Cadaques, North East Spain

The evening sun sinks slowly behind terraced hills and terracotta roofs, gently touching the opening doors of Cadaques only church. From her perch high upon waves of golden filigree the Virgin Mary is slowly brought earthward. Slowly, conveyed by four pairs of loving hands she is gently carried outside though the already thronging crowds.

Imagine that you are this figurine, this statuette taken out to perform your sacred duty to the townsfolk. Every year you are carried down the sloping alleys and crowded streets to a tiny harbour that perches upon the south shore. From there a fishing boat conveys you around the bay from the main beach to the lighthouse that looms high on grey cliffs half a mile distant. This is your annual journey:


Out of the Church and down past a ruined house, its doors pockmarked with woodworm, cats fleeing into its caved interior.

Cadaques lies at the feet of weather-beaten mountains. Strands of olive trees grip to the hillside by way of stone terraces made long ago by locals you can glimpse in faded postcards. Those that inhabited Cadaques then depended on fish and olive oil instead of the sarongs and beach balls that their children’s children now sell in the Plaza.

Right by the clockwork toyshop, hand puppets hanging from hooks on the wall.

In the “Casino”, in reality a glorified social club empty of gamblers, one can see black and white pictures of the great frosts and snows that over fifty years ago killed thousands of olives and thus wiped out this towns livelihood until tourism was introduced.

Over the spot where craggy old women in black shawls once hawked live fish from a rusty barrow.

Past the stone mermaid set in concrete that fronts an obscure seafood restaurant.

Looking down from the eyes of an ever-wheeling gull, the town is a mass of orange roofs broken by the cracks of streets and alleys. Towards the outskirts new property leaps ever upwards, a mass of concrete oozing slowly up beige foothills.

Salvador Dali, famous for paintings of oozing clocks and warped elephants once called this town home (as is evident by his penis shaped swimming pool over the hills in Port Legat). His statue guards the square, eyes towards the heavens and moustache neatly preened. There are pictures somewhere, pictures of Kevin and myself clinging to Dali’s form, just minutes before he and Robin waved goodbye and left Spain (Kevin not Dali).


Past tourists sitting astride walls, their cameras clicking and recording in time with the music.

Through the plaza where huge crowds ebb and flow among the shady trees.

Onto a boat bobbing slowly against the quay where half the local population stands expectant, crossing themselves as you pass.

Half an hour later you bless Sasabolia and are serenaded by the squawks of sea gulls, the hoots of locals with foghorns and the crash of dark brakers hitting against the cliffs.

In a world where fishing boats can be plucked beneath the seas with all hands lost, Religion and superstition become extremely important. Thus a statue of Mary must make her annual trips to old and mostly forgotten fishing coves, blessing the grounds in the hope that no men will die at sea during the following year.


Afterwards you are returned to the church, stowed safely by the alter and forgotten until next year. From the other side of think oak doors the hoot of a trumpet and the buzz of ever-present mopeds can be heard on the breeze as town life carries on into the fading daylight


Leaving the harbor


Procession of the ships


The view from the bay


The Virgin nearing the cathedral

Cadaques, North East Spain

I am back, feet stepping upon red tiles and hands pulling random tomes from the shelf next to my bed. This is my room and yet I have not lived here or even called Es Puig my house for two years. This summer house with its stucco and ivy strewn walls, my room with the mosquito net looking like some fairies wedding dress out to dry, they exist in a time warp, their memories of me long out of date.

The pictures on the wall show a boy, either scowling sourly with contempt in his eyes or trying nervously to smile. The books on the shelf belonged to someone with small views, the toys in the corner to a virtual child, the person I once was.

Now I feel very different from the last time I was here, stepping into and retying my shoes within five minutes of arrival as I prepare to go out. My back is straighter, my movements less manic and my conversation less self centred. Unpacking my bag I pull out journal entries that I could not have dreamed of writing, an art case full of paints I am now comfortable using, a scarf that has travelled with me from a crowded market in Asia.

Not everything has changed. Even now I do not always have the drive or the willingness to improve the way I think, interact and live daily or even weekly. I can still be as selfish and mean, as stupid and clumsy, as shy and timid as I was last time I arrived at Es Puig. The difference is I have the skills and the confidence to change things, to realize my mistakes and work on putting them right, even if it takes me longer than most people.

And so I walk out the door, down past the poplars and lavender, opening the gate and waiting for Jamie, my life very different from the last time I did so.

Girona, North East Spain

The road that carries us, my family and me, that carries our bags and packs, our bagpipes and handbags, it is a road I know well. Through the window is Catalonia, the landscape at once comfortingly familiar and worryingly foreign.
The road flashing by prompts familiar images, snippets of scenery appearing like flashcards shown to me from above, there and gone within seconds.

We are on holiday, the flights made and baggage collected, the taxi given directions. Now comes the hour-long drive to Cadaques, the extracurricular pilgrimage of my life. Nearly every year we take this drive over the mountains to my holiday home in Cadaques. Travelling from either Barcelona or Girona, the road changes only slightly with each coming visit and thus the scenery is as familiar as the rolling hills and grey mountains of rural Aberdeenshire.

A recognizable grove of poplars appearing on our left makes me smile and yet my family do not notice them. Perhaps it is just I who know the stately trees, the same ones we have seen with every trip we make to Spain. I look through the grove as we speed past, their planted rows and lines so formal, resembling soldiers on parade much more than mere foliage.

