Simply Spain: We Had No Google. We Had Pepe.

Thirty years ago, Michel Euesden arrived in Spain with no Google, no Spanish, nowhere to sleep and a trailer full of baked beans. Today, AI can plan a new life in seconds — but perhaps the Spain we fell in love with was found in the wrong turns, unexpected conversations and people like Pepe.

On 20 September 1996, the Euesdens arrived in Arroyo de la Miel.

Two hearts full of love. One six-year-old little boy. A head full of dreams.

No money worth mentioning. No Spanish. No paperwork organised. No idea.

¡Hola, España!

We’re here. We’ve brought corned beef. What happens next?

Today, you can ask AI to prepare your relocation strategy, Google your neighbourhood, translate your tenancy agreement and inspect the road outside your prospective home without getting out of bed.

We arrived without somewhere to sleep.

But I had heated rollers.

Artificial intelligence would have struggled with us. Natural intelligence was already having the afternoon off.

We believed love would get us through.

And, to be fair, it didn’t merely get us through. It propelled us across Spain, Portugal, the islands and France. Into businesses, friendships, adventures and situations for which there has never been an appropriate dropdown menu.

A Trailer Full of Baked Beans

We came in a midsized Jeep with a roof box and a trailer full of baked beans, soup and corned beef.

Spain had fresh fish, beautiful vegetables, olive oil and magnificent markets.

We had prepared for the collapse of luncheon meat supplies.

Finding familiar British food then could involve Gibraltar, a border crossing and crossed fingers. Or a specialist shop charging prices that suggested each tin had been personally escorted from England by a minor royal.

The colourful son was wedged between quilts, pillows and household necessities.

Today, parents track their children’s location on their phones.

I could locate mine by moving a duvet.

The roof box contained short skirts, shorts, T-shirts and tiny jackets. Sensible clothing had been disposed of to make room for things we actually needed.

Such as heated rollers.

We thought the rain in Spain fell mainly on the plane.

Coming over.

Cold weather? ¿En España?

Don’t be silly. Take that jumper out. There’s another pair of heels to go in.

No App. No Security Code. Just Trust.

We stopped outside a bar and met Trevor and Annette, who are still here today and have a caravanning business.

We talked. We drank. The sun began to disappear.

“Where are you staying?” Trevor asked.

Ah.

Accommodation.

An interesting concept. Shame neither of us had explored it.

We were in the throes of a passionate love affair. A proper flechazo. Cupid had been magnificent on chemistry and frankly useless on logistics.

Today, your phone reminds you to check in, gives you a door code and asks you to review the pillows before you’ve put your head on one.

Then, Trevor suggested trying where they were staying.

Quickly.

He looked at our Jeep, roof box and trailer — which needed roughly the turning space of a cruise ship — and threw Mr E his car keys.

We had known him an hour.

No deposit. No app. No security code sent to a number you stopped using in March.

Just: here, take the car.

Presumably, the woman and child remaining at the bar counted as collateral.

He had clearly never funded my hair appointments.

Off went Steven.

As I remember it, the junction involved getting over to the right in order to turn left.

An early introduction to the principle that, in Spain, reaching your destination may involve first going somewhere apparently unrelated.

Anyone who has ever needed a stamp will understand.

Mr E turned directly left.

The Guardia Civil were behind him.

¡Estupendo!

He had also had two brandy-and-Cokes.

Old Spanish measures.

Ice. Pour. Keep pouring. Ask after somebody’s mother. Another splash. Un poquito más.

The Coke was largely there as a witness.

He had greeted those drinks like a dehydrated camel discovering an oasis with an alcohol licence. Dreadful judgement before driving, however you dress it up.

The officers wanted his licence.

With the passports.

Where?

With his woman.

Where was she?

At the bar.

Whose car?

A man he had just met.

Today, Google Translate could have explained all this instantly.

Whether hearing it in fluent Spanish would have improved the situation is debatable.

Then they asked him to open the boot.

Inside: a satellite dish for a boat and Annette’s skimpy clothes.

