12
After a journey that takes us through pottery (Limoges) and fine fabric (Tulle), we arrive at the hilltop fortress city of Carcassonne. Way down in France’s south-east, Carcassonne is a bit of a show-stopper. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and from first glimpse, you can see why. The three kilometres of thick walls and multiple watch towers have ‘Don’t Mess with Me’ written all over them. They’re awe-inspiring, for sure, but I don’t warm to this initial impression of Carcassonne. Essentially a big scowl made of stone, the walls give me a frisson. And not the good kind.
Buildings do carry an energy, I believe, holding the past in their stones. And with a history as bloody as that of Carcassonne it is no wonder the fortress exudes bad vibes.
Dating all the way back to pre-Roman times, it’s one of the best-preserved fortified medieval citadels on the planet and has been the site of many stormings, sieges and battles. Visigoths, Franks and Saracens were just some of the many testosterone-crazed hordes who at various times took the city, surrendered it, held it under siege, slaughtered and were slaughtered. In the thirteenth century, Carcassonne and much of the Languedoc (southern France) were seen as nests of heresy, as they were home to a Christian sect called the Cathars, who believed the material world was evil. It didn’t pay to be different back then, especially when your differences put you at odds with the Catholic Church. The Vatican was mightily pissed off with the Cathars and their po-faced brand of worship. Because no one likes preachy do-gooders telling you your golden candlesticks, marble altars, and silk and ermine robes are the work of the devil. Can you imagine someone coming into your house, taking one look at your De’Longhi coffee maker and calmly informing you that you will burn in hell? Exactly. So yes, a big army was dispatched on the Pope’s orders and 20,000 Cathars were killed in Béziers (80 kilometres from Carcassonne) during the Albigensian Crusade. Killed, mind — not murdered. And crusade, not genocide. I’m just doing some belated PR for the Vatican. After all, he was called Pope Innocent III, so it can’t possibly have been his fault.
Next the army turned its attention to Carcassonne. The soldiers held the town under siege rather than destroy it as they quite sensibly reasoned it would be no good to them as rubble. So yes, the fact we can admire this magnificent fortress today is all thanks to some big hairy medieval dudes with zero compassion but a truckload of foresight.
My not warming to Carcassonne may also be down to the fact Alistair and I get off on a bad footing. A silly, silly thing — miscommunication as always. Plus Alistair is tired and I am hungry. We grown-ups really do underestimate the role physical discomfort plays in arguments. As adults, we believe we are so sophisticated; just because we subscribe to The New Yorker, can read a wine list and own a leaf-blower, we seem to believe we are exceptionally evolved. We are essentially toddlers. We don’t recognise the triggers that will send us (figuratively) lying on the floor refusing to breathe until it’s too late. So Alistair is exhausted but hasn’t said so, and I am not at my best. It’s not just hunger actually — something else is bothering me, but for the moment it’s lurking in my peripheral vision. There is a lot of pressure on us to have a good time on this trip, to bond more deeply, to get our romantic shit together. Here we are, doing the thing we both came to Europe to do, so if we can’t get along in this context, then God help us.
After dropping our bags at the hotel, we go down to the lobby and grab some tourist maps of the old town. Out on the street, Alistair says some words I don’t quite catch and strides away round the back of the hotel, in the direction of where we’ve parked the car. Assuming he’s gone to retrieve something, I wait for him by the hotel door. It is a long wait. By the time we meet up again, a good 25 minutes later, we are both exasperated. Alistair: ‘I thought you were following me!’ Me:‘I am not a bloody chihuahua!’ which is my admittedly bizarre way of saying I take exception to the assumption that I will just obediently trot after him, especially when he marches off with no explanation.
It is a small incident, but an important one. Because what happens next says a lot about our dynamic. A dynamic that is becoming a pattern. Rather than laughing about what a Laurel and Hardy show we are, and moving on, we sling our resentments over our shoulders and haul them along with us. Into my package of resentment I also throw a couple of extras: Alistair, you drive too fast. Alistair, I cannot listen to one more second of Van Morrison.
We begin to explore the town slightly separately from one another, always a few paces away. It’s sad and it’s lonely. One of us should approach the other, and quietly slip a hand in a hand. Plant a gentle kiss. But neither of us does.
I blame Carcassonne. Something hangs heavy in the air, and it’s like having a big sulky child with us.
Back at the hotel, we talk about it. Alistair doesn’t like that I ‘start to rage’ at the drop of a hat. I don’t like that I am expected to second-guess his intentions, and that I can’t even express annoyance without being accused of being a rabid, frothing-at-the-mouth, certifiable loony. Outwardly, I am angry. Actually I am terrified. My heart is racing, the old fears are hammering at the door. What if this is it, what if this is the beginning of the end? When I start to cry, Alistair comes over and puts his arms around me. My heart slows, my breath calms. His warm, ursine hug shuts out all the fear. And even though it’s never wise to make someone else your fortress, for now I feel safe.
