Every day — unless you happen to live in mist-shrouded Galicia — the sun shines. Tobacco and beer are cheap, and the optic, that Pecksniffian contrivance that ensures you get not a drop more than your one-sixth of a gill, is quite unknown.

In this country, you actually have to tell the bartender when to stop pouring spirits into your glass. These are the things that attract the majority of visitors and residents to Spain. If, though, they possess the merest shadow of a soul, they soon become captivated by the deeper qualities that the country has to offer, whether it be the awesome savagery of the landscape, or the glory of the architecture — that fabulous hybrid created by the Moors and the Jews, and latterly by the Catholics with the silver and gold they stole from the Americas. Or it might be the beauty of the language, which can lend a poetic lilt to the most banal utterance... or the music, the customs, perhaps the food and wine... the list goes on.

After many years in Spain, I have been seduced by all these qualities, but perhaps most of all by the people themselves and their attitude to life. I cannot do better than George Borrow, who wrote in The Bible in Spain: “...in their social intercourse no people in the world exhibit a juster feeling of what is due to the dignity of human nature, or better understand the behaviour which it behoves a man to adopt towards his fellow human beings. It is one of the few countries in Europe where poverty is not treated with contempt, and, I may add, where the wealthy are not blindly idolised”.

There’s a much-loved story that, whether it’s true or not, goes some way to illustrate his point.

Late one night on a lonely road on the island of Mallorca, a young man riding his moped ran out of fuel. He cursed, kicked his machine and looked up and down the road for some sign of assistance. But he was way out in the middle of nowhere and there was nobody about. So, with another oath he turned and trudged back the way he had come. He had barely walked five paces when a monstrous bike pulled up beside him, straddled by a sinister-looking figure in black.

“Oh, Lord,” he thought. “Now I’m for it; in the morning, my battered body will be discovered in the ditch.”

The intimidating figure heaved the great beast onto its stand and strode towards him.

“So, what’s the problem?” it growled.

“Er...run out of fuel...” mumbled the terrified youth.

“Hop on the back, kid,” said the dark biker.

The kid timidly did as he was bade and soon they were bowling through the black night. On they raced until they came to a petrol station, where the thug, finding that our hero had no money on him, paid for a can and some fuel. Then, together, they raced back to the moped.

The kid, a little unsure what to make of it all, dismounted and stammered: “H-how can I thank you?

I d-don’t even know who you are...”

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