Restless night, flashes of headlights through trees and mosquito whine, too strong moonlight and a heat that doesn’t abate until the sky begins to lighten. But I wake happy and excited. Cycle to a castle on a thumb of rock, friendly people sell me my days fruit. take water from the plaza fountain, old men watch on from the shade. Drip sweat to a pine shaded picnic site. Feed the ants, even though they bite me as I read Utopia.
The stretch of road between Cordoba and Granada is some of the most beautiful yet. Cliffs and rock outcrops frame the Sierra Nevada, and its few specs of snow.
I stop just short of Granada, beyond the train tracks, next to a field of wheat. I don’t want to be in another city yet. I moisten cracked and dry lips with tepid Sangria, so that I can tootle on my Harmonica. This is my life, and its this that I want to share with Caroline, watching the hills change colour and the shadows darken to night.
I try to recreate the spinach tapas her and I enjoyed together. It tastes great, but there is someone missing.
