Housekeeping: Because of Rosh Hashana, this post has winged its way to you on Wednesday, not Tuesday. Please adjust your minds accordingly. Thank you.

By the time you read this, Roger Federer will have retired from the world of professional tennis. That marks the official end of two separate eras. The first is, obviously, his own career, which began over 24 years ago on July 6, 1998. The second, equally obviously, and perhaps more momentously, is the era of rivalry between Federer, Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic, which had its origins in 2004, when Rafa first played Roger, but became a three-way contest in 2006, when Novak first played both Roger and Rafa.

Now that we are finally here, the GOAT (Greatest of All Time) discussions over dinner, in the media, or in the pub, have been revived with a vengeance. What characterises these discussions is that they are never resolved to everyone’s satisfaction; indeed, nobody is ever persuaded to change their mind. And I think I know the reason why.

But before we get to that, I need to clarify my position. For a very long time (too long, I now admit), I remained loyal to Rod Laver, who got my vote for several reasons. Here are three of my favourites. One: he changed the game, with his aggression in situations where previous players had chosen defence. For example, he ‘invented’ the backhand top-spin passing shot from a running backwards position, where everyone else threw up a lob. Two: he developed an extraordinary physique – his left wrist was measured at 7 inches in circumference, an inch more than his right, and his left forearm at 12 inches, 1½ inches more than his right. Three: when he was playing his worst, he was still incredibly difficult to beat.

More significantly, he dominated the game, winning 198 singles titles over his career (the Open Era record is held by John McEnroe, with 158), winning 10 or more titles every year for 7 consecutive years, and 11 Grand Slam titles (in a career that saw him ineligible for 20 consecutive Grand Slams in the 5 years after he turned pro and before the Open era). He also won the calendar Grand Slam twice, including being the only man to do so in the Open era.

The one fly in this ointment is that for much of his amateur career he was not competing against the best players in the game, because they had already turned pro. When he first turned pro, he had a season where he was outclassed. It is, of course, impossible to know how many of his amateur titles he would have won if he had been competing against Hoad and Rosewall.

The other immense difficulty in deciding GOAT is, of course, the challenge of comparing men who did not compete in the same era. Racket, ball and shoe technologies, surface developments, advances in sport-science-driven training, monitoring and dietary techniques, all make the task impossible.

And yet: when Andy Murray tried to pressure Djokovic into a GOAT discussion, and Djokovic argued that inter-era comparisons were impossible, Murray’s response was that all three contenders for GOAT played, indeed were still playing, in the same era. If Andy Murray says that, who am I to argue with him, even if I do have one more metal hip than he does.

So, there it is. Which of these three is the greatest player of all time? Let me try to shed some light on the discussion. I am sure that when people debate this, and disagree, they are not usually disagreeing about how they rate the individual players, but rather they are disagreeing about what they mean by ‘the greatest of all time’. I believe that there are three basic, very different interpretations of GOAT.

First, imagine that you are James Bond, and you have been captured by an evil mastermind who tells you that he plans to kill you. (Bear with me.) However, he is prepared to give you a fighting chance. He shows you a pack of cards: on each card is written a year, from 2006 to 2021. He shows you another pack, with only 4 cards: one representing each of the four grand slams. He shows you his time machine (keep bearing), which will transport the two of you back in time. He explains that you will draw from the two packs, while blindfolded, a year card and a venue card, and the two of you will travel back to the year you drew, where he will pay a huge amount of money to hire the grand slam venue you drew. On that surface, the player you choose – Roger, Rafa or Novak – will play a five-set match against the highest ranked other player that year.

The catch is that you have to choose your player before you draw, blind, a year and a venue. If the player you chose wins, you live; if he loses, you die. This definition of GOAT boils down to: Who would you choose to play for you if your life depended on it? The only point of my elaboration is that it prevents you saying: ‘Well, Rafa on clay, obviously, and Novak in Australia.’

