by Biddy Wells
Christmas can be a challenge. Sometimes, for me, it feels like a trial, but the week went quite well. No one killed anyone, and harmony won the battle over bickering, family dynamics and occasional sadness. It was lovely to spend so much time with my son, and the company was convivial. I wondered what I might have been doing had I not decided to spend the festive season in Spain. It might have been a lonely time.
*
I have been present at over fifty Christmases. There were the first few that I can’t remember, followed by about a dozen that were all comfortingly similar and very magical – filled with ritual. There were sixpences in homemade puddings that my dad set alight, people I loved being together for days on end, and a feeling of wondrous anticipation that is lost to me now.
Then there was a clutch of Christmases that were more tricky – attempted re-enactments of the real thing that were scaled down and lacking in authenticity, or so it seemed to my critical, teenage self – and highlighted the fact that our family unit had collapsed. I had gone behind the lines, seen behind the scenes and found the reality to be a load of tinsel and packaging. They just had to be endured for the sake of others.
After I became a parent in my mid-twenties, things took a turn for the better and Christmases became our own: Peter’s and mine, for our children. They had meaning again, even if we were complicit in spinning myth and illusion and purchasing tinsel and packaging. We became like children ourselves as we suspended our cynicism so that we could create our own family magic. It meant something.
Even though Peter and I separated a lifetime ago, we nearly always spend Christmas together with our children, our partners and sometimes a friend or two who is short of a family. The meaning of Christmas is different now. Sometimes it can still feel like something that has to be survived, but we get through it with a new attitude – almost a new vigour. Life is ticking away, and perhaps we are all aware that to be able to get together is a precious thing. To be here at all and to be lifelong friends are both things we appreciate.
*
The night before the dreaded descent, I barely slept. I was worried about the drive, about where to go next and how to spend New Year’s. There was a campsite that had been recommended for its welcoming and friendly atmosphere, so I decided that I would go there – assuming I survived the drive back down the crumbling, potholed terror-slide. This time my son sat in with me, and at one point he had to get out and guide me, inch by inch, round the worst of the hairpins so that I could avoid launching myself off the edge of the precipice. I wish never to relive that event.
It was Boxing Day and we all said goodbye at the foot of the mountain. More than anything I was relieved to be on terra firma, and whilst the goodbyes pulled at my heartstrings, I was also just glad to be out in the world again, released from the intensity of Christmas in an isolated mountain cabin with people and their stuff.
I drove the short distance to the campsite and went to check in, whereupon I was barred from entry. I couldn’t believe it. The receptionist had a good look at my van through the window and a good look at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. She asked me if I was alone. Why? I could not fathom it. She told me that I needed to be a member of some organisation to camp there. Nothing on their website or in my campsite book had alerted me to this. There was a lot shrugging and no flexibility. Did they think I was an undesirable type? ‘Happy Christmas to you too!’ I muttered as I left.
I found another campsite nearby, which was full – more shrugging – and then a third which was all concrete, the pitches so tightly crammed that I could barely manoeuvre. When I finally got into the tiny space, I felt pretty desolate. However, this journey has trained me for such experiences, and at least I didn’t have to scale the mountain track again. I got on with the job in hand. I showered, ate, slept and left. What a handsome specimen was the young man at reception, and what a shame he was clearly in a job so entirely unsuited to his surly, unhelpful manner. I had to get out of this place and this mindset.
*
The drive from Costa del Sol to Murcia is long and winding. I wrestle Jamie Cullum out of the CD player and insert my daughter’s compilation. It cheers me along as I head east. I don’t like what I see of coastal Andalucia: all polytunnels and devastation, ugly concrete and intensive tourism. Murcia is a different story. It’s not like Portugal – nothing is quite like Portugal – but it is magnificent: the sierras are speckled with pines and olive trees and shine golden as they catch the winter sun. I have been told of a campsite near the sea and figure this will be a good place to gather myself before I turn northwards in a few weeks, and head for home. I wind my way down the long lane to a small bay nestled between the cliffs.
The welcome at the campsite reception is a relief, and though pitches are expensive, I decide to stay here for a while and regroup after what has been a slightly stressful period. Apparently, this campsite has a vibrant social and music scene. I haven’t sung since I first arrived in Algarve, so that sounds very enticing. What better way to commune with people than to sing and play music together? I realise I am missing my friends and family back home in Wales. I miss David especially, and I realise I could just hightail it out of Spain and go home in a few days, but it seems like there’s still something I have to do here. I want to retune to the peace I had before – the peace that I felt ebbing away as I left the places I loved, where I had felt so much at home. I don’t mind admitting that I am feeling a bit feeble, and that the past week or so has been tough.
I decided to go for a special campsite deal, which gave me a considerable discount and included electric hook-up, which I needed to heat the van on cold winter nights. It also meant I had committed myself to staying there for the next three weeks. It was very hard to decide what to do, as I was finding it difficult to stay in touch with my intuition. Once I had fixed on staying there I could just let go and see what evolved.
