Train to Madrid

They are loud, opinionated and argumentative. There's nothing they like more than an intense exchange of ideas. They laugh a lot, at themselves mostly, and they're great fun to be with. My friends, the journalists from the Asociacion de la Prensa del Campo de Gibraltar.



I just got back from a trip to Madrid with a few of them, a three-day seminar that included a visit to Spain's oldest nuclear power station (more on that soon). We rode up on the train from Algeciras, hanging out in the bar mostly, watching the landscape zip past through the panel windows on either side of the carriage.


Leaning on the bar, chatting, debating, arguing, inching closer to the capital hour by hour. The train winds through the beautiful mountains around Ronda, the track hewn from the steep sides of deep valleys, overlooking strong streams swollen with the recent rains. Then on to the central plateau and Madrid beyond, a journey of just over five hours.


In the bar the conversation was laced with wine, beer and coffee. I played around with my iPhone and the Hipstamatic app, snapping old-style pics and looking forward to a good meal in town. With us was John Searle, the doyenne of the group, ex editor of my newspaper and a veteran journalist and all-round good guy. He's eighty something, but has more energy than many people half his age. Here he is, looking pensive.