Quintin Jardine's blog

It is fiesta night in Spain, and it’s showing no sign of abating. Avia Eileen is doing an overnighter in Ventallo, looking after Mia and the two dogs. Mia would be fine I’m sure, but twelve months ago, Sunny spent the equivalent night in L’Escala, and passed much of it hiding under my desk, hyperventilating, so scared was the poor old bitch.

I don’t know for sure where San Juan bestows his patronage, but I guess it must be upon the makers of fireworks, and indeed of explosive devices in general. As I write it is 12:45am. The Saint’s day is over, but nobody has told his followers, for rockets are still lighting up the night and thunder-flashes are rattling the windows. Imagine the pre-invasion bombing of Baghdad, and you are just about there.

If I chose, I could go along to San Marti d’Empuries, where a concert is under way. It will last until the sun comes up, but sadly, I doubt if I could. Instead I will go there for coffee tomorrow, and laugh, a little jealously, at those whose eyes are like piss-holes in the snow.