Easter Week is here and for once the weather is on its best behaviour. Perhaps a few showers up there in Galicia (they seem to enjoy them), but warm and sunny for the rest of Spain.
Which means tourists, visitors, families and an agreeable amount of mayhem and hullabaloo. 
Those city folk who can trace the heritage of a far-off beginning in some abandoned pueblo will be back for a few days, making a fuss of the old people who stayed behind, proudly parking their car in the street which used to be more familiar with donkeys than with SUVs. The old kitchen with the fire lit and an agreeable smell of chicken and sausage (bought yesterday at El Corte Inglés) floats out the door where the menfolk are doing their best to appreciate some home-made wine, el vino casero. It’s rough but it’s honest.
But most of Spain, plus a generous number of foreign visitors (they’ve wisely cancelled their hols in Turkey or Cyprus and decided on the old standby of España once again) are now on the beach, getting their first rays since last summer.
The locals are performing their processions, La Virgen María is on the move, and the town band is tootling along behind her, providing melancholic or joyous melodies as demanded. Jesús may be carried solemnly from the church once around the square no touchies, and followed by a clutch of old girls in black, but most of us are in the bars, the restaurants and the souvenir shops (which have stayed open late, just for you).
Is Easter a religious or a pagan holiday? Who knows and, with some small but no doubt vocal exception, who cares? 
The cities are another thing again. More crowds taking the week off work, milling about with their perambulators, and then there are the penitents, the nazarenos, often dressed in capirotes (those sinister outfits with the robes and pointy heads) marching down the side streets in columns, briefly posing for the cameras.
Easter is fun. There are special cakes at the bakery – including those wonderful torrijas soaked in milk, egg and sugar then fried (or with sweet wine instead of the milk): it’s a sort of jolly version of French toast, or if your generosity stretches far enough, the Spanish answer to the British hot cross bun.
It’s now the start of the season, and this year Spain is certain to hit its goal of a hundred million foreign tourists (after all, apart from France, where else can they go?). Once the Semana Santa is over, and before the bacchanalia really takes hold, I might be just about able to zip down to the supermarket (and the library) to load up on provisions for the inevitable summer onslaught.
My shopping list reads: beer, bangers and books.
For sure, it’s gonna be a hot one.