'Why can't a woman be more like a man?' Rex Harrison asks in his role as Henry Higgins in the musical version of Pygmalion, My Fair Lady.
'Tis a fair point. If you're a man.
Conversely, I have often favoured a boy a tad more feminine than your average Joe, Josė or Joseph. And these days, I do like a man with whom I can share moisturiser en route, or appreciates the need to 'freshen up' on a particularly long drag across western Europe. I also far rather a co-pilot happy to indulge my passion for pontificating on all subjects under the sun - be it in France, Spain or Portugal - than a strong, silent fairweather friend who ducks for cover at the slightest hint of my thoughts raining down on him. Heavily. For example, I can say: 'Take cultural differences in Europe - I mean, why can't the British be more like the Spanish - or even the Portuguese?' And he will allow me to dilate.
Eyes wide open
Having rattled our morning through the Alfama district of Lisbon, on the much-lauded turn-of-the-century E18 tram, we head north east, once again, to Salamanca. With Advent celebrations in full swing in the Portuguese capital, we hit the Spanish city at around 7.30pm. We return as old friends to the tapas bars of this beautiful city, order our own rabo do toro - and drink our own glasses of Rioja. Strangely, it feels like home. The place buzzes with activity - even on a Sunday night - with families, students, travellers, locals, the young and the old, standing in pairs, trios, groups. The centre of the city, the Plaza Mayor, is a page out of a 'Where's Wally' book with a sea of faces bathed in a warm light that brings out the gold of the buildings' Villamayor stone, rich in iron oxide that, thanks to the skills of some stonemason long gone, can become pure filigree, delicate and intricate.
The tapas bars are, as they were on the Friday night we were here, packed tight with people sharing food, drink and conversation. Glasses of wine fill the tables alongside cups of coffee and small plates of tapas and cakes and, from the bar stools we've managed to bag, we watch, wide-eyed, the bustle of everyday Spanish night life. There are no football shirts, the shouting is simply part of the animated conversation and the atmosphere is one of easy living. In England, we lack meeting places such as these - for all ages, all appetites, all drinking options; places open to all and open all day. A shared experience across all ages is important - how else to best impart the importance of learned values and social mores to the next generation, and so on?
Mealtime matters
In our house, food is what links the five of us, keeps us in touch. Sharing meals is vital time together, it encourages debate and allows for an exchange of the woes and high points of our disparate lives. In a fast-paced world, home-cooked meals taken around a table, teach us the art of conversation and a patience for - and an appreciation of - other people. Similarly, shared food cements memories of moments in foreign worlds that linger far longer that the taste. The Spanish and the Portuguese, along with the other Mediterraneans, are leaders in this way of life - family and friends matter as do those lengthy gatherings. The meals on this journey will act as those now-absent stamps in our passports - an almost extinct travel experience these days - each one leaving an indelible mark on our memory banks of places once enjoyed.
Driving home for Christmas
Snow-capped mountains greet us as we head ever further north east. It has also dropped to six degrees, according to the compass in 'the beast' and, driving into a tunnel carved through Mont St Obarenes, it suddenly feels like Christmas, not an emotion experienced by me for some years. The hackneyed phrase of 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' applies here, too, to a state of mind and I immediately feel on the cusp of a festive season that promises so much; one that I have the time and energy to enjoy without the Ghost of Christmas 'work' Past throwing a stressful spectral shadow over the whole enjoyment of a long break with my family.
In the deep, pre-winter
This trip proves ever more a necessary hiatus in my life, a vital severance from the hectic and the busy, an eye-opening stock-take of that which is important and that which is less so. What I once thought makes me tick is now undergoing a major reassessment.
Coincidentally, I discover, buried at the bottom of a pile of books in Portugal, Alain de Botton's masterpiece collection of essays observing our relationships with work - The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work. In it, he observes it was only as late as the mid-18th century we began defining ourselves in terms of our job title and tasks. Before this, de Botton notes: 'Aristotle defined an attitude that was to last more than two millennia when he referred to a structured incompatibility between satisfaction and a paid position.'
I know I may be lambasted for taking this time out from my job, for this need to quit work and seek some 'me' time. It all appears a little indulgent. I too would have subscribed to this school of thought only a few months back. But delaying this time to see a bit more of this world could possibly prove a mistake - fortunately or unfortunately, the power to see into the future is not yet with us. This experience could not be substituted with a 10-minute read of some beautiful prose by a Sunday Times travel writer. A 6% drop over seven miles through the mountains of the Pyrenees has to 'felt'; the shift in landscape with the flat, brown expanse of Northern Spain giving way to lush, green hills needs to be seen. It's not so much that happiness cannot be found in meeting a deadline or self-satisfaction experienced when a new issue of a magazine worked hard on lands on your desk; I have a professional pride and joy that surpasses any straightforward monetary gain. But, in life, as in diet and exercise - or even, for that matter, measuring flour on scales or playing on a see-saw - the balance needs to be kept in check for near perfection.
A hole in my French letters
A sorry absence of internet connection at our hotels in both Poitiers and Rouen puts paid to this flow of prose. We stay in a converted chapel in Poitiers and my schoolgirl French is put to the test in a city to which the question: 'Parlez-vous français?' is a rather blunt 'non'. The hotel's restaurant is inside a huge dining hall with a menu of French gastronomy around which - quelle surprise - I manage to navigate. Interestingly, I note that this picturesque place is twinned with Northampton and the nearby Parc du Futuroscope has revitalised tourism to this university city.
Next stop is in Rouen which ruined our journey south almost two weeks ago by cutting off the motorway route in its prime. As we follow the DEVIATION signs, they disappear from time to time just to confuse us a little further. This time, Rouen ruins the flow by throwing a thick fog in our way. Abandoning the motorway up to Calais, we book into a pretty, Hogwarts-esque building that proves a flashy cover for a pretty mediocre hotel. I am instantly thrown into a bit of a bad mood, realising hugs with the children are now delayed for another 12 hours. I am tired of living out of a weekend case but deep sleep escapes me in the excitement of seeing the girls I love deeply from whom I've not been severed this long since cords were cut.
I realise, as we embark on the last leg of our journey through the EuroTunnel, that this long road of discovery is not confined to the cities and landscapes that pepper our pathway. It's simply been an eye opener in many ways and, whilst It ain't deep nor complex, it is meaningful.