To help you decide which one of the three is this GOAT, it might be useful to know the Big Three’s head-to-head records against each other, which are as follows:
Djokovic-Nadal 30-29
Nadal-Federer 24-16
Djokovic-Federer 27-23

In grand slams, the stats are:
Nadal-Djokovic 11-7
Nadal-Federer 10-4
Djokovic-Federer 11-6

By this measure, it looks as though Nadal has the strongest claim. However, Nadal’s domination in Paris (8-2 against Djokovic, 6-0 against Federer) skews the stats, and, in addition, there is a strong case to be made for Djokovic’s grand slam stats having been weakened by his ‘forced’ absence from some grand slams in these last COVID years. It is perhaps Djokovic who may just edge out Nadal overall, but Federer doesn’t seem to have a claim.

This ‘If my life depended on it’ definition is the one some people clearly have in mind when they debate the issue. However, for others, the question is completely different. In this scenario, the evil mastermind is a more subtle torturer. He appears to you in 2006 and tells you that he will provide you with front-row seats to watch every match played between then and 2021 by whichever of the three you choose. He also assures you that all three players will be playing well for the entire period. The only snag is that you will not be allowed to watch any other matches at all. Here, clearly, the question is: ‘Which player would I rather watch than any other?’

And here, of course, is where Roger gathers most, if not all, of his votes. His easy grace, his gazelle-like athleticism, his playful delight in the game, his extraordinary hand-eye coordination, his elegant footwork: it is a cliché to call him the Mozart of tennis, but we should always remember that clichés become clichés because they are so obviously and thoroughly accurate. Watching Federer play was never less than utter joy. It is a remarkable fact that Roger, throughout his career, never retired from a match. I think that must be because his natural grace meant that he put far less strain on his body than either of the other two. Tennis, for him, never seemed to be a titanic struggle. My delight at watching him play, and my feeling of being privileged to watch a genius performing, seemed always independent of whether he won or lost. I believe there are people who prefer to watch Nadal or Djokovic, but I cannot understand that preference.

I feel there is also a third definition of greatness, which is in a sense the antithesis of what I have just described. How much sweat is a player prepared to exude, how much blood to lose, how much agony to endure, how much damage to self-inflict, in order to stay in a match? Which of the three would you back if they were all having their worst day? I think that in the last few years, we have seen just how much heart and sheer grit Nadal brings to the game.

So, as you can see, I offer you three GOATs. It all depends, in CEM Joad’s immortal phrase, on what you mean by GOAT. My conclusion is that we are all immeasurably fortunate to have lived in an age, in the age, when there were three contenders – the three contenders – for the title of GOAT playing contemporaneously, and that we really do not have to decide between them.

For me personally, ultimately, what matters most is the enjoyment of watching a great match full of beautiful tennis, regardless of the result, which makes me, I confess, a member of the Roger camp – a fact which will, if nothing else, endear me to my brother- and sister-in-law in England, for whom tennis has just lost most of its meaning, with Federer’s retirement.

Whoever gets your vote, what we all might be able to agree on is that we have been privileged, over the last decade and a half, to enjoy the sporting rivalry GOAT – the greatest sporting rivalry of all time, in any sport, where each of the three contenders raised the game of the other two time and again. Unless, of course, you can think of another as finely balanced, as nuanced in its twists and turns, and as extended. Let the pub debates begin!

Meanwhile, in Penamacor, two brothers sit quietly waiting for the next great sporting rivalry to come along. Sorry, boys, but you really have missed the GOAT!

