This is a photo of the living area in our new place as it was advertised. It’s the Spanish fashion not to waste anything as valuable as floor space or wall space, or even the internal volumetric space, such is their love of head-high chandeliers.

Just. Wow … is probably the best way to describe the annual Feria de Jerez. An area the size of 10,000 table-tennis tables (I’m not sure how big that is in football fields) …

Every region has its own food vocabulary (language, even) and it’s not difficult to look like a complete tit when you try to order food at any but the most touristy of bars. Here’s how it works in Jerez.

There’s not much that’s as stressful as trying to make an electronic bank transfer of €15,000 on your phone while beside and opposite you in a tiny boardroom five Spaniards are having a yelling match (i.e. a normal conversation) in both ears at once.

We’re walking down Long Street in the centre of Jerez on our way to inspect a house for sale and we notice a young woman struggling to get a bike through the doorway to an apartment complex.

Jerez has its own colour palette. Someone tried to paint it once. Ran out of yellow. In San Sebastian, Jess tinkered with watercolours and came up with some amazing stuff but this place is something else.

Yesterday I was at home threatening the cat and Jess asked me if we were out of butifarra. I said that I don't think so, but if you get caught short there are some tissues in the cupboard.

Under the ancient, gargantuan fig tree in the plaza 100 yards from our front door a festive crowd is going off to Zambomba. Zambomba is Christmas flamenco for the masses.

Having eaten out daily since we arrived here eight weeks ago I can report that the hospitality operators in Jerez – even the ones running touristy joints – go out of their way to provide exemplary service and are among the friendliest folk in the country.

"You'll struggle down south – their accent is really difficult to understand." This from a San Sebastian local a few months ago when we told him about our impending move to Jerez, at the opposite end of the country.

If you've ever seen flamenco you'll know that it's the dancing-and-singing equivalent of punching a baboon in the face and then attempting to make love to it.

You don't get much sleep the night before you take a cat who's prone to bouts of stress-induced diarrhoea on a plane. Pets here are allowed to travel in the cabin with you.

When you come to San Sebastian, you should avoid the places you've read about and seen on TV. Not because they're no good, but that they're full of tourists who've all seen the same lazy YouTube clip.

If you've read my post on how to eat out in San Sebastian, you'll know to avoid any place that has a queue outside – because within five minutes' walk there are 50 places as good or better.

When you read up on the food scene before you visit a new town you’ll inevitably find dozens of articles with titles like ‘The 10 best places to eat in …’ In San Sebastian, such a notion doesn’t make much sense. There are around 200 eateries within 15 minutes walk

A common sight in this neck of the woods is tourists with mildly shocked and confused expressions on their faces as they enter a pintxo bar for the first time. It can be a little overwhelming, particularly when it's busy, so here's a brief guide to ordering food like a local.

Google Translate often won't help you identify menu items. While lots of bars in Basque Country have an English menu, they've often been written by someone local who himself has used Google Translate.

Back to our second day in Spain nearly two years ago. We're stocking up on groceries. We've unloaded our cart onto the conveyor belt and everything is going dandy. Then the checkout lady picked up our bag of potatoes an ran off with them, leaving us and a growing queue of people behinds us baffled and angry, respectively.

I've always been tempted to try to make some money on the side as a street artist. I can't draw, but I can write. I imagine sitting down with a couple of tourists and carefully composing an elegant word-portrait along the lines of “You are a fat balding German man with expensive but ill-fitting clothes and a wife who's obviously only with you for your money.”

I remember a few years ago in a busy shopping centre Jess announced that she really needed a toilet, could I see any signs? I answered that no, she looked perfectly comfortable to me.