The Collioure of Memory
Next stop, Collioure. Ah Collioure. Last time I was here was 26 years ago: with my ex-husband, not long after we first met. I fell in love with the beautiful little Mediterranean port town, and a second visit doesn’t change my mind. Collioure is just 25 kilometres north of the Spanish border, and the influence of her southern neighbour is all around us. It’s in the snatches of Spanish conversation overheard in shops and at café tables, it’s in the liveliness of the streets, in the packed restaurants — their clientele spilling onto outdoor terraces, where brisk waiters ferry enormous dishes of grilled boquerones (anchovies) and plates of golden, seafood-rich paella.
We sit at a table by the glinting harbour, me sipping on a Banyuls — a sweet, fortified wine-style apéritif — and Alistair a cold beer. The green coat is draped over the back of my chair, just to show this glorious winter weather that I am not taking it for granted. The sun is on our faces and we are in heaven. We finish our drinks, snap a few silly selfies — and there’s not a Carcassonne-style cloud in sight.
The road to our next destination, the Catalonian town of Sitges on Spain’s eastern coast, is one long line of beauty: the distant outline of the Pyrénées wearing a faint dusting of snow; miles and miles of vineyards; here and there terracotta-roofed villages clinging to the hillsides; slender paintbrush-shaped cypresses; and so many châteaux we stop oohing and aahing each and every time, a silent ‘ditto’ hanging in the air.
The border town of Le Perthus is an assault on the eyes in comparison, with its loud shop-front signs advertising duty-free liquor and bargain clothing. But after the next set of toll booths, I squeal with delight. On a sign in front of us, on an enormous blue background in a circle of stars, is a word that makes my heart do a quick paso doble. ESPAÑA.
—————
A Train Ride and a Time Machine
After a three-day drive that traces Spain’s eastern coastline, stopping off in Sitges and Alicante, we arrive in Nerja on the Costa del Sol. We are to stay here for two weeks, in a hilltop apartment with a balcony the size of a living room. Every morning we look out from our eyrie to the electric-blue ocean, down onto the whitewashed walls of the town and the bougainvillea-clad villas with their pools — rectangles of turquoise stamped on the landscape like ‘well done!’ stickers.
The highlight of this stay is not Nerja itself but a trip to Los Boliches, an hour’s bus and train ride to the west. This is where I lived for a year with my mother when I was 22. My father had just died, and my Latin American mum found solace being in a Spanish-speaking environment that was near enough to her adopted home in the UK. Riding along the coast now with Alistair, I’m not on a train at all; I’m in a time machine.
We meet up with my friends from 40 years ago, at a chiringuito (a bar–restaurant right on the beach). After a long, long lunch with lots of reminiscing, laughing and catching up, we hug goodbye and Alistair and I head to the main plaza. This is the real reason for this pilgrimage. In the square is the church that was my mother’s second home, and also a small silver plaque dedicated to her. It sits in a flowerbed on the high street edge of the square, and was the fruit of long pleading emails that my brother and I sent to the office of the mayor. Hers is the only plaque here; they made an exception. We desperately wanted her to leave a footprint in a place that meant so much to her, and where she gave so much back. She was in the choir, taught catechism, and put in many hours helping struggling new immigrants to the area — many of them from her homeland.
‘Light a candle for Glorita,’ my sister-in-law had said. ‘When you’re in there, light a candle.’ I flinched momentarily at the suggestion, not being religious. But my sister-in-law is, and she loved my mum to bits, so it seems churlish not to comply. I install Alistair in a bar on the square with a small glass of brandy and head off in the direction of the church.
Grieving is a funny thing. It’s more than ten years since my mum died and I miss her in that slightly distanced, academic way that you do, with time. But approaching the great wooden church doors as dusk falls, I feel like I have lost her all over again. In this place where she shone, this small peacock of a woman in high heels who knew everyone, her absence is tangible.
Inside, a small service is taking place, a woman in the pulpit quietly reading to the scant audience. Through an archway at the back of the church, I see candles flickering. Bracing myself for an emotionally and spiritually charged moment, I walk quietly towards them and prepare to light my taper. But no. The candles are under glass, and they are electric. There is a slot to put your money in. I pop in two euros and give a little start as some twelve candles burst into life at once. It’s like the dance floor from Saturday Night Fever. And this makes me so happy. For a lady who lit up the room, disco candles are just perfect.
I have to leave Nerja for three days to fly to London. It’s not ideal, but the mother of one of my closest friends has died, and Tricia is in pieces. Her mum and dad were beautiful individuals who provided a home away from home for me and my brother after my mother moved to Spain. It’s only right that I should be there to support a dear friend, and say goodbye to someone who showed me so much kindness.
Alistair cannot fathom it. He has planned this lovely trip and here I am abandoning him for three days. ‘Tell her you’re on holiday!’ he insists. ‘She will understand.’ I haven’t told Tricia I am on a road trip and don’t intend to, because this is not about me. But on this subject Alistair and I aren’t just on a different page, we aren’t even reading the same book. As I see it, it’s a duty to someone I care deeply about. Alistair, perhaps not realising just how important Tricia is to me, regards it as supremely selfish — as being uncaring towards him.