Housekeeping: Rosh Hashana falls on Monday and Tuesday next week. With regard to the blog, Tuesday will fall on Wednesday, as it were. I know this will confuse some of my readers, and indeed me. I also know that telling you (and me) now is no guarantee that you (or I) will remember when we receive (or indeed send out) the post next Wednesday. However, lacking a qualification in psychology or neurosurgery, there’s a very limited amount I can do to help. I’ll try to remember to remind you next blog-day that Shabbat is one day less far away than you probably think. Now that we’ve clarified that…

I’ve spent most of the last week feeling like Prince Philip. (I thought of making this an interactive post, and asking you to submit guesses as to exactly in what way I felt an affinity with a Greek naval officer who married a foreigner and may occasionally have played away from home. However, time constraints make that impractical, so let me explain.)

Last Tuesday, as Bernice and I were about to go upstairs and shower and change into our glad rags to set off for a wedding that we were actually both very much looking forward to, we decided that, since I felt a bit fluey, it would only be prudent to take an antigen test for COVID. Bernice tested negative, but I passed with flying colours. (I was always better at exams than Bernice.) As a consequence, we missed the wedding, and I have spent the last seven days in isolation.

What this meant in practical terms is that Bernice moved out of our bedroom and started sleeping in the bedroom down the hall. Since then, she has been using the kid’s bathroom and I have been using our en suite. This is a fact whose greater significance we shall return to later. But, for now, you’re still waiting for the Duke of Edinburgh connection.

Well, if you watched the first couple of series of The Crown (and, yes, I do know it’s a work of fiction, thank you, and that, likewise, Richard III never offered his kingdom for a horse, and, if it comes to that, no post mortem revealed ‘Calais’ engraved on Queen Mary I’s heart)…if, as I say, you watched the first season of The Crown, you may remember all of those end-of-a-long-day scenes in which the Queen and Prince Philip were preparing for bed in their separate bedrooms at opposite ends of a corridor and engaging in private conversations over a distance of about 15 meters (or yards, as they still were in those halcyon imperial days).

Well, that, mutatis mutandis, was Bernice and myself. (Incidentally, in our case, the mutandes were the absence of a maiden of the bedchamber in one case and a valet in the other to help with disrobing, and the number of robes that we each needed to dis.)

For the next few days, we more or less avoided each other. I spent a day mostly in bed, then a day mostly on a chair in the bedroom, then a couple of days in our backyard, enjoying the thankfully more temperate weather in the morning and again from the late afternoon. By this time, I was feeling more or less back to normal, except for a stuffy nose. I was very lucky that, even at their worst, my symptoms were very mild, and responded to paracetamol.

During this time, Bernice only came near me at various times throughout the night, when she needed to check that I was still breathing. (This led her, incidentally, to reflect on how small the periods of respite have been when she has been able to enjoy an uninterrupted and full night’s sleep. First, she spent years lying awake at night checking that the kids were breathing when they were young. She then graduated to lying awake at night listening for the sound of one or other of them arriving back home after an evening out as teenagers or young adults. Unreasonably soon after they left home, she had to start lying awake at night again, worrying about whether I was breathing, during one or other of my medical adventures.)

Those of you who know me (or indeed knew my father, z”l, or my brother, or his sons, or my son) will not need to be told that I, on the other hand, am the man whose wife was unable to wake him up when she went into labour with our firstborn. While my nights are no longer completely unbroken, when I am asleep, then I am a-s-l-e-e-p.

This brought us to shabbat, by which time I was feeling considerably better. We agreed that we could risk eating our shabbat meals together. On Friday night, we ate in the backyard, but instead of eating opposite each other across the table, as usual, we sat one at each end of our long garden table, and, it is fair to say, felt the absence of liveried footmen to convey the serving dishes from one end of the table to the other.

By the time shabbat lunch came around, Bernice had been to shul services and discovered that most of our friends were amazed that I was even bothering to isolate. We therefore decided that we could repeat the previous evening’s seating arrangement, but this time in the relative cool of inside, at either end of our long dining table. Still no liveried footmen; but then, good help is so hard to find these days.

