We had mined the area for its most highly rated walks. Other recommendations would take us on the kind of longer drives I was eager to avoid for my back. So we settled on a bit of beach with a final short coastal traipse.

What to say about our short slog to/from the Isleta de Moro? It looked prettier from the car? That’s a lie, it was very pretty in person and certain stretches of the trail was fun and unique, but there were also sections that were hard-packed desert dust and the mercury was climbing fast. The town was busier, with groups of chic tourists roving through the square like starlings. The abuelas started back while Ben, Ellie and I zipped up to the humped Isleta for a quick pic. We got back to the beach about ten minutes after they did.

It was already hot when we hit the sand and I found it wearisome to sit and sweat in the sun. I ditched the 5 ladies and rambled over the bluffs. I found another batería. I circled its walls with interest, and noted that an inside corner offered a fairly easy climb up to the top of the wall. I popped onto a large balcony offering onto the ocean. Wide stairs led down to a courtyard where bushes and weeds grew up through the cracks in the flagstones. There was large fireplace built into one of the walls, its stones black with soot. Something lay inside half-burned, and I went over to look. But enough of that – I’ve been away too long. I hurried back to the beach.

The aforementioned ladies, meanwhile, were enjoying reading and relaxing. The previous night we’d all kneeled beside mom’s bed, aka Ellie’s current throne, laughing and watching with rapt attention while the baby set about trying to eat an entire fist. I am not a beach lover at heart but sitting under the umbrella’s meagre shade and beneath our larger, metaphorical umbrella of maternal support, was lovely. As the sound of ocean waves washed over us, both abuelas thanked me for handling many of the logistical/itinerary planning elements of the trip. Each has already spent years managing the minutia for their own families, and it felt good to be able to return the favour a bit even though it was a drop in the bucket compared to their decades of service.

One bit of minutiae I insisted on contributing to the itinerary was a menú del día. We had learned on our previous Spain trip that they are the most delicious and best value things you can get. We were running out of time – the only other restaurant we had so far gone to was in El Acebuchal. The abuelas had walked to town for beach time and a drink a few days ago and spotted a sign for the menú, so that morning Sabrina and I set off on a jiggle down to town to make una reserva por una mesa por cuatro. It was, once again, a delight to run together. We mumbled our request in deplorable spanish to a waitress, then jogged back, taking a bit of a detour through the poppies that blanketed the desert. We did laundry and hung out for a few hours, then I set off early, determined to try my “shortcut” to Las Negras over the cerros instead of around by the highway.

I started off on the now-familiar track past the apiary, but turned left to visit a bonus high point. I was making great time, so I explored around a bit before regaining the ridge I had climbed a few days ago. At first it was quite steep going down the other side, but I had time to take it easy. The streets at the top of the town, where I first dropped into, were muy rico. Large, modern houses with gardeners working on the grounds. Fancy pools and names carved into stone gateways. I kept winding my way down, coming now to the more average houses of the locals, and finally the tourist flats near the seaside. I reached the agreed on meeting spot a minute or two before they drove in.

From our open-air table overlooking the beach, we squinted at the sandwich board listing the menu options. Photos were taken discretely to be zoomed in by hand. The waitress was questioned but she didn’t speak English and wasn’t fussed to make an attempt (meanwhile, our pitiful stumbling through the native language was embarrassing for all involved). Eventually most of us landed on steamed mussels for the primero, and fried fish for the segundo, with some ordering paella to share. Ellie had been doing well but once the food arrived her grabby little hands necessitated that we take turns walking her along the boardwalk. At one point while on Ben’s lap, Ellie suddenly lunged, wrapped two fists around the giant paella dish handle, and in one swift tug brought it to the table’s edge.

She is my diet coach.

She coached us all out of our seats right quick, I tell ya what. The postres was a standout: chocolate cake, cheesecake and cafe con leche. Ben parambulated Father around the beach a bit, and then we headed out.

That may be my last meal at a Spanish restaurant. I deliver my verdict: regular Spanish food is mediocre. At an extraordinary restaurant like Bar El Acebuchal, they will roast the meat well and bake wonderful fresh bread, but the average meal is a 4/10. Breakfast: it’s a couple slices of ham on dry supermarket bread. Fish on a dockside restaurant: oily, bones in, and slight on flavour. Paella: you can taste canned tomato and a whiff of garlic, and the rice is very tough. Tapas in San Sebastian? Hope you like mayo. The best I can say for Spanish cuisine is that the supermarkets are cheap and the fruit is fresh. I expect a lot more of France and Italy.

Man who spat in your sangria?

