The leaf fell silently into the soothing swirl of the stream.
It slowly whirled its ghostly time lapse dance in its watery grave as though in a trance.
Pale green in Spring, it unfurled, viridescent beneath the bright summer sunshine.
When autumn came it withered gold, old and wrinkled, tired, brown.
It rustled quietly in the cool morning sunlight, detached, and it fell down.
Granada:
In light of the above experience, I asked the owner of the ecoshop at the end of my street for restaurant recommendations where I could eat reasonably healthily. He suggested El Higo (The Fig):
I was so well fed and the staff were so friendly that I returned for lunch the following day before taking the train.
Ronda:
There seemed to be more restaurants in Ronda. There’s even a 2 starred Michelin guide restaurant with a €180 tasting menu. I took my time to make my selection as I wanted one special holiday meal. I got it at Tragata, the offshoot of the above restaurant:
It was fun and I got a bit emotional eating here.
(Un)fortunately they were closed on my last evening so I went old school traditional:
The maître d’ bore an uncanny resemblance to someone. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it dawned on me.
At the Alhambra:
These were taken on a short stroll through the Albaicín:
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…
I’d prefer to walk on pretty pebbled patterns than concrete and tarmac any day.
2023 was a hideous year on the whole. It was a year of endings and bereavements. Mum died in October and her sister died a fortnight later. At Christmas, my French landlady died, then one of my students died on Christmas Day. I played for my Aunt’s funeral, and for my student’s celebration of life. It was an upsetting and traumatic time and a lot to process in 2 months. At the start of 2024 I knew I needed to escape the Winter blues and the recurring negative thoughts quite urgently. I found playing the harp really torturous. I felt paralysed, unable to do much more than practice the bare minimum. There was no pleasure, no expression, no emotion. I stared into space a lot. I was numb. It was horrible. It was grief in one of its many guises.
I knew where I wanted to go and after scouring the internet every evening for a week, I had booked my flights and accommodation.
I’ve had a soft spot for Spain since I went on a very short orchestral tour there in 2015 which involved a night in a hotel in Madrid, then a rehearsal and a concert in Valencia before taking the flight back to Blighty before I got a chance to say ¡Hola! I got a taste for Spanish life (even the coffee at the motorway services was great) and longed to return. I daydreamed over images of the Alhambra and Punto Nuevo and they were top of my bucket list.
I flew to Malaga where I had a 4 hour wait for a train to Granada. It was warm and sunny so I found an appropriate spot and soaked up the healing rays of sunshine. The inner greyness started to dissipate. It’s hard to feel miserable when you’re at a train station surrounded by orange trees. I was in no rush and had been in holiday mode from the moment I boarded the plane.
I had to change at Antequera where I had a 2 hour wait for the connection to Granada. Public transport was preferable to hiring a car. We arrived early at Antequera and I asked if it was where I was meant to change. No, it was the next Antequera – Santa Ana which was actually 10 minutes away. Good job I didn’t get off at the first one. When we arrived at the Antequera, the train door wouldn’t open. Panic! It eventually did and I was deposited in what I can only describe as Crewe station with no personality. A huge interchange, there was nothing there except some seating and toilets, and grumpy stern station staff. No newsagents, no cafe, nada. I found the exit and more sunshine.
It’s all about the journey, not the destination but I was relieved to finally arrive in Granada at 5pm. I fully expected the Alhambra to be the first thing I saw in its much anticipated splendour but, to my dismay, it was nowhere to be seen! I got to my accommodation and felt reassured – the studio flat was lovely, airy, open and bright:
and the views from both sides were just what I needed:
I’d been up since 1am for my flight and wasn’t in the mood for eating out so I got some basic food from the local shop and had a simple supper in the flat. I had tickets booked for the Alhambra the next day. I slept like a baby.
I stayed in the Albaicín, a historic quarter located above the hustle and bustle of central Granada. The flat was nestled in a busy but surprisingly quiet pedestrian zone. Being perched on top of a hill meant an easy descent into the centre and a blast of cardio to get back home. I didn’t need to worry about exercise. After breakfast I explored the area, popping into peaceful parks and anyplace else which piqued my curiosity on the way downtown.
Then I saw it, at last:
It was imposing and much more impressive than I’d imagined. I couldn’t wait to get up there.
The Alhambra thoroughly surpassed my expectations. I hadn’t looked at too many photos as I wanted to experience it afresh with my own eyes. I couldn’t get over the scale of the site or the detail. Everywhere I looked there were intricate designs and unexpected surprises:
Then there were the gardens:
I walked a lot that day. There were benches and seating dotted around where I could rest awhile and regain a sense of peace.