Returning to the bathroom arrangements. I have always harboured a low-level rankle about toilet seats. I know that I risk exposing how little like Prince Philip I really am in my lack of chivalry, but it has always seemed to me a little unfair that men are always expected to lower the seat after use, out of consideration for the ladies. What seems to me, in a liberated and feminist world, far more equitable, would be for men to lower the seat after use out of consideration for women, and for women to raise the seat after use out of consideration for men.

I’ve not made an issue of this, and, barring the odd occasion when it slips my mind, I always lower the seat after use. This can niggle a bit through the night, when I end up lowering the seat after use and then, thanks to my prostate, raising it again a short while later, in a pattern that can repeat itself several times through the night, while Bernice sleeps peacefully on (providing I am between periods of medical alert), blissfully unaware of my, ultimately pointless, chivalry.

I really don’t mind this arrangement (you could tell, couldn’t you?), but it has felt wonderfully liberating to be able to leave the seat up for the entirety of the last week with a completely clear conscience.

By the time you read these words, I should be out of isolation and Bernice and I should be reunited, just in time to watch the funeral (sorry, The Funeral) together. Speaking of which, and its ramifications, I found this article by Melanie Phillips about the nature of British constitutional monarchy very interesting. (Author’s Note: If you read the article, please note that while the text of Zadok the Priest has indeed been used at every English coronation since 973 CE, Handel’s setting of the words has only been used since George II’s coronation in 1727.)

And now for someone who’s been around for considerably less time, but who certainly seems to have come a long way in six months. Raphael recently discovered real food – although he has been eyeing his mothers’ plates with fascination and longing for some time – and it’s a resounding hit. This is, I believe, batata, spinach and tehina.

I would like, this week, to invite you to join me in celebrating 120 years of partnership….well, technically, I suppose it’s 120 years of partnerships – two, to be exact. The first accounts for 50 of the years and the second for the other 70.

Last week, Bernice and I finally got around to celebrating with family and friends our golden wedding. We felt the absence of Micha’el, Tslil and the boys, but we hope they will be able to come over later in the year. We hope our guests enjoyed themselves, but we’re not especially bothered if they didn’t, because we both had a wonderful time, and even those of us (no names, no pack drill), who had resisted long and hard the calls to have a public celebration admitted, after the fact, that it had been the right decision.

While not recognising ourselves in all of the lovely things that were said by others at the celebration (but certainly recognising each other), Bernice and I reckon that we do make a pretty good partnership, largely because we complement each other (even if we occasionally omit to compliment each other). For example: one of us ensures that there is a healthy meal on the table every evening, and the other one ensures that The Times crossword is completed every day; one of us never fails to do the laundry every week, and the other one never fails to generate enough dirty clothes to justify the weekly wash. You get the picture, I’m sure. Anyway, as I said at the celebration, when Bernice said ‘Yes’ 51 years ago, she made me the happiest man alive…and nothing in the last 50 years has changed that situation.

What is, from my point of view, most remarkable, is how little I have to do to maintain my side of the bargain. Bernice has always said to me that the day I fail to make her laugh is the day she will leave me. So far, so good, although we have had a couple of close-run things, when I’ve lain awake for hours until finally, at 11:50 at night, I think of a joke, and then I have to wake Bernice up to tell her quickly before the clock strikes midnight.

Now that the celebrations are over, we both feel we can relax a little, and stop tiptoeing around each other, offering to take out the rubbish or cook a favourite meal, in the hope of getting a better review in the other’s speech. The pressure is definitely off, and an air of normality has descended on the Brownstein household.

The other partnership I want to celebrate this week is that between Her late Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, and the story of the world over the years of her reign. Like most of us, I cannot remember a time before Elizabeth acceded to the throne; her reign seems to have been a fact of life throughout my entire lifetime.

And now, suddenly, even if entirely expectedly, it is no longer, and she is no longer. The shock of a different version of the royal anthem is palpable. Banknotes and coins portraying King Charles seem unimaginable.

