El Gringo Tinto

I'm going to move to Spain. The village of Laguardia in fact. An old walled stone village, commanding a high hill overlooking rolling vineyards and rugged mountains, with a lazy river snaking through the valley below.

I'll work part time through the crisp fall days as an English teacher, spending my afternoons drinking local wine in a cozy tavern, eating my pintxos for lunch with a well-worn book in hand. I'll go for walks through the fields, puffing away on a pipe, walking stick in hand and a shaggy dog running ahead of me. Spend my nights in a small stone house within the village walls, cooking for freinds and the buxom peasant girl who adores me.

She'll have long black hair and dark brown eyes, and a smile like an angel.

I'll become an expert on local mushrooms and wines, spend my summers picking grapes or leading tours around the wineries. I'll hunt wild boar in the mountains, fish in the river, spend my holidays in a little stone cottage miles from anywhere.

I'll let my beard grow long and start wearing white shirts and a black beret, learn a smattering of Basque, make my own cider in the fall.

I'll drink so much wine the locals will shake thier heads and call me "El Gringo Tinto".

Yep. That's the plan...