After the final meal out, came the final hike. We dipped inland to the Desierto de Tabernas, where many spaghetti westerns have been filmed, as well as parts of the sixth season of Game of Thrones, one of Sean Connery’s Bond movies, and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. We didn’t visit the saloon-dotted set towns, instead turning our boots toward the arid and rambling landscape that was once a Mediterranean seabed. It is considered the only proper desert on the European continent.

I liked the winding, sun-bleached wood stairs that led down into the gulch. I liked the “dragon scale” rock formations, which were chunky, regular, and at a foppish tilt. Plodding along a valley does not thrill me. I want to stand on a great height and see the valleys from above and everything else around besides. I want to climb something so big I am made smaller until I almost disappear, dissolved in the sky. But I’m glad you mixed a few things like this in for variety. The cuevos, La Mezquita, otra vez, so that the trip was not too samey-samey. High points need low points to stand out.

I agree. I generally chafe at any environment that’s too hot, too sandy, too similar to a SunWing all-inclusive destination. But I was drawn to the unique formations within the Desierto and it seemed like an integral part of our exploration of the region’s natural side. The 13 km hike was a strange mix of wide roads (prone to flash floods) beneath undulating limestone cliffs, narrow and twisting rocky stream beds, and established single-track that passed by some neat features, including a Western town set (ha! no entrance fee needed). We changed Ellie’s diaper in the shadow of large boulder, then made our way back to Casa Limonero for our final evening as a complete group of six.

The next morning we drove back west along the coast, along cliffsides and through tunnels bored for a kilometre through the bluffs. We stopped to stretch (and let Ellie stretch) twice along the way, the Mediterranean wearing its most dazzling blue in the sunny weather. We munched dutifully at our grocery store left overs, which had been carefully calculated to get us to the airport without waste.

On a slim stretch of beach about twenty minutes from the Málaga airport, I sat with the abuelas on the sand. Our moods were light, despite the imminent goodbye. Jen suggested Mom find a strapping Irish gent in Dublin so she wouldn’t have to pay for a hostel during her 24 hr layover. I quipped something about “daddy #3” and we laughed and laughed.

We got to the airport easily enough. I warned that Arlene would have to quickly unfold herself and grab her bags because it would be hard to find a quiet place to stop. We guessed at the meaning of the signs as they flitted by, and then suddenly we were in a largely vacant parking lot beside the airport. We had all the time in the world to say our farewells and rearrange luggage and triple check that she had everything she needed including squashed sandwiches and yogurt containers of cold soup. But I was growing uneasy, that recurring thought that I was unknowingly trespassing or committing some gaffe. Were we in an employee parking area? A part of the terminal far from arrivals and departures? An entirely different dimension of reality? When at last we got back in the van, we tried an exit but it was a one-way that seemed to be heading towards a paid parking area, so I reversed and tried the other way out. This was also a one-way and this time we hit a gate. I still don’t quite know where we were – possibly in a lane for airport shuttles, but we hit a gate and I started reversing again when we were approached by an airport security vehicle, dispatched to thwart a potential terrorist attack and/or prevent clueless tourists from driving onto a runway. They were friendly and pointed back to the first exit which did end up working eventually.

I have to say that the driving mostly went fine throughout the trip, but I did get flustered at least twice, this time, and that much earlier time when I was so sleepy and couldn’t find a parking spot in a busy tourist town. I think I also could have driven more gently on the winding mountain roads. I had the privileged driver seat out of consideration of my terrible back and I was very grateful for this. I was nursing it along as best I could all trip but there were many times where it got quite bad despite all the exercise I had. Can’t wait for my 40s.

Ellie will keep you limber. By force, I expect. I had booked an accommodation that was roughly halfway between Málaga and Córdoba. It ended up being a small collection of cottage-y villas attached to a tavern, next to a gas station. The villa was cold, the wifi patchy and the quarters cramped, but it was still cute. Of course, at the time we were wanting dinner then the tavern had already closed their lunch service and the evening meal was hours away so we heated leftover lentil soup in the microwave and dipped bread.

After our increasingly spartan meal, I went for a jog as the sun went down. I followed the road up into a hilltop town with narrow, oddly-angled streets, the lamps and open front doors of the farmacias y restaurantes spilling warm light onto the streets. I kept working my way higher until I came to the town centre: a cathedral, a park, and a some spookily-lit crypts. There were no other people out, only night sounds and the bark of a dog. Thinking to make it a bit of a loop, I jogged down the other side of the hill, passing an enormous cemetery. It was properly dark now and I knew I should get back soon. I opted to cut through an orchard immediately behind the place we were staying. The low scraggly branches of the olive trees and irrigation lines forced me to walk and I realized I was most certainly tresspassing and would have a high fence to climb at the end. No angry Spaniards confronted me and I slipped back inside five minutes later, full of energy.