Even the rewording of the prayer for the Royal Family recited in synagogues every shabbat and chag will take some adjusting to, despite the fact that, over my lifetime, there seem to have been tweaks every few years, of which, latterly, we became aware only when we travelled back to England for a family simcha or holiday: after Charles’s investiture as Prince of Wales, after his marriage to Diana, after Diana’s death, after the Queen Mother’s death, after Prince Philip’s death. Throughout all these adjustments, the one constant in this prayer has been: ‘Our sovereign lady, Queen Elizabeth’. And now it is not there.

In the aftermath of the news breaking on Thursday, I have been surprised by the strength of the reaction, not so much at the personal level as at the official level, throughout the world. President Biden ordered that the American flag, on all US public buildings, military bases, warships and embassies, be flown at half-mast until after the Queen’s internment, in a demonstration of good judgement that his forebears showed a sad lack of 250 years ago. Although I suppose that, if the Queen bore no grudge over the slighting of her great-great-great-grandfather George III, I should also try to get over it.  

Nepal and Brazil both declared three days of national mourning. In the case of Nepal this is almost understandable, given the association of the Gurkhas with Britain, and particularly with the British army. But Brazil!  I have trawled the internet in vain for an explanation of this. It is true that Portugal and England enjoy the world’s oldest still-active alliance (dating back to the 14 Century), but it is equally true that last Wednesday marked the 200^th anniversary of Brazil’s independence from Portugal.

Even Cuba announced a period of national mourning (although from 6AM to 12 noon on Friday sounds to me less like a period of national mourning and more like a timeslot for the delivery of a new fridge).

I’m not quite sure how to explain this official expression of identification with what is, quintessentially, a loss that is owned by the British nation and the nations of the Commonwealth. I suspect that it reflects the fact that Elizabeth, more completely than any other individual, encapsulated the ways the world developed throughout her 96 years.

There cannot be any other person who has held meetings with so many prime ministers, presidents and other world leaders: from Churchill to Truss and from Eisenhower to Biden, from Khrushchev to Putin and from Coty to Macron. Past British prime ministers seem unanimous in their appreciation of her wise counsel.  Elizabeth travelled around the world and presided over an era that saw the vestiges of Empire replaced by a growing Commonwealth. During her reign, 48 countries joined the Commonwealth, which was an institution that she always passionately believed in.

She was also, by the time of her death, one of the dwindling number who had served in the Second World War. That service, as a vehicle mechanic in the ATS, both anchored her in the event that more than any other helped shape the second half of the twentieth century and also represented a move by the royal family into a world that promised to be (whether that promise was fulfilled or not) less privileged and less sexist.

While Elizabeth’s passions were more traditional – horses and corgis and country life – Prince Philip was keenly interested in science and technology. With his encouragement, the Queen embraced advances in modern media as new ways of reaching out to and communicating with her people.

Although it was unplanned, Elizabeth’s reign also reflected changes in family life throughout Britain. She grew up in a warm and close family. However, her own marriage, which began as a fairy-tale romance, apparently went through some rocky patches before mellowing into a close relationship of love and mutual respect. When it comes to her children, it seems that they have managed, in their personal lives, to encapsulate many of the malaises of modern society, from infidelity and divorce to sexual offences. In the next generation, we have seen accusations of racism and tension between fathers and their sons, siblings and their partners.

Some of this, particularly the relationship between Princess Diana and the royal family, threatened the monarchy’s standing in Britain. However, curiously, and partly as a result of the Queen’s ‘opening up’ about her annus horribilis, her horrible year, she seemed to emerge from these events ultimately more firmly rooted in the country’s affections.

In more recent years, she allowed her keen sense of humour to emerge a little more, and clearly enjoyed her limited acting career. However, the quality that most clearly characterised her is of course her sense of duty and her dedication to service. These may not seem particularly fashionable qualities, but when they are demonstrated with such clarity and unswerving faithfulness for an entire lifetime, they draw admiration from all who are aware of them.

