THERE is of course only one possible action open to the vacationing sports editor on arrival at his holiday destination, and that's to locate the nearest bar with a penchant for the beautiful game and cold beer.

And so it was on a recent week away in the wilds of Andalucia that I submerged myself in all things Spanish (bullfighting excepted) and football.

First things first. The Spanish are football crazy. Absolutely, 100 per cent football bonkers. Sports newspaper Marca is the country's biggest selling daily, while rival publication As is also popular. Both are dedicated sports papers with 90 per cent (at least) of their content devoted to the beautiful game.

Going to see a live game was my initial desire. However our location coupled with briefness of stay rather scuppered that plan. Staying with friends Mary and Danny in their villa near Ronda, our nearest major teams were Real Betis, at time of writing struggling near the bottom of La Liga, and Sevilla. Malaga is also in the region of Andalucia as is Recreativo de Huelva, Spain's oldest club. But Spain is a big country and my feet have been aching a bit of late.

So I settled for watching my football on television, satellite television as it happens courtesy of Canal +, who have the domestic live TV rights for La Liga sewn up.

Fortunately, despite our remote location - albeit a very picturesque one, on top of a hill and surrounded by olive groves - a small bar and restaurant, Pelistre, was five minutes walk away down a dusty dirt track. With some linguistic help from Danny, who during our stay was transformed into a bit of a football nut himself, this would be where I got my footie fix for the next six days or so, not to mention a lot of Spanish beer and some awfully tasty tapas.

Danny and Mary, now residing in Spain, spoke with fondness of watching Spain's European Championship triumph in Pelistre a few months earlier. No doubt this was the place to go.

The thing that first struck me was that despite having a number of top flight clubs in the region, the team everybody seemed to follow was Real Madrid, who alongside Barcelona are the biggest thing in Spanish football.

Two diversions here, if you'll allow.

Firstly, if you thought that the English sport media gives too much attention to the 'big four' clubs you should submerge yourself in Spanish footie for a week. Here it is Real Madrid, Real Madrid and a bit of Barcelona, depending on exactly where in Spain you find yourself. The situation is reversed in Catalonia.

Other clubs are reduced almost to a footnote it seems, even giants of the European game such as Atletico Madrid and Valencia.

Secondly, I made the mistake of mentioning Barcelona to a Spanish gent with a smattering of English. He smiled at me and drew his finger across his throat. I don't think he meant me any harm. The implication, it was all too clear, is that Barcelona are none too popular in these parts.

Despite which, on the Tuesday we went down to the bar to watch some Champions League football and they were showing Barcelona's game away at Shakhtar Donetsk. Pelistre was only sparsely populated, most notably by a father and son who sat with us at the bar and were both wearing Barca tops.

Despite the best efforts of Henry and co, the Catalan giants fell a goal behind and didn't really look like getting anything from the game.

The anguish in the faces of father and son were all too clear to see, and Danny and I felt their pain it was so tangible. But, late on, Lionel Messi grabbed an equaliser before, just minutes after, grabbing a late winner that sent all four of us - father, son, Danny and myself -into wild celebration. Well, Danny and myself smiled and clapped a bit.

During that evening, seeing father and son together reminded me of my footballing relationship with my own dad, sadly no longer with us.

For me it was the mid-70s and seats in the upper East stand at Highbury, the fading double team of a few years earlier (or what was left of it) and freezing cold afternoons. And while Spanish father and son had tapas and red wine, we made do with a flask of sweet tea and cheese and onion sandwiches. My lord those sandwiches were good.

The footballing highlight of my week in Spain came on the Sunday, my final day, when Real Madrid's home game against Espanyol was shown live. After Barca, Espanyol are Barcelona's biggest club so there was much regional pride at stake.

Sunday is a big day in Spain and watching football in bars of an evening is part of the Spanish way of life.

As a result Pelestre, which had been mostly sleepy throughout the week, was packed.

And as the game unfolded - Real were fortunate in the end to scrape a 2-2 draw - it soon became clear that everyone in the bar was a football expert, only too willing to shout advice and opinion at the television. Even the smattering of ladies present seemed to look on knowledgeably in between mouthfuls of tapas.

But it struck me that, change my ice cold glass of Cruzcampo for a trusty pint of Adnams and Spanish for the ironic burr of the English football fan, and I could have been in the cosy confines of Whitstable's Ship Centurion, not a bar in remote Andalucia.

Football is such a brilliant game for a number of reasons, uppermost that wherever you go in the world people are obsessed by it and its language is intrinsically a universal one.

And that's why I'm already looking forward to my next week away, although from a footballing sense at least the New Forest will struggle to compete with Pelistre and La Liga.