*
The clouds are bright and golden over the sea beyond the steep, craggy cliffs. I watch them slowly change shape as I sit in my van, drinking tea. The weather back home is awful, apparently, and I want to soak up as much sun as possible over the next few weeks. I am landing, allowing my soul to catch up with my body. Being here is an opportunity to practice surrender, to be with what is and make the best of the sun and the beautiful surroundings. I realise that the difficult mountain drive in Malaga, the unfriendly campsites and the following long journey have made me lose my nerve, and I just can’t see how I am going to get home. I wish I could just wake up there. I decide to postpone all thoughts on this subject for now.
*
I have been here for a week. I soon came to realise that it’s less of a campsite and more a sort of expat compound with a small field for camping, which is empty. Nearly all the people here are long-term residents; most own little casitas – small, square units with verandas, some with tiny gardens – and others have caravans. There are scores of Dutch, German and English people crammed tightly into adjoining plots. A few of them are single men; none are solo women. They are not unfriendly, but they seem rather closed. I met an English couple who were kind to me when I arrived and invited me to their home, but then went on to tell me about the problems they were having with some of the other residents – I wasn’t sure I needed to know about this.
I am parked next to an enclave of English residents who are from military backgrounds, and the conversations they have are familiar. They complain that Britain has ‘gone to the dogs’, then get onto the subject of immigration. They seem a little bitter and negative about it all, even though they now live in sunny Spain. These are not my people, but they invite me to join them for a drink, which is sweet of them, and I accept.
There are lots of little cliques here: Dutch couples in little groups and English folks who stick together. Someone mentions that the Germans don’t mix with anyone, even other Germans. There’s a handful of Scandinavians here, too, and they seem more open and amiable. Alas, there are no other campers like me, s
taying in vans or tents. I begin to wish I had made a different choice and gone off by myself – but where to? Anyway, I have spent my budget, so I will have to live with it.
A modest music scene does exist. There’s a small group who rehearse together and put on little performances in the bar. I decide to go and listen, and when I arrive I am told they are expecting me to join in. It was kind of them to include me – so, though I am unprepared, I sit with them and try my best to read lyrics and sing harmonies. I had hoped we’d get together in a friendly and casual way to share a few songs, just for the joy of it, but I wasn’t included again after that. Maybe my voice was a bit rusty. When it gets dark at about six, I close myself in for the night, as do many of the others here. There’s the bar, of course, but my appetite for sitting alone and drinking fizzy Spanish beer is limited. I have some films to watch on my laptop and David phones me every night.
A very sweet Danish man called Earnie came and knocked on my door to invite me on a walk he is organising. He is one of those thin, fit Europeans who walks and cycles many miles a day. Once I had explained that I am not, and do not, we planned a modest walk for the next day, on which we were joined by Earnie’s son, Timmy. It was interesting to see some of the surrounding mountainous countryside, and as we shared a picnic of bread, cheese and fruit, I felt as though I had made some friends.
Earnie invited me to his place, and so I ventured up the steep cliff where his casita is perched, and from where the view is truly spectacular. He likes a drink and is extremely generous with glasses of chilled wine. There was nothing for it but to sit there all afternoon, drinking in the view and the wine and enjoying intelligent conversation. Both Earnie and Tim are very lively conversationalists and speak perfect English, which is handy considering my grasp of Danish. Finally I have found people I feel comfortable with.
*
A new visitor has arrived: another Danish man called Andrias. He is roguishly handsome, wears a jaunty hat and smokes cigars continuously. I met him on the beach where we shared some enjoyable conversation. He is here for a few days, visiting his friend who lives here. He is travelling alone and, like me, he feels he doesn’t fit in here and would quite like to leave. I think he finds the place rather strange: densely populated, yet not particularly welcoming. We both harbour fantasies of escaping the intensity of the place in favour of ‘the real Spain’. In another story I could imagine the two of us absconding under the cover of darkness and finding a beachside hotel where we would eat delicious food and chat with locals, the sound of a Spanish guitar wafting soothingly in the background. But then what? Anyway, we got on famously and decided to hook up for dinner at his place later.
Serenaded by a slightly off-station radio alarm clock, we ate a selection of fried up bits and bobs that we both had in our cupboards, accompanied by lots of red wine. Andrias sat right up close to me on the sofa, his pungent cigar smoke fogging the air, and confirmed my guess that he was in his late sixties. He advised me on many aspects of my life, which was sweet, but completely unsolicited. Smiling meaningfully and speaking rather slowly, he said:
‘You know, every man wants a much younger, pretty girl. We are all the same, men, it’s in the blood.’
‘Is that so?’ I enquired. ‘And, by the way, how old do you think I am?’ He thought I was thirty-seven, maybe thirty-eight, which I found hilarious, as I am over fifty. Soon I decided I was rather tired and ready to go home. He kindly offered me the option of staying at his place for the night to save me the trouble of walking home. I pointed out that I had arrived by bicycle and that the journey had taken me about ninety seconds.
‘Yes,’ I assured him, ‘I am sure I won’t change my mind.’
