I’d agreed to travel to Barcelona for a friend’s birthday at the beginning of September. I didn’t take much persuading, as it’s one of my favourite cities in the world. This was to be my third visit in six years, and those six years had seen me yo-yo in the most extreme fashion.
I first visited the city for my own birthday in March 2007. I’d hit my lowest weight about 18 months before this photo was taken, and had put a little bit back on by this point, but was still fairly toned.
From what I can remember of it, most of that trip passed by in a bit of a drunken whirlwind. I kept hold of that garish top and eventually vacuum packed it away, convinced that I would never fit into it again. It remained under my bed for several years.
The next time I visited was August 2012, and as you can see, by this point there was a lot more of me to go around. I’d flown over to visit an old friend I knew from Leeds who was studying there, and just remember getting around being a struggle. I walked up the incredibly steep hill to Parc Guell dressed all in black and covered from head to foot. I arrived at the top hot, bothered and absolutely sweltering.
As it happens, there are no full length photographs from that particular trip. I had to steal the photo above from my friend’s Facebook album. I remember having one taken in Parc Guell, and being so repulsed by what I saw, that I’ve no idea if I saved it or deleted it.
By the time September 2013 came around, I’d lost 8.5 stones and was still feeling motivated. I’d managed to fit back into my garish top and vowed to wear it on the first night.
I arrived at Gatwick, and despite only seeing me a couple of months previously, my friends were still shocked by how much slimmer I’d got. Thanks to a diet of mainly whole foods, I was also feeling better than ever too. I often found myself experiencing a natural high most mornings, thanks to the healthy eating and exercise endorphins, so I didn’t shut up during most of the flight. I laughed throughout, but that could have been due to the fact that we appeared to have Matt Lucas on board, looking after us.
According to the weather forecast on the iPhone, we were in for quite a few showers during our trip. After arriving and having a couple of ‘welcome drinks’ in the Irish pub next door to our apartment that we, upon initially passing, had decided we were not going to set foot in; we set about cranking up the music, opening the champagne we’d brought over and getting ready for our first night. The rain, just as promised, hammered down as we danced around the gigantic apartment we’d rented, and knocked back the bubbles.
Thankfully, it was just a shower, albeit a very heavy one. I’ve never experienced drizzle in Spain. You know, the fine rain that makes your hair frizz during your morning commute? No, it’s either bone dry or clattering down and completely soaking you. It’s all a bit extreme really.
We ducked out and wandered up through the Gothic Quarter, before finding a suitable restaurant for dinner. The food was okay, I suppose. Once again, I was back on the tortilla. It’s a bit of a running joke that whenever I visit Spain, I survive on tortilla, fruit, coffee and sangria. I guess it could be worse. To be honest, I was more taken by the restaurant’s quirky name than I was with the omelette.
‘Mi Burrito y Yo’ roughly translates into English as ‘My Donkey & I’ – this made me laugh… A LOT. Here’s a link to their website, if you’d care to have a look http://www.restaurantemiburrito.com/
I’d decided I wanted this trip to be more like my visit in 2007, rather than the previous year when I was completely exhausted. I was wearing my garish top, and was desperate to head back to the bars at Port Olimpic to drink and dance as I had done six years previously. In fact, I’d been in such a rush that I forgot we were on Spanish time, and that the party didn’t really get going round these parts until midnight.
After busying ourselves with a watermelon flavoured shisha pipe, the shots arrived. And shortly after that, so did the Lucky Lucky men. Before we knew it, we’d acquired several silly hats and a few bunches of red roses, mainly bought just to get the Lucky Lucky men to leave us alone.
My last memory of this night is wearing one of the purple hats and dancing to ‘Pon De Replay’ by Rihanna before being dragged to McDonalds and watching my friends eating their ‘food’ and feeling more nauseous than envious.
I’d taken my mini 0.5 kg dumbbells with me in my suitcase. I’d originally packed my usual 1.5kg ones, but panicked about the extra 2kg in my suitcase before swapping them at the last minute. I was determined not to stop my workouts just because I was on holiday. That kind of behaviour had been my undoing in the past. Three nights on the booze would symbolise a break from the old routine enough for my liking. I’m a natural early riser anyway, so on all three mornings, I’d worked out, showered, got dressed and had breakfast before any of my friends had even surfaced. I’d found a fantastic fruit shop a few streets away from our apartment. They also made smoothies, so I’d venture out each morning to buy fruit and a coffee before taking my place on the balcony and making use of the free WiFi.
I’d danced a lot the night before (300 – 400 calories an hour, remember?) but I’d not walked as far as I’d liked, and I made a point of telling my friends that I may have to wander off at some point to stretch my legs. As it happened, they wanted to come along too, so after heading up to Las Ramblas for lunch and a hair of the dog, we decided to have a stroll to the beach.
