An anniversary

Today is a slightly offbeat anniversary in my life. Nothing to do with births, deaths, marriages or people in general, but the twentieth anniversary of my first ever visit to the place that I've most fallen in love with, and would most like to call home - Gran Canaria. During my twenties, I'd never really thought of package holidays, even though there were periods during that time when I could easily have afforded to go, spending my time off work either visiting my family and friends or travelling within the UK. The other inhibiting factor was that I didn't really have anyone to go with, and not being the sort of person who tends to make friends easily, I was put off by the idea of spending a week or fortnight in a foreign country more or less completely on my own. The turning point came in 1989, when my cousin and a group of his friends went to Gran Canaria for a week. He came back saying how much he'd enjoyed himself, which planted the idea in my head that it might be my cup of tea after all.
The trip didn't come about for another 12 months, but I convinced myself to give it a go, and booked a week at the beginning of September 1990. Given that I was going on my own, I decided to stay in a hotel, and, not having been before, booked purely on the basis of brochure descriptions. As it turned out, it was a pretty good place, with some of the best food I've had in a Spanish hotel, even though it was nominally only 3* rated.
I had an evening flight out from Manchester, so that it was getting on for midnight by the time I arrived at Las Palmas airport, to be greeted by puddles that seemed to be about a foot deep. I seriously wondered what the hell I'd let myself in for. The holiday company rep on the transfer coach reassured us, though - apparently the weather over the previous few days had been uncomfortably hot, 35 - 40 degrees and humid with it, very unusual for that time of year, but that there had been a massive thunderstorm that evening which was supposed to have cleared the air and that the following day was going to be warm and dry, much more typical Canarian weather.
When I got up at around 9:00 the following morning, the weather prognosis proved to be correct - bright sunshine and not a cloud to be seen, and that's how it stayed for the rest of the week, apart from one cloudy afternoon. The welcome meeting, rather than being in the hotel, was in an English bar in the town followed by a mini coach tour of the resort, and I have to admit that by lunchtime on that first day, I'd fallen head over heels for the place. I'll freely admit that Playa del Ingles wouldn't be for everyone - there's no 'old town', because there was nothing there except tomato fields until the 1960's, and it can look a bit of a concrete jungle - but I fell in love at first sight, helped by the fantastic weather, and the feeling's never gone away.
During that first week, I only ventured outside the resort once, and then only to Faro, a couple of miles away, but on subsequent visits, I've seen, by way of coach tours, car hire and local buses, the majority of the island, and apart from the capital, Las Palmas, I like pretty much everything I've seen. If circumstances ever permit, I wouldn't hesitate to live on the island - my Spanish isn't fluent, but I can get by, and living there would doubtless improve my grasp of the language. The drawback is that my wife isn't keen, although we have got as far as fairly detailed discussions about how it could work on a couple of occasions. I'm hamstrung by the fact that my wife knows she's got the ultimate veto, at least in any foreseeable circumstances - when we've had our intermittent arguments over the years, she's invited me to go on my own on a few occasions, knowing very well that I wouldn't. Maybe there's a retirement home out there somewhere with my name on it, who knows? I can live in hope, even if I die in despair.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B