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adamwolf
03 June 2013 @ 06:33 pm

I went to Spain this year, during the Easter holidays in fact, and at 32 it's probably the most adventurous thing I've ever done. Which is odd, I know, but still... Before I left, I was completely lost in all the details of all the things I would have to overcome: flying for the first time, the procedure of going through the airport, a country where they don't speak my language (and I don't speak theirs) and living with two people I love dearly but don't know very well for twelve whole days in a small cottage away from civilization.



Looking back on it though, I don't remember much about the things I was so scared of at first. I mostly remember chatting with one of my friends in the airpoirt, watching the other one sleep. I remember the incredible thrill of going up above the clouds for the first time, and being unable to tear my eyes away from the sight below me for any length of time. I remember the scent of orange trees and the colour of the sky - this miraculous deep blue, encompassing every other sensation. I remember going out in the grey drizzle to fetch wood for the fireplace, and mocking the daring presenters of some nature documentary long after dark. I remember the divine silence of the finca, and the incredible echo of ancient pilgrims in a tiny mezquita.



But most of all I remember with fondness the kindness and care of my companions, coaching, guiding and goading me through this experience. If I'm trying to pick up writing again now, it's in part because they've showed me that the biggest obstacle in my path is me. It's something I've always known, but never saw so clearly as when standing on a small courtyard in Sevilla, ordering biscuits from a nun.

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