Dinner in the Spanish blackout

Part of the attraction is the wine. Finally, after however many years, people are starting to realise there is more to Spanish wine than Rioja. 

Most of the Rioja sent to us is the Ford Mondeo of red: stable, unwavering, but by no means thrilling. To turn up to a house and see Campo Viejo is an admission of moderate despair. The nihilism of mostly acceptable plonk; the promise of nothing, but nevertheless requiring the spending of £9 rather than £8 in search of something more “juicy and vibrant”. 

Priorat, the only other region in Spain that holds a DOC designation – specifying high quality and adhering to specific regulations – is more surprising, more disarming, a monk-born style that might be bold and strong or ripe, rich and tickled softly by mountainous salinity. 

I was to stay at the Gran Hotel Mas d’en Bruno while tasting Priorat wines. A tour of the vines by a mad French Canadian driving an off-road buggy in high heels would happen eventually, but before then came the power cut, which affected Portugal, Spain, Andorra, and parts of France and Italy.

I arrived at the hotel, had a glass of something fizzy, and then – and I realise this is awful – asked kindly for the WiFi. I was told it was down, which apparently happened occasionally owing to the fact we were in the remote Spanish countryside. 

And then few, if anyone could get a signal. Patchy 3G came and went but mostly we were cut off from the world. What to do, then? Lunch? Alas, when that idea was mooted, it became clear that all the power was down. 

Before we were plunged into absolute darkness, the corridors of the hotel illuminated by a scattering of battery-powered lamps, the footpaths by the pool dazzled gently by a blanket of stars, we ate in the only manner we were able: a barbecue powered by a portable gas canister. There was fear it would run out and we would exist only on bread, cheese and sliced ham, much like camping. 

At dinner, vague fear began to take hold. “Could it be Russia?” Asked one diner. “Why would Putin hit Spain and Portugal, they’re not exactly a threat?” replied another. Soon it was suggested that the Russian maniac was probably testing his new-found cyber war capabilities here before hitting the UK and turning London into a riot zone. 

One or two of the guests got news through here and there. The scale of the crisis became clear. Was it a state of emergency? For how long would we be in the dark? How would we fly home in two nights’ time? 

Maybe we wouldn’t. Maybe we would have to simply exist at this five-star hotel for weeks on end and drink Priorat by the gallon-load and wait for rescuers who I’m sure would take their time in getting here. 

A fun-loving assistant general manager remarked that we might have to learn how to hunt deer, enticing them with our last few morsels of cheese. A less frivolous general manager started off chirpily before getting serious and demanding why we were all drinking quite so much free rosé. 

I enjoyed it, the darkness. The “digital detox”, as it was touted. Nobody took photos of their barbecued leeks because they couldn’t; nobody sat at the table texting or scrolling, apart from the only one who could get a scrappy signal – she updated us on the global state of affairs, how Europe was being “attacked”.

It was all something to do with atmospheric pressure, we later learned. I’ve no idea what this means.

Fast-forward a night and everything was illuminated. I could read the labels of the wine bottles. I could charge one of the hotel’s e-bikes and cycle up to a nearby monastery and drink a small beer in the town square. 

And I could make notes so I might write this column, my phone newly charged. So, yes, go to Priorat. Drink a Spanish red wine that isn’t Rioja. We are all no longer in the dark.