There was a lot to take in and I would have definitely returned for a full day, pausing longer to admire the intricacy of the architecture and the elaborate patterns.
I enjoyed a surprisingly good coffee from the kiosk in front of the Alcazaba. I was served a small perfectly formed cafe con leche and asked if I wanted anything else. I thought for a moment and said 2 new feet in my best Spanish. The barista laughed. Bereavement caused me to go inwards, losing the more outgoing and daring aspects of my nature, as well as my sense of humour. If I was in an extrovert mood, I was able to engage with the locals, and at least attempt to cobble together some words and Duolingo phrases.
The next day I headed into the city centre to see the other major landmark in Granada – the Cathedral. It was immense, a huge sprawling edifice:
It was an interesting visit and I’m glad I saw it, but nothing could compete with the sensory feast which had sated me the previous day. I paid a quick visit to the tourist office on my way to the centre to ask if there were any concerts or plays on while I was there, as well as asking for information about the cathedral. The assistant’s eyes lit up. She gushed about the Royal Chapel which was in a separate building. The way she described it was compelling. She said it was a spiritual experience.
It could have gone one of two ways – delight or disappointment and I’m afraid my verdict was the latter. I think it’s the way she sold it to me but her description conjured up divine images of golden light and rainbows in my mind. Along with paintings, artefacts and sculptures, there was a crypt down a flight of stairs bearing 5 small safely guarded coffins. I’m not sure what I expected but that wasn’t it. I was still under the spell cast by the magic of the Alhambra, and I’d seen my unfair share of coffins.
As you can see, the weather was perfect. That’s the other thing about Spain, there’s so much light, and grey days don’t last long. It wasn’t too busy either. I don’t think I would have enjoyed it as much in the oppressive heat of summer with hordes of tourists.
By day 3 I had started to relax properly and the internal chatter/list making had slowed down and was getting quieter. I felt moments of peace. That’s my ideal holiday – when I’m able to shelve my worries.
I didn’t go to Spain to grieve or with the intention of processing recent events. I went to escape and forget about everything, to draw a line under that chapter. It worked.
Despite having lived in France and South Africa, I’m not particularly well travelled. I used to drive a lot for work, so I enjoyed staying at home when I had time off. Holidays weren’t really a priority. Then I had a brilliant 5 night break in Malaga 2 Christmases ago which gave me confidence to explore just a bit beyond my comfort zone (2 destinations, train logistics) and it’s given me a boost. I did manage it all and with no mishaps. Everything went smoothly. It was an opportunity to gain closure on last year’s losses and anguish and I feel much better since I got back. I feel stronger and definitely more independent. Most importantly, my holiday has shifted my grief to a more manageable level. I’m already planning my next trips.
Meanwhile, onwards to Ronda…
For 2 days now, I’ve woken up with a sense of dread. I managed to get a physio appointment for yesterday lunchtime. On Sunday I knelt on the floor to tidy underneath my table at the wedding fayre. I put my weight on my left hand and felt shooting pain in my thumb, hand and arm. I shifted my weight and tried it again. There it was, that troubling pain like a searing hot needle travelling from my hand towards my shoulder. 20 minutes earlier I’d had a call informing me mum had fallen again and an ambulance had been called. I phoned my sister who was at work. My brother in law was with mum. She’d unlocked the door to let the cat out and had a tremor. The keys went flying and she fell backwards. Nothing’s broken but she’s hurt her coccyx. She’s a tough old bean but she’s really having a lot of knocks.
I struggled to get in the zone. Obviously this news affected my playing. I warmed up half heartedly and tried to ignore the discomfort in my left thumb. I played as much as I could (too much – hindsight’s a beautiful thing.) I packed up all my gear after a 4 hour fayre and struggled to change gears driving home. 3rd was painful, reverse involved 2 hands.
I can’t remember suffering from hand problems. Shoulders yes, not hands though. My sister said it might be arthritis. Great, thanks sis! I played a chord yesterday. It came out ok. What worries me is playing for extended periods of time. Weddings last on average 3 hours with breaks but it’s unlike orchestral playing which is focused and intense for short bursts. Weddings are marathons and there’s nowhere to hide. Pop music is repetitive by design. I’m going to have to learn some moderation and decide if it’s worth buying a heavy amp and lugging that with me on top of all the other gear.
My frame of mind has been quite negative lately and I’ve allowed news of friends and family illnesses and injuries affect my usually cheery disposition. Since I can’t really use my hands much, I’m taking a week off my attic gym activities and just walking and stretching. I know how important movement is – it calms my head and improves my mood. Tomorrow I’ll try a bit of practice ahead of Saturday’s wedding.