I arrive back at Málaga airport on Sunday night and take the bus to Nerja. Alistair picks me up in town and drives us back to the apartment. I am hurt that he didn’t offer to meet me off the plane. It would have been a lengthy drive, but that doesn’t usually faze Alistair. I feel he is making a point, punishing me in some way. Perhaps I am being childish. I honestly don’t know anymore.
In the movies, road trips are always revelatory. Even if they involve armed hold-ups, or family tragedy, as in the fabulous Little Miss Sunshine, the protagonists are invariably moving towards something other than their destination. They are making important discoveries about themselves, about each other.
Our road trip is nothing like this. We’ll have a great day, then an argument, followed by tension, then another great day, more falling out, more tension. There’s a sense of us clocking up plenty of miles but making little ground as a couple. Plus, while I’m immensely grateful to Alistair for spending long hours at the wheel, more often than not he scares the bejesus out of me. He goes at quite a clip, and the Range Rover’s body language towards slower drivers is often, shall we say, a soupçon overbearing. I’m happiest when I am sleeping, or writing on my laptop in the back, oblivious to motorway perils.
On our best days there’s a lightness between us, an easy playfulness. At these times, our private world and the public-facing one are aligned. The Instagram posts of us hugging and laughing aren’t a front; they’re an accurate representation of two people in harmony. But then there are the awful moments I never see coming, the fiery arguments and freezing silences. It’s like standing in a clear blue ocean, gazing in joy and wonder at the tiny darting fish … then WHAM, a huge wave knocks you over, and you feel foolish for ever having let your guard down.
Strangely, after those episodes, when we’ve glimpsed how truly desolate we can make each other feel, we cling more desperately to the relationship. To the narrative that we set out to create. We must keep going.
Ávila. Another walled fortress city, just north-west of Madrid, and it couldn’t be more different to Carcassonne. There is nothing sinister or oppressive here — apart from the snow-threatening sky. Ávila’s 2.5 kilometres of medieval walls flow like a silver ribbon around the old city, stoic and graceful.
For our second night in Ávila, I do a wild, reckless thing. Well, reckless for someone on a fourteen-hours-a-week wage. But who can say no to the chance to stay in a sixteenth-century palace? Not me, it turns out. I treat Alistair and I to a night at the parador inside the old city and in fact it’s only moderately reckless (if there can be such a thing). Paradores are the best thing since sliced chorizo. These state-run hotels are magnificent properties — castles, mansions, monasteries, fortresses, convents, historic buildings, aforementioned palaces — which combine the best of historic atmosphere with modern comfort. And they’re subsidised by the government, which means the more monetarily challenged among us can enjoy a bit of luxe at a relatively modest price.
This parador, formerly the Palace of Piedras Albas, isn’t just within Ávila’s historic walls. It is part of them, built into the second line of the city’s defences. So from the outside, we’re well fortified. Not that we’re expecting a coachload of Visigoths anytime soon. But best to be prepared. On the inside, we’re fortified too … by a well-stocked bar and hands-down THE best hot chocolate that has ever passed my lips and broken down my healthy-eating defences. I reckon had they poured this stuff over invaders rather than shooting arrows at them, their foes would have been too busy licking it off each other to think about fighting. Then they would have waddled away like fat happy cats to sleep it off in the sun. Spanish hot chocolate is thick, rich, molten velvet. It’s usually made with dark chocolate, cornflour, sugar and maybe a dash of milk. Clean eating it is not. But there is a level of divinity in food and drink where ‘Oh I shouldn’t’ doesn’t even come into it. It would be like someone saying to you ‘Would you care to look at the Mona Lisa?’ and your reply is ‘I couldn’t possibly — I already had three Caravaggios.’ This hot chocolate is a thing of beauty, of culinary perfection so elevated that to NOT indulge would be perverse. So we polish off this heaven-in-a-cup with light, fluffy madeleines and not a word of regret or remorse is spoken between us.
So this is our journey. A chiaroscuro painting, thick with drama and emotion but shot through with the occasional burst of light. If one word were to sum up my state of mind at the end of the holiday, it would surely be ‘perplexed’. The episodes of alienation on both our parts … they make no sense alongside those moments of joy, the very fact that Alistair and I can be so utterly transfixed by one another.
In Donostia-San Sebastián, near the end of an evening of superb tapas and wine in the Basque city’s old quarter, Alistair decides to do a ‘video interview’ with me about the evening. I start waxing lyrical about tapas but have to keep asking him to stop because I am laughing too much to carry on.
Watching his expression, the ‘Oh my God you’re a nutter but I love you’ look on his face, I feel a tug of longing. Wanting to keep this Alistair, this moment, forever.
And yet a far greater tug of longing will take me away from him just two weeks later.