any stretch of pavement not blessed by shade was an inferno, and I suspect I looked like I’d sampled one too many cervezas as I staggered uphill. The heat has a way of draining dignity as efficiently as it drains energy. By the time I arrived, I was ravenous…perfect. The market is wonderfully unpretentious: part butcher’s hall, part culinary playground. After a suitably dramatic wander around, I settled on a ramen stall –Yokaloka– that was absolutely heaving (always a reassuring sign). I have, for reasons I cannot fully explain, developed a habit of judging cities by their ramen. The broth is everything. It reveals character. And this one? Quite possibly the best I’ve ever had. Rich, deep, almost suspiciously perfect. I can only assume it’s forged from the collective sacrifices of the surrounding butcher stalls, an alchemical masterpiece. I’ve yet to visit Japan, so I can’t claim authority, but if this is a mere European interpretation, Japan had better be extraordinary.

Post-feast, I meandered back towards the hotel in a zig-zag pattern that was equal parts exploration and heat management. Back in the blissful cool, I discovered that the Premiership Rugby Cup final-Exeter vs Northampton- was on. Through a small miracle of modern technology (and a compliant VPN), I was suddenly “in the UK” and able to watch it. Sitting there, in icy comfort, watching a cracking game unfold while Madrid simmered outside, it felt like decadent luxury of the highest order. Exeter lost, sadly, but it was a fantastic match.

After that, it was time to prepare for the evening’s excursion, one requiring a Metro journey out of the centre. And that, dear reader, I shall leave shrouded in mystery. A little food on the way… which had quite an interesting menu… I was so tempted to ask for some ‘warm knives in my pil pil’, but could not muster up the courage.

Ask me when you see me.