Even AI might have paused.

“I’m sorry, Steven. There is quite a lot to unpack here.”

He spoke no Spanish. They spoke rapid Andalusian with the confidence of men who had uniforms, firearms and considerably less explaining to do.

After what felt to him like an eternity, they waved him on.

Perhaps they believed him. Perhaps they took pity. Perhaps nobody wanted to write “satellite dish and ladies’ smalls” in the report.

We shall never know.

Would I take a stranger’s car keys so readily today?

I’d want to see inside the boot before touching the ignition.

Then, we trusted.

Somehow, amid the chaos, Spain caught us.

Our Translation Department

The next day, we rented a beautiful house. A home that wrapped itself around us while we worked out our next move.

The following week, the colourful son started school in a language he couldn’t speak.

Now, he speaks Spanish as fluently as any Andalusian.

My progress has been slightly more theatrical.

Our Collins pocket dictionary was our translation department.

No battery. No subscription. No reassuring voice.

Just tiny print and the possibility of turning a straightforward shopping trip into a sexual incident.

At the butcher’s, I once asked for a piece of male anatomy instead of chicken.

He howled.

I’d gone in for dinner and apparently suggested other arrangements.

Today, you point your phone and say, “Chicken breast.”

Then, you accidentally propositioned the butcher and became part of the local folklore.

¡Madre mía!

And when I needed fly spray without the dictionary?

Into the ferretería.

Buzz. Buzz.

Flapping.

A dramatic descent towards the floor.

In a miniskirt.

An entire insect death scene performed beside the plumbing fittings.

Today, that would be a reel. Somebody would add music. I’d be advised to monetise it.

Then, I just wanted the flies dead.

Then There Was Pepe

Then came Mr E’s birthday.

Anyone who knows him knows the moon and stars are the opening bid. Ideally, there should be further surprises after breakfast.

It was his first birthday since we had been together.

I wanted something special.

I had very little money.

Not “perhaps I shouldn’t” money.

Counting-it-twice-in-case-it-had-grown money.

Arroyo de la Miel was my whole world. For the first six months, Fuengirola seemed like somewhere you might need a guide and emergency rations to reach.

Today, Maps tells you exactly how many minutes away everything is.

Then, everything beyond the bit I knew was an expedition.

In Arroyo, there was a jeweller called Pepe.

In his window was a gold pinky ring with stones.

Mr E. Absolutely.

Eso es.

I went in. Asked the price.

My face immediately submitted our accounts.

Pepe spoke no English. His daughter came out to help with the English she had learned at school.

How long had I been here?

Three days.

How much did I have?

I told them.

And they let me have the ring for that.

No online discount code. No abandoned basket email. No “customers like you also bought”.

They looked at me.

They listened.

They understood.

Then they wrapped that ring as though I had bought something fit for a queen.

And gave me a bottle of cava.

I went in with hardly any money and came out feeling like a princess.

Admittedly, a princess who had just spent the housekeeping. Thank goodness for the strategic bean reserve.

We stayed customers for years. Later, they became some of our first longstanding Euro Weekly clients, with a family discount.

They had remembered the person before the purchase.

We remembered the kindness when we had something to give back.

Today, a system might call that customer retention.

To us, it was Pepe.

Spain Had Already Organised Lunch

Everyone smoked then.

The doctor. The bank manager. Half the officials you needed to see.

Sometimes you had to cut through the air to find the person behind the desk.

The bank manager would emerge through the haze like a contestant on Stars in Their Eyes, except he was about to discuss your account.

Today, you can check your balance without speaking to anyone.

Then, you could discuss it while apparently being gently smoked like a haddock.

Some changes are unquestionably improvements.

But the conversations?

Those I remember.

You went to someone’s home for a coffee and ended up being fed.

Siéntate. Come. Un poquito más.

Sit down. Eat. Have a little more.

Nobody sent a calendar invitation. There was no agreed finish time. If you were still there, there was still food.

In some places, our menú del día, converted from pesetas, cost less than three euros.

