Within 15 minutes of cycling I have left Cordoba behind, wide open fields have quickly replaced the tight streets, clumps of eucalyptus in place of plazas and patios. The avenues are of olive trees, uniform rows of dark green dots on the hill. Climb to the hilltop curch of Espejo to earn my dinner, to prove I can still ride after the days of glorious decadence with Caroline.
Wandering through Santa Cruz. Sevilla, her and I look in the corners for second coffee, and find only bright bitter oranges. Spinach and Queso tapas and beers and a rowdy bar. Berneeja con Miel, sweet and oily. Keep our feet cold in a park fountain. Carolines neck exposed, hair up in the heat, invites sweaty kisses.
Secret patio in Cordoba, where their confusion gives us free drinks and a salad.
Together, dwarfed in the mosque cathedral, hiding behind its columns, or standing in pools of light. Midnight Arabian baths, candlelit and content.
It was a great couple of days, the heat we had hoped for from Spain.
Now I am alone again and just a shadow at the edge of an olive grove. Though I am glad to be cycling, I miss her already though