There are, I believe, some republican rumblings in Britain, although all surveys indicate that this is very much a minority view. When we see the high regard in which Elizabeth was held, it seems to me bizarre for Britain to choose to throw out those centuries of tradition.

Clearly, Charles is not yet held in such universal esteem, but, from all I have seen and read in the last days and weeks, it seems clear to me that he is more than aware of the nature of the task and challenges that face him, and that he is eminently ready – after a 70-year apprenticeship – for his new role. I also have no doubt that his redoubtable queen consort is the perfect partner to support him in all that lies ahead, and all the signs are that William and Kate will, in the fullness of time, be ideally suited to carry this extraordinary institution into another new era.

All of this, on rereading, sounds rather fulsome, and I have no doubt that some of my readers will be scornful of what they will see as sycophancy. However, it really does seem to me that Britain’s constitutional monarchy represents a standing in the world, and a continuity that can ride the storm of any individual aberration, that no other system can match. I therefore have no difficulty declaring: God Save the King!

Meanwhile, our own dynasty, in Portugal, continues to thrive.

Seven weeks ago, I mentioned in passing that Bernice and I spent a week in Madrid before driving to Penamacor, and blithely wrote: ‘I may tell you more about that next week’. Well, ‘next week’ has stretched into ‘next month but one’; nevertheless, let me try to remember how we spent that week.

Our aparthotel booking through booking.com qualified us for a free transfer to the hotel, which was very smooth, from the SMS on arrival with a link to track our driver’s progress to the airport, via the smooth and fast drive along the motorway that brought us almost to the heart of the city, all the way to the driver unloading our luggage at the hotel. In fifteen years of travelling on business, I grew very familiar with taxi rides from airports through some of the seedier parts of capital cities – be it Athens, Sofia or London – and this was a pleasant contrast, more reminiscent of the drive from Singapore airport.

Our check in was fairly quick and efficient, and we were soon settling into a room that looked even better than the online photos. Knowing that we would be catering our own breakfast in the room, and anticipating that we would be spending most if not all of shabbat trapped inside, I had chosen a room that included a salon area with sofa and armchair, and what turned out to be an extraordinarily well-equipped kitchen, almost all of which was off-limits to us because of kashrut issues. The kitchen featured an oven with integral microwave (which we didn’t use – to be honest, we didn’t realise it contained a microwave until I mentioned at checkout that our only disappointment with the hotel was not having a microwave), a dishwasher (which we didn’t use), a washing machine (which we didn’t use – no kashrut issues, but we really didn’t feel laundry qualifies as a holiday activity), an induction hob (which we didn’t use – we really were on holiday), plus an excellent range of crockery, cutlery, pots and pans (which we didn’t use).

What we did use were the worksurface, peninsula and stools, nespresso machine (one of us), kettle (both of us) and family-size fridge-freezer.

Having unpacked and showered, we fell into bed and slept the sleep of, if not the innocent, then at least the exhausted but relieved to have arrived without incident.

The following day (Monday) was dedicated to shopping for essential supplies. We were delighted to discover that, as promised online, our hotel was right in the bustling heart of the city, which meant that we could embark on our expedition on foot. This started with a short foray to the mini-Carrefour round the corner from the hotel, for salad and fruits, and other essential food supplies.

Having returned to the hotel to drop off the shopping and eat the last of our rolls and some fruit for breakfast, we ventured half a kilometre further afield, easily locating Primark. This was, to be honest, a huge disappointment. I don’t know whether the selection in the store (which ranged over 5 vast floors) reflected Madrid’s youthful character, or a global rebranding decision by the retailer, or simply the season, but we could find very little for pensioners, or, indeed, for anyone who didn’t want to look like a Hawaiian surfer.