Food. Bread. Half a bottle of wine. Cold rice pudding.

Arroz con leche.

We learned to love it.

A year later, we still had mountains of the canned produce.

We had dragged British emergency supplies across Europe, only to discover that Spain had already organised lunch.

Quite beautifully.

Everything Is Faster. Are We?

Today, you can spend twenty minutes scrolling through restaurant reviews, eliminate six places, compare photographs and end up too hungry to be civil.

Then, we sat down.

¿Qué hay de comer?

What’s for lunch?

It arrived. We ate it. Qué rico.

We took our cool box to the beach. Played with our little boy. Lived among Spanish neighbours.

In my memory, the roads were quieter. Life felt less hurried.

Nobody needed to prove they were enjoying themselves by uploading it.

The afternoon was enough.

We were fortunate to arrive when building a life here on very little felt possible for people like us.

After the dreaded B-word, I look at those making the move today with enormous admiration.

The organisation. The paperwork. The planning.

Everything copied, cropped, checked and verified.

We arrived with dreams and a tin opener.

Now, the wing-and-a-prayer approach looks as though it needs a certified translation of the wing and supporting evidence for the prayer.

And technology is supposed to make everything quicker.

AI writes the plan.

Google Translate finds the words.

Maps finds the street.

The phone finds the restaurant, the house, the school and seventeen people explaining why you’ve chosen the wrong one.

Marvellous tools. I use them.

But why, with all this time saved, do we so often seem to have none?

We can translate a conversation instantly.

Do we stop to have one?

We can find the quickest route through a village.

Do we notice the village?

We can answer an email while drinking a coffee, order the shopping and rearrange tomorrow.

Then we look down and the coffee is cold.

¡Hombre!

Simply Spain Is Still There

And now, doing Spain solo, I am beginning to notice again.

Walking through Mijas at night with Teddy and Gracie.

The little streets. The evening air. People outside talking.

The dogs inspecting every corner as though the council has employed them to investigate suspicious smells.

I stop.

Have a coffee.

Look around.

When I was rushing about in a duo, there was always something to build, organise, solve or get to.

Now, there is pleasure in the smallest achievement.

Something sorted. Something understood. A day managed.

Occasionally, I feel I deserve a medal for completing an ordinary task.

A certificate would do. Perhaps a small civic reception.

The doctor no longer smokes in front of me, but he joins me for a cold Cola Zero.

My preferred Red Bull Light is not always an option in a Spanish bar.

Possibly they take one look at me and decide further stimulation would be irresponsible.

My office is in a courtyard belonging to María and Salvador.

When I’m working alone with Teddy and Gracie, they bring cake. Fruit. Little treats.

The dogs manage inspections.

Any delivery containing food receives immediate senior attention.

I can be wrestling with an email, seventeen tabs open, AI helping me organise the chaos, and somebody appears with a plate.

No notification.

No password.

Just cake.

Para ti.

For you.

They have time to talk to me.

I have time to listen.

Thirty years ago, Trevor threw us his keys.

Pepe made the ring possible.

His daughter found the words.

Today, María and Salvador come across the courtyard with something lovely.

Different people. Different chapter. The same generosity.

And I wonder whether we sometimes arrive loving Spain exactly as it is, then spend years trying to turn it into something else.

Faster. Slicker. More organised. More like us.

We want everything open, available, instant.

Then complain that the place has lost its character.

Ay, por favor.

Perhaps we’ve been so busy improving the experience that we’ve stopped having it.

Thirty Years Is a Relationship

Spain, you have been incredibly kind to us.

Sometimes, horrifically unfair.

Thirty years is a relationship, darling. There have been words.

But I still love you.

I can love the two people who arrived here, the dreams they carried and the life they built, while making room for the woman walking through Mijas today.

The little boy grew up.

The paperwork multiplied.

The sensible coat was eventually purchased.

The skirts remain optimistic.

And I still want to see what the next season brings.

For someone like Pepe.

For a courtyard.

For cake.

Michel doing Spain solo — and Simply Spain works for me. 💋