SPAIN: Oh dear, for someone who loves the Wakatipu as much as I do, Spain is making me feel like a guilty lover - Bilbao beckoned, and I was seduced.
I was told to book into the Gran Hotel Domine which overlooks the Guggenheim Museum. People go to Bilbao just to stay at this hotel, with its seven-storey snakey, stony sculpture that dominates the entire middle of the building.
You can lie in bed gazing at the giant puppy made of potted flowers, or swivel a fraction to admire the sinuous curves of Gehry's titanium masterpiece. Look online and see what I mean.
And to make things even more seductive, there was a whole exhibit of Richard Serra's massive iron sculptures and another of Anish Kapoor's works. Our own Ed Cruikshank is part of the "Roundabout" exhibition which starts travelling the world this year and he is in very illustrious company.
He told me about Anish Kapoor, the world-famous artist and sculptor I had never heard of though I now realise I was probably the only person in the world who hadn't. What a genius.
The riverbanks are full of sculptures and there was a big Spidermama with a full egg sac. She could quite easily have been a relation of Mark Hill's big weta on the first hole at The Hills, and was constantly surrounded by admirers.
Even my darling loved it, although modern art often makes him a little itchy and sweaty. I think the biggest thrill for him was being offered a half-price ticket in the museum. He seemed to think "jubilado" was something to do with jubilation, and was a bit put out to find it meant they took him for a pensioner.
The north of Spain is Basque country, which has its own language. Driving there was a nightmare, not least because the other woman in our lives (Barbara the B... on the GPS) wasn't entirely sure where we were and kept giving orders and then saying she was recalculating.
She seemed hellbent on seeing us divorced and got pretty close. A nice traffic cop in San Sebastian seemed taken by my appalling Spanish and patiently explained that being lost was no excuse for running red lights.
While the driving was ghastly, the drinking and eating were brilliant.
Tapas there are called pintxos and the smaller the place, the better the food. Some places are the size of very small cupboards and you squish in and shout or point or flap your arms about and suddenly you are being given octopus lollipops or grilled liver sandwiches, and everything is delicious. Pure heaven.
The Basque country could have kept us there much longer but Barcelona was waiting.
The apartment we booked online sounded too good to be true so it was with no little anxiety that we squeezed into the coffin-sized lift, but sometimes the internet is a real miracle.
Our house here is incredible; I don't know how we are going to leave.
And the other luxury is lying in bed reading The Angel's Game, by Carlos Ruiz Safan, author of one of my favourite books ever, The Shadow of the Wind. The Angel's Game is gripping and very funny and, best of all, is set in Barcelona.
If I can stop looking out the window and get reading, I will be able to tell you more about it next week!
