I was sad to leave Granada. I got into my groove there but I hadn’t experienced the delights of Ronda yet!

I arrived (via Antequera…) at 9pm to rain. There were no taxis outside the station. I checked on my phone – my accommodation was a 10 minute walk away so off I went. I was so excited to have arrived and I wanted to get a feel for the town.

The streets were quiet for a Friday night and I felt safe. I walked past a dramatically uplit church. Further along there was a building with small painted statues of religious figures outside. The pavements became small cobblestones and I was taken back in time. My suitcase wheels rumbled noisily. I paused to check I was on track, avoiding a busy looking bar with joyous weekend revellers outside.

I arrived at my home for the next few days and gasped. It was quite luxurious and tastefully decorated.

The light switches were beautiful. They made a satisfying click-clack sound.

The bedroom was huge and I needed a map for the bed. I went up the final flight of stairs to the terrace. Yes, it was there as per description and it was still raining so I saved that until morning.

I went out to get supplies and realised just how heavy the rain was. Water was streaming down the street. Just my luck.

There was a nice vibe despite the weather and the shop assistants were genuinely warm and friendly. I got back and settled in. It was late and I was tired.

I slept like a baby again. I was unplugged. I felt so calm and relaxed. After breakfast I went to explore. Punto Nuevo was top of the list and it was a mere 30 seconds further than the shop I’d visited the previous night. The bridge was busy and I waited my turn to take in the views and, most of all, the vertiginous height:

It was a highly impressive aesthetically pleasing feat of architecture and engineering. And practicality. How much time was saved by building that bridge. During my 4 days in Ronda I saw the bridge from most angles:

It’s a small town and I had purposely factored in enough time to relax and do nothing.

I saw the bullring:

but didn’t feel the need to visit. I appreciate that bullfighting has great historic significance for the Spanish but it’s an unnecessarily cruel and sadistic sport in my opinion. There are other ways to prove one’s manhood and skill.

On the second day I headed down to the Arab Baths, which were serene and impressive in an understated way.

I enjoyed it, especially the welcome I received from the bath cats:

There were lots of cats in Ronda 😻

On the third day I went walking through the Cuenca gardens. Several short flights of steps zigzagged downwards leading me through a horticultural labyrinth.

It was drizzling. I kept walking until I came to a building which fascinated me. It was the Casa del Rey Moro. I debated whether to enter, and saw this sign:

Unfortunately the house is derelict, but the gardens were stunning. There were even peacocks perched on the pergola:

I decided to go down to the mines:

A couple were enjoying a simple picnic at the bottom of the seemingly endless staircase. It was a nice quiet spot and refuelling before tackling that ascent was a good idea.

This was the only day I felt a little lonely and in need of a chat, so I messaged my friends and felt connected again. I was also fed up with the drizzly weather:

but it was February after all and I had a brolly.

I’m very independent and I enjoy my own company but you can have too much of a good thing! I realised I’m not adept at reaching out and asking for help. I’m working on this.

And that, dear readers, was Ronda, bringing my holiday to a close.

Due to train connections and an early flight, I spent a night at a hotel near the airport. I made the most of it although it wasn’t the most walkable area:

I looked for a taxi to take me from the airport station to the hotel. It was a 2.5 mile trip. At the taxi rank I was told it was €16. I feigned indifference but inside I was shrieking. I’d gone slightly over budget and I’d need another taxi in the morning to take me back to the airport. Can I walk it? I asked hopefully. Yes yes, said the taxi sharks. You turn right there and turn right again a bit later. Off I went, happy to get my legs moving.

After about half a mile I got a suspicious feeling it wasn’t going to end well as the pavement turned to path, then to nothing. The path was next to a busy 6 lane road and in front of me was an elevated roundabout with no pavement. Beneath it lay wasteland enclosed by high fencing.

I had just passed a fuel station so I turned back and asked there. The attendant said it wasn’t walkable and it was actually quite dangerous. My heart sank. I left despondently and saw a taxi filling up. I asked if he was available. Yes he was, and he took me safely to the hotel for… €16!!! Better safe than hospitalised/dead. And at least I didn’t have to go back to the taxi rank ☺️ I worked out they’d sent me in the wrong direction too *shakes head*

This was the greatest misfortune I suffered on holiday.

Going away helped shift my grief to a manageable level, although grief never goes away. It becomes bearable but it’s always there, like a dull thudding ache. My experience of grief was an engulfing numbness. I know it served to protect me but all I could do was function very basically. Life was grey. There was no joy, no emotion. It’s still early days and there are times when my mood is flatter than a taco. I have absolutely no energy or focus. Is this grief or menopause? Does it matter?

I don’t think anything can prepare one for grief. The grief I had for Dad felt very different from my grief for Mum. I don’t have any words of wisdom about grief, except trust the process. And I found that holidays provide an effective antidote. I’ve just booked my next trip…