Along the way, we bumped into a couple of ‘fruit bikes’ selling their wares. It made a refreshing change from the ubiquitous ice cream stalls, and a bit of melon and pineapple would cool me down nicely. During my last visit, I would have completely ignored the fruit bikes and headed straight for the ice cream stall. What a difference twelve months had made.
After arriving at the beach, we found a little bar and ordered a drink before gazing out to sea. Each of us agreed that we’d had far worse Monday afternoons.
We walked the full length of the beach before stopping off for another drink, and then looped around and headed back to the apartment. We’d walked for over three hours in 30 degree heat. Not bad going at all.
As we were still tired from the night before, we decided not to have a big night, and instead just go out for a civilised dinner. Cue another Spanish omelette!
We’d walked through the Gothic Quarter and onto Las Ramblas once again (it had turned into a big walking day) and ended up eating at Hotel Do in the Placa Reial. It was all rather special. You can tell just by looking at the patatas bravas they served us, that we’d gone upmarket for the evening. Here’s the website for your perusal http://www.hoteldoreial.com/gastronomy/la-terrassa-del-do/
I was drinking sangria along with my meal. I took great pleasure in eating the alcohol infused fruit once I’d finished, plus it looked pretty.
We finished up around midnight and headed back to the apartment. Far more civilised than the previous evening, and we’d also managed to rack up a total of five hours of walking throughout the course of the day.
The following day we decided to do the bus tour of the city and cram in as much sight seeing as possible. I’d seen it all before on my last two visits, but, rather like an over excited child, was quite looking forward to the open top bus.
Among the stops was Parc Guell, which I’d visited for the first time during my last visit. The park is up a very steep incline, and I remember really struggling to walk up the hill the previous year. In fact, I had to go in and out of the little gift shops along the street pretending to look at souvenirs, just to catch my breath. This time I was storming ahead of everyone and didn’t stop until I got to the top.
I had another full length picture taken at the top of Parc Guell this time and wasn’t completely repulsed, which was a bonus.
After stopping off at Camp Nou so that the football crazy among our party could have a tour of the FC Barcelona ground, we went back to the apartment to get ready for our final night in the city. Upon arrival, we noticed a particularly acrid urine smell. After investigating the airing cupboard from which the aroma was emanating, we discovered a mop bucket full of wee – VILE! A ‘present’ from the previous holiday makers, no doubt. I opened the other bottle of champagne to help us get over the shock. Aside from the ‘bucket of wee’, the apartment had been perfect.
I’d brought my old favourite ‘skinny dress’ away with me. I’d worn it a couple of times when I’d last been at my slimmest during the autumn of 2005, and loved it so much that I vacuum packed it along with the garish top. I’d originally set myself a target of getting back into it by the end of September when my friend was due to fly in from Los Angeles (I’ll write about this in a future post) but figured I’d try to get ahead of the game. I wasn’t quite ready to wear it on its own, so I teamed it with trousers. We were going to the W Hotel for cocktails, so it was still dressy enough.
We were not very impressed by the cocktail bar. In fact, my friend summed it up perfectly when he came back from the toilet and loudly announced that the highlight of his visit had been the view from the window while he was urinating.
We left and headed back to the Irish bar next to our apartment that we’d said we’d never go in, yet had visited every day since our arrival. As it was nearing midnight, and the day after was Catalonia Day, the processions had begun. Right on cue, the heavens opened. We ran for cover to a bar called La Hacienda. I was feeling rather intoxicated, and knew that we had to be out of the apartment by 10am the following morning, so had one final drink and went to bed. I heard my friends come in around 4:30am and couldn’t help chuckling at how much more hungover than me they were going to be in the morning.
I was actually wrong. I was feeling terribly hungover too. Three days of solid drinking had pretty much finished me off. Thankfully I’d seen fit to book this week as a ‘holiday’ from my official weekly weigh ins.
I put my time at the airport on the way home to good use and picked up some intriguing dark chocolate.
On the plane I was already planning how I was going to get back on track. I’d been nowhere near as bad as I could have been on this trip, but I couldn’t afford to slip up now. I’d set myself certain targets and I’d smashed every single one of them up to this point, and I had no intention of slowing down just yet.
Despite the ‘Damage Limitations’ approach I’d taken on my holiday, I had still enjoyed myself thoroughly.
Barcelona is still one of my favourite cities. I’m just glad I got a chance to go back and enjoy it as I had done the first time I visited, albeit in a slightly more civilised fashion.
Lean & Serene 