In surveys, coal mining tends to top the list of most difficult jobs in the world. Sure, it's dangerous but do you know what's even more difficult? Being a tourist. Look up the definition of tourist in the dictionary and you'll find the following sentence -  'a person who travels for pleasure.' But the reality is that being a tourist is an exhausting affair. There's the constant battle with Time to squeeze in as many sights as possible during your short stay. There's the endurance testing 3 hour queues to get into said sights, usually under extreme weather conditions. There's the anxiety inducing practice of trying to find a restaurant that has something you vaguely recognise as edible on the menu - and after the plate of tripe in creamy sauce you unwittingly ordered arrives you then have to decide whether you are too embarrassed by your mistake and decide to stay and eat it or whether you decide to go on a search for a nearby McDonalds, with full knowledge that the Double Cheeseburger will taste nothing like the ones from back home. You also then have to contend with the language barrier, the convoluted metro system and the currency exchange rate which is fast depleting your bank account. And whenever you get your Canon 5D Mark II out to capture the sites you're visiting, a hundred other tourists are teeming around every shot, like red ants over a carcass, and it's taking all of your strength to keep from yelling at everyone to get out the bloody way. Oh, and don't forget you're meant to be having fun throughout all this - no pressure people!

Being a tourist is a tough gig, which leads me onto the third part of my guide on top 5 things to go see/do when in Barcelona.

As a life-long Londoner, to me, city life and beach life go together like peanut butter and mayonnaise, muffin tops and low rise jeans, Bette Davis and Joan Crawford – ie. they don’t. The closest London comes to beach life is the mayor's annual pathetic attempt to dump sand on the banks of the Thames. Freezing on the South Bank, avoiding getting sucked into the filthy and powerful current of the River Thames, whilst taking in deep lungfuls of the congested traffic above clogging up Waterloo Bridge somehow hasn't managed to entice us Londoners. I think the Maldives Tourism Board can breathe a sigh of relief.

Beach holidays are idyllic hideaways from the mania of metropolis life, where you can walk stretches of sand without meeting another soul. Beach holidays are the gentle calm of Lamu; quaint fishing towns on Greek Islands. But this uptight city girl's values system was shaken to the core on last year's trip to Rio de Janeiro. There, Cariocas would spend a few hours lounging on Ipanema Beach before padding back into the thick of the city with nothing but a piece of tiny speedos between their modesty and the rest of the passengers on the bus or customers in the mall. No eyelid was batted and not one fuck was given. Watching Brazilians is like getting a masterclass in body confidence and  it was there that I learned to stop worrying and love the Beach.

Few are the cities I return to. The urge to explore the new and undiscovered is almost always as strong as the urge to leave indelible memories untainted. But after an intolerable year in the UK of non stop freezing weather, the urge to experience Summer (on a tight budget) proved stronger still and last month I found myself wriggling my toes deep into the baking sands of Barceloneta Beach. 

Surveying the scene before me, it was easy to spot my fellow sunshine deprived-Brits; their glowering red faces, backs and chests a testament to their commitment to soak up as much UV rays as possible even if the end result was not a pretty sight. This was what we were owed. We were owed Summer. We were owed this intense warmth. This warmth that allows us to revel in body exhibitionism without getting arrested; that unburdens us of time and instead hands us hazy hours to while away; that induces smiles and winks from strangers.