Meanwhile, I was back in our abode fielding increasingly fervent asides from Abuela about whether I was worried about you, where you were, what should we do, what if you never come back, how will Ellie cope without a father figure, etc etc. As darkness fell and you still hadn’t returned I admit I started to feel a bit eager for your safe return too. DON’T MAKE ME RAISE OUR DAUGHTER ALONE.

After an even more desperate breakfast of yogurt, soup, and the crumbs from the last of our bread, we left our frigid little rooms. Feeling like these days of cramped driving, cold beds, and scrappy calories had been a hardship, we profusely promised the abuelo that a lovely cafe y sandwich awaited him in Córdoba. He was equally serene before and after these promises, philosophical as ever about taking life as it came. So now, our backs to the Mediterranean, we set out for our first visit to a real city this whole trip.

Abuela W. had already seen La Mezquita twice so we split up, with los ancianos looking for a quiet place to hunker down, while we toured the Belly to the old town. I have been loudly proclaiming my distaste for cities while travelling these past few years, but here was a worthwhile exception. I was stunned by the architecture. The patterns were so intricate. Symmetrical but not in a simple way, and not just two-dimensionally. The carved patterns jutted out at interesting angles, the colours were vibrant, and inside the grassy courtyard there was a peaceful harmony despite the crowds. I felt I hadn’t fully appreciated the exterior walls, so I left Sabrina and Ellie to do a slower tour around the perimeter, stopping to just stare. For ten minutes I stood outside one gate, and everywhere I moved my eyes I saw a new detail or a new pattern. I lost track of time and had to hustle to Sabrina so we could be on time for our tickets to the inner mosque and chapel.

I wasn’t sure how strict they were about the ticket-stated admission times, and as the clock got closer and closer to the hour, I felt myself becoming frustrated. Where WAS he? Why would he disappear when he knew we had an appointment and no way to contact each other? But as a group of young singers started performing in a corner of the courtyard, I took a moment to calm down and re-frame. I resolved to not get wound up in knots over a scheduling issue that may or may not even be a problem. I was in SPAIN, with my DAUGHTER, being SERENADED. I was the luckiest person alive. I took Ellie out of the carrier and swayed with her in my arms as people milled and danced. In the end I think Ben showed up before the clock had even struck 11:10 and we went inside with zero problems.

Inside it was dark and cool. I couldn’t tell how big it was at first, but it felt like a forest with all the pillars and arches holding up an sculpted canopy. Around the perimeter were gold-plated religious icons in little barred cells that I took to calling Jesus Jails. Toward the centre the ceiling got much higher and more ornate as the newer Christian section. During our visit, a mass was performed through some speakers to 4 tee shirt-clad members of the laity scattered among 50 or 60 folding chairs.

I listened to some podcasts I’d downloaded about the Mezquita’s history as we strolled the place. King Charles V’s quote (maybe accurate, maybe not) rang true for me at seeing in person the abrupt clashing of styles: “They have taken something unique in all the world and destroyed it to build something commonplace.” I loved the Islamic elements so much, and wanted more of them. The Christian section in the centre, while impressively ornate, felt garish and intrusive. The forest of pillars was astounding in their breadth, but also eventually repetitive and I wished that I could have experienced the structure in its original glory.

It’s true that it is repetitive and seems very simple at first. Red and white stripes, all arches and pillars nearly identical, stretching back and back and back until something obscures the view. That’s why I mention that I couldn’t judge how big the space was. It was like being in a hall of mirrors only the infinite mirrors disappearing in perfect symmetry in the distance were really there. And the stripes. Bold and so simple, but as you look closer you see all kinds of little subtleties. There are arches within arches, and complicated steps as their legs decreases in size, and little patterns in what at first glance just look like a red outline over the arches. It felt both completely new to my North American eyes, and yet ancient and timeless. Little Ellie, with one stop to nurse, just peered quietly around like she did in the cuevas.

I may have also gotten more from the experience if I’d been able to read the informational plaques.

Don’t be shocked, but I don’t think the same is true for me! I found the experience so rich that I don’t think I’d have been able to take in a slew of informational plaques. Just knowing the headline facts was enough context to be awed. But even I get museum feet and we eventually stepped back into the sun.

We had about an hour before the meet-back time with Jen and Fraser. We wandered the surrounding old town, getting intentionally lost among the whisper-thin lanes threading through the Jewish quarter. We needed lunch, but were wary of inflated prices in this neighbourhood. Tried popping out to the city proper beyond the stone walls, and were struggling to find something that appealed there too. It was warm, and tense words were exchanged before we took a very needed shade break and set our sights on a bakery a short walk from the car. The place was empty, the bathroom a shambles, but the pastries were delicious and we got multiple to enjoy on their roadside patio.