I feel like a hypochondriac but I think it’s just general wear and tear. It’s also a reminder to rest and relax. I feel guilty and lazy if I don’t work a certain number of hours in the day. Idle hands… I’ve had to relinquish 2 of my anchoring activities already this week. I couldn’t go to my creative writing group yesterday as that’s when my physio appointment was, and aerial yoga is a no-no at the mo. It’s very much a hands on class. I’m up to date with my emails and I’ve done the fayre follow ups. No uptake yet but these things can take time.
It’s been a steep learning curve. When I first started exhibiting at fayres, I used to play a little and hand out leaflets and cards. Then I’d feel frustrated when nobody contacted me! Now I enjoy meeting and chatting with prospective clients and I ask for their details and contact them, usually within 24 hours. The spam folder is always a concern.
I took Monday off and met a friend in town for coffee. I then tried to make a dent in a lengthy shopping list. I managed 2 hours before calling it quits. Shopping’s boring. However I got myself some brushes, watercolour paints and a thick roll of paper to do some crap art. I don’t mean any disrespect here, it’s just a nod to perfectionist me to clock off for a few hours. In my creative writing group a while back, we did an exercise involving blobbing paint freely onto paper, playing about with it and writing about what we saw. I loved it. I had a go last night. It was very interesting.
After shopping I treated myself to a thrifty Thai lunch. It was just what I needed. Vegetable green curry with wontons is a hug in the form of a bowl.
I went back home to rest before attending the first performance I’ve been to since Easter. It was called Sonic Threads present VASTRA and it took place at Heritage Quay in the University. It was given by Carnatic vocalist Supriya Nagarajan accompanied by Lucy Nolan on harp and Duncan Chapman on sound and flugelhorn. What a fascinating combination and quite different from traditional concerts I’m accustomed to. There was a selection of ragas and some Bollywood music to lighten things up and I enjoyed a fair few foot tapping moments. There was no applause between pieces. The audience seemed deep in a trance-like contemplative state. It was an immersive experience, like being flown to Bombay via Huddersfield.
Lucy is such a natural relaxed performer and she looked completely comfortable on stage. She responded beautifully to Supriya’s chants and plaintive tones with impressively attentive communication. Her voice was full of emotion. I wondered exactly what she was singing. Duncan’s flugelhorn later introduced a soft eerie earthy colour to the sound palette.
Lucy used a wide range of effects, loops and extended techniques in an unpretentious authentic way. It was a mesmerising, hypnotic and meditative evening.
I came home hungry. I felt empty. I’d hoped music would fill the gaps for a while but alas, this wasn’t the case. I’m still numb, still quite impenetrable. I can’t cry. And that’s ok. I am where I’m at on my journey.
I’ve just about recovered from Mum-sitting in Wales. Getting back on track takes longer these days and I need to remember to factor in additional recovery time, especially after gigs. I got behind with my emails and admin due to technical difficulties. I couldn’t get the household Sky internet and TV to work so my laptop was useless. It might have been a blessing in disguise, one less distraction from my practice. The distress from Mum being unable to watch telly for a week was horrible. She got through a pile of reading though and sorted some papers.
We got out 3 times! The wheelchair was christened on a short ride to the park. I needed to practice using it. Where’s the brake?!! Even though I wheeled it super slowly, she still grumbled at any bumps. I know she’s in pain. I felt a bizarre sense of deja-vu as she observed me messing about on the playground equipment.
Food was a focal point and I think she appreciated having a personal chef for most of the week, except a couple of days when she had to do it herself as I was cheffed out. Cheffed off? A foodie highlight was a trip to the coast and the obligatory Mr Whippy which was lapped up with great satisfaction. I asked if she could do 2. She said not. She asked if I could. I said I could do 5. The sea air did us both good.
Back home, I realised how lucky I am. My house might be shabby but it’s very peaceful and generally well organised. I got about my business. The most pressing matter was getting my new car. I dislike change and since I had my last car for 12 years I knew I was in for a steep learning curve. I’d seen my new car, been taken for a drive in it (it felt like a limo in comparison with my trusty old banger), checked my harp fitted but I wasn’t able to drive it myself. I collected it on Tuesday and was given a 20 minute crash course (no pun intended) on its functions.
It was like learning to drive all over again. The first thing I did was stall, then I couldn’t find 3rd gear. I kept reaching for the handbrake which isn’t there because it’s a button! It was cringeworthily hilarious. I’ve scanned through the 500 page manual for the important stuff. I’ve found the lights and the indicators and wipers and I’ve driven at night. I’ve also driven on the motorway. It has 2 types of cruise control though, the thought of which gives me the vapours. It took me a couple of years to pluck up the courage to try it on my old car…
Rare Bit Blogging 