Old haunts without old friends are not the same. They are full of ghosts of memories.Tapas in the bar we used to frequent, are nowhere near as much fun. The waiter has a line of patter that would flummox the faint hearted. I pass his test and he finds me a perch , since I am on my own. I ask for white wine and he reels me the choice so fast it’s like a test for spies. ( I have just been reading William Boyd’s Restless, page by page, by wind-up-torch light through the sleepless nights of the Camino). Rioja, Ribeira, Albariño. I choose the latter and it is as good as I remember; my tapa less so. A tuna filled red pimiento with anchovy, chosen in a hurry, would have been better for the company.