Four itchy feet, 52 boxes and one high-flying puppy...

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It’s 4.50am. C and I have just woken up. The black night skies are hanging heavy over Gatwick and there’s an early morning chill in the air. Our puppy has been dispatched to the flight cargo centre two hours earlier to prepare for his first trip at 35,000 feet. C dropped him off while I slept through (I really owe him one). I am the first to admit I am not a morning person, as anyone who has ever met me will know, but today I am absolutely buzzing, exhilarated and full of energy.

Then again, it’s not every day you wake up and move to Barcelona.

We dress quickly, pick up our suitcases and head from the airport hotel into the terminal. People are staggering bleary-eyed around the airport, seemingly stunned that they are awake at this ungodly hour and push past one another in a trance-like state. The check-in lady at the desk looks sullen. She snaps at C for leaning on the counter and argues with us over our excess baggage (I honestly don’t know how people manage to travel with children, as we have practically an entire extra suitcase just for our dog). We move on to Security where a businessman in the queue in front of me puts his briefcase, coat and laptop in two trays and then kindly puts a tray out for me. As I place my bag into it, he snaps, in a voice dripping with sarcasm: “That’s for me, not you!” Then adds scathingly, “That’s why I put it there.”

His barely concealed fury hints at issues slightly larger than a tray. The woman working on security gives me a wink and a sympathetic smile. Without her, the mood this morning makes it seem almost as if Britain is sticking the finger up at us as we leave. But it would take a hell of a lot more than that to dampen our spirits.

The plane is the emptiest I have ever seen. We are two of just 20 passengers. To be fair, I would never fly at 6.40am unless I was taking a puppy on board who is a lot cheaper to fly on a budget airline at an inopportune time. Or, indeed, the many times when I was a child and my dad insisted on getting flights in the middle of the night in order to get the most out of our holiday time.

But who am I to complain? We are going to be in Barcelona in time for breakfast! Be still my heart.

The flight passes in a happy one hour 25 minutes of inflight magazine reading and coffee drinking. It was so empty that they didn't even bring the refreshment trolley round but instead came up to each seat to ask if we would like anything. As we begin our descent, C points out landmarks in the city - our new home - that lies below (“We are flying level to our flat… now!”) I feel like a little kid. I am so, so excited.

We land and the airport is practically empty. As we emerge into the balmy October air, my parka is immediately taken off and goes into the suitcase swiftly followed by my cardigan. The weather is gorgeous. Not even two hours from London and it’s like a whole different world. We collect pup from the cargo terminal - he is beyond ecstatic to see us. And that’s it. We are in our new home.

Well not quite. We have to wait until the evening to check into our apartment and meet the landlord so we head down to Port Olimpico to spend time with C’s best friend, M, and his girlfriend who live in one of the flats originally built for the Olympic athletes. We have brought Revels for M's girlfriend as they don’t have them in Spain and she cracks them right open. I help myself. I don’t usually eat chocolate for breakfast but after a 4am wake-up, three hours’ sleep and dealing with Gatwick Airport, we deserve it. It’s a tough life.

After a bit of a catch-up C and I head down to the beach with the pup, which is all of a five-minute walk away. Pup is very excited by the new smells of this country and his first experience of the beach. He rolls excitedly in the sand, over and over, absolutely enthralled by this new phenomenon and then wags enthusiastically at the waiter as we settle down for lunch in one of the chiringuitos, a café built on the sand. We order fresh fruit shakes and salad. It is still only 11am. Joggers run past us on the beach path and the autumn sun warms our faces as we watch people enjoying the day – groups of girls stretched out on the sun loungers in bikinis, couples strolling hand in hand and children and dogs running behind. It is absolutely impossible not to relax. It is strange to think that just 24 hours before we were living in our poky flat in North London on a street dominated by angry Polish gangs and weed-smoking teens who perched on our front wall at all hours.

Anyway. After a leisurely day spent not doing very much at all, we meet the landlord at our flat that evening. The location is incredible, set amidst the winding, medieval streets of the old part of the city, just ten minutes' walk from the beach, the beautiful Parc Ciutadella and Plaza Catalunya. Our flat is a mix between old and new, with high-ceilings, exposed brickwork and medieval detail, alongside shiny new hi-tech kitchen appliances (I'm obviously getting old, as this makes me happy) and a jacuzzi bath, power shower and shiny marble and wooden flooring. Pup is enthralled by it all and has started a new game of chasing balls around the wooden floors and sliding across them as he goes. Our balcony looks out over the bustling street below and provides the perfect 24/7 people watching seat. It really is 24/7 too as I am soon to discover that this is the noisiest place I have ever lived.

We spent our first night just walking through the streets of the old city - our new neighbourhood - taking it all in. Within five minutes of our front door, there are tree-lined squares with old men sat chomping on pipes (yes really) and putting the world to rights, families scattered across chairs outside tapas bars that serve into the early hours, outrageously dressed Catalans strutting the streets as if they were a catwalk and more dogs than I have ever seen in such a small space. It's colourful, it's noisy and it's pumping with energy. As I fall asleep that night, I realise that I have absolutely no idea what is going to happen the next day.

And that, after all, is what life is about.

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Photos

Beach life
Pup's first view of the beach

Good morning Barcelona
The view from our balcony