Rather disappointed, we then went in search of the kosher choomus and felafel café-restaurant that we had found online, and that friends, who passed through Madrid a couple of weeks before us, warmly recommended. We were certainly not disappointed and, suitably refreshed, we finished off by walking to a downtown mini-IKEA, where we just about managed to find all of our kitchen and dining requirements for a week of breakfasts and snacks: two modest table settings, chopping board and knives, and so forth.

Thus laden, and in 43 degrees of heat, we felt justified in taking a cab back to the hotel to dump that stuff and to attempt (successfully, in the end) to sort out by WhatsApp with our mobile provider why my roaming package had not yet been activated. A quiet evening in our hotel room was certainly livened up by the news that Tslil had gone into labour, and then, much later, by the news that she had given birth. Bernice and I celebrated quietly in our air-conditioned room.

Having got most of the serious stuff out of the way in one day, we felt ready to start our holiday properly on Tuesday. We began with a two-hour free guided walking tour of the city, which was excellent, taking us to places we would never have found on our own, and giving us an opportunity to properly orientate ourselves. There is a particular quality of tasteful solidity to European cities that once governed a wealthy empire, and Madrid is no exception. Add to that the city’s emphasis on wide-open green spaces, and the prevalence of underground parking, and you have an expansive and comfortable urban environment that is a pleasure to walk around, even when the temperature is 43 degrees, as it was again that day, and, indeed, every day of our stay.

On the way back to the hotel, we popped into El Corte Inglés, a big department store that boasts a rooftop bar with an excellent (and free) panoramic view of the city. The store also boasted a fine selection of genuine Bialetti macchinettas. I have been humming and hawing over buying one of these coffee makers for months. Esther and Maayan won’t leave the house without their macchinetta, and I must admit that it makes a gloriously flavourful brew. However, the coffee comes at a price: it requires the ritual of grinding the beans, then filling, assembling and heating the macchinetta, pouring the coffee, then waiting for the macchinetta to cool before disassembling, rinsing and drying it. It is also, of course, yet another piece of equipment to store away in the kitchen.

Those of you who know me well will realise that the whole rigmarole of the ritual is not only a tremendous drawback but also, simultaneously, and paradoxically, a large part of the attraction. In the end, of course, I couldn’t resist, and I bought a three-cup model that I couldn’t wait to try out in Portugal. (Update: The macchinetta makes great coffee, although I can’t wait to finish the beans I already have at home and order from Esther some of their special blend. To be honest, I can’t always face the rigmarole of the ritual, but when the moon and Venus are correctly aligned, both the ritual and the flavour are well worth savouring.)

Back in the hotel, Bernice received a lovely voice message from Tslil, sounding very good, and saying how much they were all looking forward to seeing us: all of which meant that we were able to enjoy another very good night’s sleep.

We were up early on Wednesday for a coach trip to, guided tour of, and free time in, Toledo. The journey was fine, although I was a little disappointed that our route took us through the long tunnel under the southern part of Madrid, so that we did not see anything of that part of the city or the river. It’s also fair to say that the plains of La Mancha do not make for the most striking scenery. Having said that, sitting down on a comfortable, air-conditioned coach can be a pleasure in itself.

T

However, the workshop did have one wonderful feature: clean toilets, which fact alone made it ‘worth the detour’. This allowed me to enjoy without distractions the next stop, which was the view over the river to the old city of Toledo perched on, and cascading down, the opposite side of the valley.

Our guide for the  walking tour of Toledo was less impressive than our Madrid guide had been, but she warmed up as the tour progressed, and the old city is certainly well worth visiting. After an hour and a half, we were let loose for four hours.

Feeling fairly exhausted, after several hours climbing up and down the streets of Toledo, we retired to a bar and enjoyed a cold beer before climbing back onto the coach for another blissful hour of air-conditioned comfort back to Madrid.

Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling quite exhausted after all that, so I think I’ll stop there and plan to resume next week.

Esther managed to catch Raphael between teething pains last week. He really is a sunny little boy when he has no good reason not to be.