Forget the sangria. In Spain it’s all about the long life milk.

Today I went shopping. Food shopping.

‘Well, Kath, that’s thrilling,’ I hear you say. ‘I can’t wait to read a blog about buying rice and vegetables in Spain.’

I admit it doesn’t sound in the least bit exciting. And yet it was. I can only put this down to the fact that I am now in Vejer de la Frontera in Spain, and for the first time in a month I have a kitchen. In my own apartment. To cook my own food.

Those of you who know me well know that I am not much of a cook. I only enjoy it when I have time, which, given my previous blogs about work life balance, is basically never. I have however been known to experiment on my guests with new, complicated dishes such as soufflé. I have even been known to rope my friends into actually helping me cook, which they feel inspired to do if they want to eat before midnight. So to say that I am excited about not eating out at a restaurant tonight is like saying that Nigella Lawson has started cooking without cream. Totally unheard of.

I went a bit crazy. You know, like buying flat leaf parsley even though I have no immediate use for it. To the point where I forgot I had travelled by foot, and therefore had to lug all the food home like a pack donkey. My arms still feel like they’re hanging below my knees.

But the most exciting thing I bought? Fresh milk. I had to hunt around for it, and eventually discovered two bottles hidden in the corner behind some yoghurt. Spaniards, and to an extent the Portuguese, just do not do fresh milk. I don’t know why. Maybe there’s a shortage of dairy cows in this part of the world. Maybe they simply prefer the taste of long life milk. But in a country that serves sangria, paella, spicy chorizo and truffle honey, I find that hard to believe.

I only made one wrong purchase. Apparently Ajo is Spanish for Garlic not Salt. Thank God I’m here on my own, because it looks like I’m going to have very bad garlic breath for the next few weeks.

It is now 8:30pm and I am thinking about cooking up some of my lovely, fresh food. This is almost illegal to the Spanish. We have another hour of daylight yet, and most of the restaurants are only just opening. I will have to cook on the quiet and hope none of the neighbours see me, lest they start referring to me as the strange Australian girl who cooks chicken for afternoon tea. Not that I would understand them if they did – the Spanish speak even less English than the Portuguese. I could almost write a blog just about my weird sign language and how it is interpreted. Today’s winner would be trying to ask for lip balm in the pharmacy. I don’t know what I was doing wrong, but the pharmacist just kept looking at me and saying ‘thrush?’. We eventually got there. I hope. I have a tub of cream with Spanish writing on it. It looks like lip balm, that’s all I know.

Vejer is in the Spanish hills, 10km from the coast in the Costa de Luz. If you have no idea where this is, don’t worry. I don’t either, really, and I’m here. What I do know is that Vejer was voted the prettiest hilltop town in Spain last year, and if you stand on the right side of town at night, you can see the lights of Morocco. Pretty cool, even though it is getting a tad too close to Libya for my liking.

I’m staying in the old town, in a little three level apartment that has stairs that give you vertigo. There’s an amazing view from the rooftop terrace (see pic), which also has no sun protection so it’s a great spot to get totally fried during siesta.

The vibe here is very relaxed. The opposite of Barcelona, where I have just been for three nights with Lizzie. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Barcelona. Loved the food (even though with tapas you end up eating such a strange combination of food, kind of like eating at Sizzler), loved all the Gaudi architecture, loved the great little Aussie run café downstairs where we ate breakfast every morning (I know, I know, but honestly the only place in Barcelona to serve coffee with fresh milk!). And of course after being on my own for a month, I loved having Lizzie’s company. Loved having someone else to read the map and make the decisions about where to go. Loved having someone to say ‘Oh my god, look at that!’ or ‘God, I need a beer’ to. But after walking the city from end to end for two days straight, my feet were ready for Vejer, which is 10 minutes end to end.

It was also nice to have someone to take a couple of photos of me to show that I actually am in Spain and not secretly hiding in a bedsit in Brixton. Here’s one just as evidence. That’s me doing a spot of modelling at Park Guell, designed by Gaudi. That man was a genius. Or ate a lot of magic mushrooms. 

I’ll be here in Vejer for nearly three weeks. Plenty of time to get the book back on track, which will also be made easier by the complete lack of television and a sketchy internet connection. I don’t know if it’s having a few days off from writing, getting inspired by Gaudi, drinking some fresh milk, or simply the fresh hilltop air, but I read back over my second draft today and it suddenly didn’t seem quite so bad after all.