We got back to the car and found my parents already there. They just needed to find a bathroom for el abeulo, so we suggested we drop them off there then hit the road. Alas, it was siesta when they arrived, and the shopkeep refused to either let them pee or buy a pastry. Ellie was nodding off, so we decided to just drive and stop at a gas station out of the city when Ellie awoke, “probably in 30 minutes or so.” At 30 minutes, she was still down, and el padre said he could hold it so we drove on. At 45 minutes, the same. And at 1 hour. It was nearly 2 hours before Ellie finally stirred and we were all delighted to stop for a rest. I walked up to a giant … silhouette board? Like a billboard, but simply in the shape of a cowboy to represent the province we were driving through. Hundreds of these were spaced every few kilometers along the highways, no doubt to redounding benefit to the Spanish taxpayer.

It was getting dark when we finally pulled into our final hotel. Large, clean and close to the airport. We waited hungrily for the in-hotel restaurant to open and were first through the doors. Took turns walking Ellie around, then swept back to our rooms to make sure our packing accounted for not just what we wanted at the airport, but also what would be coming with me and Ellie to Ontario.

Since we’d driven away from Casa Limón it had felt like the vacation was over and we were on the journey home. Now, with the sun set on our last full day in Spain, I was ready to get to the end of the next stage, which would be made up of waiting in lines, waiting on planes, waiting in cars, and just feeling the seconds tick slowly by.

My research suggested that the kids/family/baby area of the Madrid airport was the nicest yet. It was a long walk, but we had a long wait so we made the trek. It was worth it; a secure and private entrance led to multiple sprawling play areas, kitchen, nap rooms (in use, alas) and baby change rooms that we had to ourselves.

At last we boarded our flight west, the longest of the trip since we’d be against the jet stream. We didn’t bother with a bassinet this time, since Ellie didn’t nap securely unless she was being cradled against a warm body. She was quite happy lounging on the floor behind the bulkhead, until a wicked and foolish flight attendant informed us that this was interdit. We were huffy because of course if there was turbulence causing the baby to become airborne, we would easily catch her before any harm could be done.

The phrase “airborne baby” just made me break out in a sweat. Maybe the harpy was right after all.

Ben got a little misty eyed at the prospect of saying goodbye to Ellie at the Montreal airport, where I would simply not board the final connection to Edmonton and instead catch the train to Ottawa. A grand (and cheaper!) idea in theory, if I hadn’t unwittingly put our checked bag under my name when checking in. Since the flight list hadn’t shown me boarding the final flight, nor did my/our bag. Luckily, since we had both gone through customs in Montreal they were able to ship our bag to us after all.

Only after waiting for an hour at an empty carousel and then customer service in Edmonton did we get this sorted, but within a couple days they had driven it all the way to Hinton with no harm done.

The only other hiccup was catching the free shuttle from the airport to the train station, which was about a kilometre and a half away. Theoretically walkable, but the route crossed multiple large highways, had no sidewalk, it was snowing hard, oh and I had a baby strapped to my chest with a giant car seat rolling behind one hand and a weighty carry-on rolling behind the other. Multiple calls to the shuttle line ended in rote, unhelpful answering machines. We finally we saw a crumpled VIA sign on the dash of a shuttle. It took actual begging (picture Esmerelda banging on Quasimodo’s church door, crying “Santuary! Sanctuary! except she’s also holding out a helpless babe) before the extremely unhelpful and inexplicably rushed bus driver would consent to my joining the convoy. Turns out the shuttle phone line goes to his cell, but he doesn’t answer the phone while driving. Which, fair, safety first, except HE’S LITERALLY ALWAYS DRIVING?? I’m over it, I’m over it. He did eventually thaw, and helped unload my bags once we’d reached the bus station.

You are the biggest genius brain. You knew this would all work out and we made so many wonderful memories. Ellie traveled better than we could have possibly hoped, and we got some sun and some hikes and a few little adventures. You planned wonderful activities for us and found nice locations within our budgets. Everyone was very gracious with me when I was sick and we were all adaptable and generous.

This trip was a dream come true, and now ten months on, already feels like a fever dream. Like did we really take a 5 month old baby, three grandparents and our sleep-deprived selves halfway across the world? For a month? It feels surreal looking back, but I was and remain so grateful that everyone was so game. Potent flashes will come back to me — laughing till tears on the sunbed with my mom and Ellie, summiting La Maroma with you, watching the grandmothers crack Ellie up, listening to the birds on the patio with grandpa, reuniting on the paths where we split up, and so many more. I can only hope that Ellie will still be happy to travel with me when I can no longer carry her.