Back in the early eighties my parents bought a timeshare on the Costa del Sol, between Marbella and Fuengirola. My parents used the timeshare on a number of occassions, and myself, my wife and two daughters made use of the flat once in 1987. The family sold the timeshare in 1990 following the death of my father.

Fast forward 25 years. Our younger daughter was engaged to be married to an extremely engaging Scot, with the most brilliant family. We got on so well with his parents, that they invited us over to stay at their appartment in Spain.

The route from Malaga airport to the apartment took us along the costal highway. This whole landscape had completely changed from 25 years ago. Back then it was like a building site with new resort hotels and timeshares going up everywhere. Now, these sites are established, landscaped, vibrant. Just before we turn off the highway at the exit for the apartment, we pass a small row of local shops and resturants. My wife and I both look at each other, both thinking we recognise those. There were two cafes cum resturants there which, we were both sure, were where we ate when we stayed at my parent’s timeshare.

And indeed they were. It transpired that the timeshare we stayed at was just across the road from our friends appartment, and that one of the regular haunts of our freinds was a bar in that very resort. (When we stayed there in ’87 the bar did not exist. At that time the resort consisted of just a number of blocks of timeshare flats, together with a pool and private beach).

Small world.