The field of drooping sunflowers appear soon after, their heads sunk as if disgusted by the weather, their trunks mottled from pesticide use. Now dying in the heat they are abandoned, no farmers walking slowly among them or tractors riding over them, the wilted plants adding stillness to the land. The fields of cane are soon to follow yet I barely notice them for I am waiting for the Concrete building that is the lair of King Kong.

And there he is, the mountains looming behind his fibreglass bulk, his face set in a primeval glair. How strange really, that here in rural Spain lies a factory making fairground attractions, its grassy yard home to brightly painted dragons and guerrillas, each a slide or roller coaster carriage. King Kong of the Amusement Parks gives me a final look of fury and then we are gone, past the mini golf and into the hills towards Cadaques.

The Royal Mile, Edinburgh, Scotland

Freeze the scene at the march, just for one second allow surrealism to triumph. Police horses and riders paused, anarchist chants silenced, complete stillness as feet wait before falling to the cobblestones. Now that silence wafts though the hordes of protesters there are no distractions to keep me from talking about topics that I was at first tempted to ignore.

I admit that I was socially compelled to march, eager to show my compassion and attempt to woo members of the opposite sex with my stories. As I travelled on the train however, I thought of places I had already been, people I had already met and causes I would support by being there and I began to feel somewhat selfish for my previous motivations, although not enough to stop them I am ashamed to say. My consolation is that when I did talk about my travels and the people I had met, I did not dumb down their struggle, did not hide the more uncomfortable facts. As my mentor Steve Nelson once said “Feel Guilty”.


Children hobbling from lack of a leg, orphans dragging water from a well so I could have a drink, families that opened their doors in kindness, these people live in material “poverty”. They have harboured, befriended, relied and doted on me, people who will never know I was marching in part for them for them, for a world in which life could become slightly easier for them and slightly harder for me.

The G8 March, Edinburugh Scotland

Imagine the noise, the mess, the pure feeling of excitement created by tens of thousands of people, marching together like one massive white being around Scotland’s Capital. As they march past look at the buildings lining a route of steel barricades and traffic cones.

Romanesque architecture built with Scottish Stone, modern shops with boarded up windows to deal with rioters and yet still operational. Above Jenners apartment store and its lovely façade hovers a solitary helicopter, its camera capturing the scene bellow.

Looking closer and you are a policewoman; hand on truncheon and face emotionless. You stand to the side of Princes street, protected by a cast iron fence and Kevlar vest. From your station at the fence watch the people slide past, their faces contrasting with their white tee-shirts so they look like leaves afloat on a moving river. Look from her eyes, this police woman on the seashore and see the people walk past in a mass of difference; a red shirted socialist clutching vicious propaganda, Muslim women in traditional garb, whistle blowing hippies and society girls marching side by side.

One of those marching is Sondra, the pretty university student and sister to Alan, marching with her handbag and skirt as me and her brother carry various protest signs over our shoulders, swapping frequently:
“Make Poverty History”
“Trade Justice”
“More and Better Aid”
“Drop the Debt”
“Islamic Relief”
“Bush: Number one dictator”


. From the castle on its mound, if you looked carefully, you could see a light ribbon of white tee shirts, completely encircling the city centre. At the meadows where thousands sit, stand and sleep, one announcement booms out above all others “the goal is complete”, the message sent to the eight leaders of the worlds richest countries that “enough is enough”

Edinburgh, Scotland

“Where poverty persists there is no true freedom” Nelson Mandela

“He’s been beaten badly by at least ten policemen…. disgusting comments…do you want to make poverty history?” Alan Sheriff

The night is not yet dark as we stand in the street, two ex-schoolboys interviewing a horde of florescent-jacketed policemen, businesslike even as they restrain a raging drunk in full view of the public. We appear self-sure and professional and one could never tell that we were teenagers taking a five-minute breather from clubbing. The camera pans as Alan conducts the first interview, the constables confused by our photographic interest in their job.

Alan’s commentary, juxposed by moving sirens and muffled curses gives our own twisted insight into that night. He is the star of our two-man news show, our equipment nothing more than a camera phone and two nice shirts, our mission to report on the G8 march in Edinburgh.

Before that, before we sat eating oranges with Sondra and watched one hundred thousand people march by, and before that I was travelling. Sitting on the train, backpack straps dangling above like synthetic creepers I thought of girls, parties and protesting.

Harry calls me on the train, the ring tone irritating and electronic as I dig it out of my pocket and listen to his far away voice,
‘Hey Tom, look I’m sorry but I’ve left town and am heading home.” I groan, deprived of not only company but also a bed “Give this number a ring and speak to Alan, he can give you a place to stay”

Before that I was hunched in front of my computer reading the following:

“On Saturday 2 July, as leaders of the worlds richest countries gather in Scotland for the G8 summit, tens of thousands of campaigners will rally in Edinburgh city centre to send this message to the G8 leaders:
Enough is enough. We want trade justice, Debt cancellation, and more and better aid for the world’s poorest countries.
Be there. Make your voice heard.
MAKE HISTORY in 2005
MAKE POVERTY HISTORY”

Twelve hours after that I am in Edinburgh, beer in hand and sitting on a sofa overlooking the police blockade surrounding Scottish Parliament, chatting to Harry’s friend Alan. Tomorrow is the march and at this late stage my plan is thus: Wake up sometime before ten, put on a white tee-shirt (required) and join more than a hundred thousand people on the streets.