Normally the only thing that motivates me to get out of bed comes hand-roasted from Guatemala, but this morning I can hardly wait to jump up, draw back the curtains in my hotel room and let the bright Spanish sunshine stream in.
Following a scenic detour through the stunning Serra de Collserola national park that sits above the city, it was mid-afternoon yesterday by the time we finally made it to the hotel and, after checking in, we both crashed out for a couple of hours. When I woke up I was keen to explore, but after getting no answer from Cricket’s room, I left her sleeping and went off by myself.
I’ve been to Barcelona a couple of times, and each time I visit I love it more. On my wander yesterday I stayed away from Las Ramblas, the main tourist thoroughfare, and instead weaved my way through the myriad backstreets. I love a city you can walk around, and in my wanderings I lost all track of time. It was still pressure-cooker hot and minutes melted into hours as late afternoon gave way to evening. I arrived back at the hotel to discover it was almost 8 p.m., and found Cricket sitting in the bar.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be gone for so long!’ Apologizing, I slid into the seat next to her. ‘I didn’t realize it was so late.’
But she dismissed me. ‘This isn’t late, this is Barcelona. The evening’s just getting started. Now, what are you drinking?’
Rioja. Two Negronis. And a jug of sangria, as it turned out, thus throwing – nay, hurling – my attempts at a healthy regime out of the window, as I’m pretty sure that’s well over the recommended number of units. But hey ho, Viva España! Which is basically the Sod This approach to life, but in a Spanish accent.
Much fun it was too, as it also involved staying up with Cricket into the early hours, eating lots of delicious tapas and watching street performers dance the flamenco, while plotting how I could move to Barcelona.
Before remembering fucking Brexit and needing more sangria.
And now, less than twelve hours later, we’re all packed up again and setting off in the car to drive north. Cricket is in the passenger seat with Monty’s ashes on her lap. We had a bit of a scare earlier when we couldn’t find them and for a moment I thought our trip had turned into a bad rom-com. Visions of Monty in baggage reclaim going around and around on the conveyor belt, some poor unsuspecting soul taking a look inside, his final resting place ending up being Airport Lost Property . . .
Luckily we discovered the box in the boot of the rental car, but from now on Cricket isn’t taking any chances, and refuses to let him out of her sight.
‘At least this way he gets to take in the view,’ I say brightly, as we leave the city behind us. She was so panicked earlier; it’s my attempt to lighten the mood.
‘I don’t think he’s seeing much, stuck in this cardboard box.’
I suddenly realize how crass that sounded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she cuts me off. ‘You’re being nice and I’m being an arse.’
‘It’s OK. You can be an arse.’
‘No, I can’t.’ She shakes her head firmly. ‘My husband died. It happens. People die all the time. We can’t all go around being arses to people.’
I glance across at her and her eyes meet mine, then fall to her lap and the box resting there.
People talk about scattering ashes all the time. It’s got these dreamy, almost romantic connotations. You imagine peaceful settings and exotic locations, a sprinkling of your soul and spirit. At least, that’s always been my impression, but then I’ve never seen any ashes before now.
Instead, the reality is something resembling a shoebox filled with what looks like about seven pounds of gravel. It’s anything but dreamy and romantic. It’s bizarre and inconceivable and I’m struggling to get my head around it, so I can’t even begin to imagine how Cricket must be feeling.
‘But you’re right, he is here,’ she says after a few moments, ‘but not in this cardboard box.’ She gazes out of the window as we speed along the motorway. ‘I was raised a Catholic but I never shared their belief in the afterlife. I can’t believe in a heaven if I don’t believe in a hell. But he’s in my heart, my memories . . . the conversations I still have with him . . . and that’s sort of an afterlife, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘I think it is.’
‘Monty was a pair of bright black eyes, a sharp comeback and a roaring belly-laugh that would shake his whole body.’ She looks down at the box on her lap. ‘Not these ashes. In fact, thinking about it, I’ve a good mind to throw them out of the window—’
‘No!’ Instinctively, my hand shoots out across the gearstick and grabs the box.
‘What is it?’ Cricket almost jumps out of her skin.
‘You can’t do that!’
‘What?’
‘Chuck Monty out of the car,’ I cry, before realizing what I’ve just said.
But Cricket’s unruffled. ‘Oh, I wasn’t going to really,’ she reassures me. ‘We’ve come all this way. And it wouldn’t be very nice for the people behind us,’ she adds, as she glances in her wing mirror.
I check my rear-view; almost touching my bumper is a canary yellow convertible being driven by an old man with a much younger woman sitting beside him. He’s flashing his lights for me to move over.
Cricket and I both look at each other, but I don’t remember which one of us bursts out laughing first. Only that we laugh until our eyes water and our sides hurt, and still we keep on laughing.
A few hours later we find ourselves elevated high above the sea, on a treacherous road that’s twisting and dipping as it hugs the hillside. I grip the steering wheel, my nerves slightly fraught. Until, turning a corner, I see a horseshoe bay and catch my first glimpse of a whitewashed town below, set against the backdrop of glittering blue water. This is our destination for the week. It’s breathtaking.
Spotting a layby, I pull over.
‘Is anything wrong?’ Cricket turns to me.
I shake my head. ‘I just want to take a photo.’
Opening the door, I climb out of the car. Cricket buzzes down her window to watch as I take out my phone to try and capture the magical view beyond. A gust of wind catches my hair, blowing strands across the lens, while the midday sun’s shining right in my eyes; I can’t see properly.
I take the photo anyway. Because this is my life and for the first time in a long, long time, it needs absolutely no filter.
I’m grateful for: