It happed in the sleepy little town of Valencia de Ventosa in Extremadura Province, where my wife and I had stopped for a long drink after a hard day's hiking. 

 At the back of the bar, three middle-aged ladies watched us closely and as we drained our glasses, they pounced.

‘‘You’re tired pilgrims and we’re taking you to Sunday lunch,’’ they said, picking up our bags and hustling us, protesting, through a door at the other side of the town square.

 Inside was a delightful dining room belong to Pedro and his wife Pili, and they, with a group of friends, were just settling down for 3pm meal.

We were sat at the head of the table, and offered, in no particular order, snails, spinach tart, fried eggs, chips and fish, all washed down with a beautiful local wine  poured from  a straw jar.

But that was only the start of proceedings. During the conversation, we learned that the three ladies, two Carmens and Dulcie, were all divorced and were re-learning flamenco together at evening classes.

They then proceeded to get the room clapping to the complicated flamenco beat and began a half-hour of singing and dancing far more authentic that the stuff served up to tourists for 25 euros in Seville.

It was quite riveting and, although the ladies were no svelte senoritas, their grace and beauty was astonishing. When everyone was exhausted, they collapsed onto a sofa to be revived with the local strawberry liquer, which was passed round the table many times before coffee was finally served.

By this time, I was worried that we would not find accommodation - but no problem. Carmen 1, who worked in Seville, had a house up the street, gave us a key and poured us in.

Twelve hours later, at dawn, we awoke refreshed to resume the trek northwards with the sounds of flamenco still fresh in the ears.

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I don’t normally do restaurant reviews but in the tiny town of Almandralejo, I came across a beauty with fine food and a rare tale to tell.

Searching the centre of town for an evening meal, I stumbled across a doorway with a small menu including my favourite Spanish dish, pulpo (octopus) a la gallega, hanging outside. Inside the few tables were packed with diners but there was space at the bar for us to eat, so we took it.

Sure enough, even many kilometres from the sea, the pulpo was top-class and I asked the owner, Vladmir, a Russian, who had lived in Spain for many years, how he cooked it so well.

‘‘I was a chef on the Costa Concordia ( the Italian cruise liner that sank in 2012 off the coast of Italy) for eight years,’’ he recounted.

‘‘I had made enough money to buy my family a house here and planned to retire soon but the sinking meant I had my mind made up for me.

‘‘The chefs and the engineeers from the lower decks were among the last to escape and as my lifejacket carried me to the surface, I saw so many fish that I vowed I would open a seafood restaurant If I survived. I was picked up quite quickly with no injuries and a year later here I am.

‘‘My wife and family are happy I’m not at sea and I’m making enough money in this tiny place to keep us going.’’

I would love tell you the name of this super eatery, but after many glasses of the excellent local white, it seems to have slipped my memory. But, when the credit card bill arrives, I’ll pass it on to you.

Spain hasn’t quite taken up the anti-smoking message with the same fervour as many countries.

For example, during the three-day Corpus Christi festival in the tiny village of Segura de Leon, I noticed children as young as four wandering round puffing imitation cigarettes that emitted realistic smoke!  It turned out that these things were available at the novelty stall in the main street along with fairy floss, lollies, other joke items and funny hats.

Our own Nanny Roxon and her smoke police would no doubt be apoplectic.

Ian Harrison is a former Illawarra Mercury journalist enjoying the sunny side of life in Spain.