I think I’ve been through my first winter in Cadiz. From late November to March, it has been crisp, whistling sharp, and except for half a dozen or so days, lit by hard sun; the skies predominantly a cloudless royal blue. I’ve been typing inside my marble-lined rented flat wearing three pairs of socks, jeans, polar explorer fleeces, jumpers, bobble hat. Sometimes, like my landlady, I have added a dressing gown. But when I’ve stepped outside (without the dressing gown) I’ve found the entire village basking in the sun outside White Tables and Orange Tables and Bar Gallo with the papers and espressos. At weekends in particular the place had taken on a ski resort look with plenty of shades and gilets and pink puffa jackets on show in the bright light. From time to time snow would make an appearance on the peaks above us, but just watch. Six hundred metres lower the temperatures never dropped below freezing, but I think it’s the surprise that makes winter here feel so cold to someone who arrived when the cicadas were sizzling and the days peaked in the 40s. Temperature + surprise factor = colder than you’d like. But like I say, I think it is over, and spring has sprung. I caught the sun climbing up from a cave in a t-shirt a couple of days ago, and I keep thinking about picnics.