*
A couple of days ago, Andrias left and I was glad, because he had started to get on my nerves. I wonder whether I just don’t like people – though there are some that I like very much. I seem to have rather limited tolerance for certain types of interaction. I wonder if I should be concerned about this. Anyway, Andrias popped in one morning while I was still immersed in tea ceremony – admittedly, this was after eleven – and I was in a bit of a bad mood. He wanted to show me a part of the coast path that he had enjoyed walking, so I joined him after a few minutes. From the very first moment he treated me like an invalid or small toddler, instructing me and guiding each footstep as if we were climbing a dangerous rock face, perhaps with ropes. Several times I told him that I was fine and could manage perfectly well. His advice continued:
‘Now put your right foot here, and then…’
‘I have walked a lot of coast paths, you know, we have them in Wales,’ I countered with a little laughter in my voice. He wasn’t listening to me.
‘Your left foot there…’ he coached.
‘STOP!’ I yelled, ‘stop telling me where to put my feet!’ He stopped walking, stood stock still and looked hurt. I felt sorry, but I couldn’t take one more instruction – after all, I am not a pretty young girl wearing stilettos, nor an ancient matron with bad knees! Poor old chivalrous Andrias! I am sure he meant well, but do I come across as someone who needs this degree of extreme care? Maybe he was a frustrated outdoor-pursuits instructor.
I spoke to David last night and told him how I was getting on, how I had run out of steam and felt apprehensive about travelling all the way back to Wales alone.
‘That’s funny,’ he said, and went on to tell me that he had been thinking that it would be fun to fly over and drive home with me. I was flabbergasted and then overjoyed. I had to ask him several times if he really meant it, and if he was sure he could spare the time? He was sure and we arranged that I would pick him up at Murcia airport in two weeks’ time. I can hardly wait to see him.
My days are spent walking, occasionally swimming in the cold, rough sea, and sitting on Earnie’s veranda, sipping wine, playing Scrabble and chatting. It’s far from taxing, and yet sometimes all I really want to do is collect David immediately and go home with him. Even so, I recognise that these last days of independence are precious. Though it’s warm and sunny here, it’s still winter time, and I feel like hibernating. My idleness has reached a new level. Mornings are extremely lazy: the sun doesn’t make it over the cliffs till eleven, so there’s no need to rush.
I find myself feeling sad a lot of the time. Apart from my Danish friends, there’s nobody I want to hang out with. I am in a slightly frozen state that has to do with feeling I am in the wrong place. If it wasn’t for Earnie and Tim I think I would be considering this three-week stay a bit of a disaster. This is absurd, because I am sure there are many people who would love to be here, enjoying the warmth of the winter sun. I would like to leave, but I know that though I am somewhat uncomfortable, I have to stay with this, not run away. Life has something to teach me here. All I have learned is now being put to the test. I have to surrender to this reality and just watch my feelings and thoughts arise and dissolve; then I will be truly walking the walk, not just talking the talk.
*
Where do we go when we sleep? Maybe nowhere. Perhaps we are already there when we’re awake, but with the TV on. When we sleep, the TV – the mind – is off; the room is quiet. We merge back into the ocean. Each night I wake in the small hours, a time that affords me a sort of secret space which can be quite creative. I am half awake and in an altered state, which feels like an opportunity to restore or reboot. In this mode, I gather some treasures that might otherwise be lost in the unconscious voyage of an unbroken night’s sleep.
Having said that, today I have woken from a long slumber. In the bright light of a fine January morning, I feel that I have spent time with a wise teacher. Maybe that is what happens in deep sleep, whether we remember it or not. This morning I emerge with a strong sense of compassion for my father, who is so proud of me, his only daughter, for going off alone. I am no longer uncomfortable about this – and he has a point. This journey required courage, especially for a fearful rabbit.
The truth is, I have often been a bit cowardly, an
d like the lion in TheWizard of Oz I needed to leave the arena in which my life normally plays out and put myself into an unfamiliar setting, where I would have to find my courage to look at things differently. My dad is right: I am a brave girl. Does he know more than I credit him for? What if, somehow, he knows exactly what I am doing here, what this journey is really about? That would explain why he thinks I am brave.
Ivan once said: ‘Your father is your greatest teacher.’ We had been talking about my particular father, not fathers in general. I was sure he was right, yet I was not sure what I was supposed to learn. Now I think I understand what it is that I am learning from my father, or, more precisely, from our interconnection. This is not a relationship from which I can easily walk away. I have to face up to things – examine the truth. I had thought it was my responsibility to confront him about what I perceived as his failures: to tell him the Truth as I saw it. How arrogant that now sounds! Thankfully, something stopped me from embarking on this confrontation, which I had dreaded and procrastinated about for a while. Now I am looking from a new perspective. Before it’s too late, I want to show my dad my love for him: the love that got obscured over the years, when our paths diverged; the love that is naturally born of our kinship; that I discovered is still there, despite everything.
*
The moon is full and bright and beautiful. I can’t sleep. Writing has been hard lately and, despite my intentions to live in the present at all times, I am impatient to leave this place. It is like a small village with small village politics, where people are trapped together and petty squabbles are fairly common. Of the people who have talked to me, a lot either dislike the Brits, the Dutch, the Germans, or certain individuals. Strangely, though, they all seem united on one thing: this place is a paradise. I am happy for them, but I find it hard to love it here.
