Cadaques, North East Spain

The cloudy grayness of last week has given way to a sun that now warms worn terracotta roofs and lazy cats lolling outside doorways. The light washes down across the bay, and makes shadows upon the water flutter and dance. In the garden, a slight wind buffets the potted palm in its outside pot, complimenting the light and demanding that a watercolor of the scene be drawn.

From the garden terrace I can really appreciate Cadaques in all its whiteness, at times when it seems ancient and a little magical. To stand on the hill and look down upon the town is like sitting in the gods at the theatre, watching some vast exquisitely propped play as time speeds by. The clouds roll in, the sun descends behind olive green peaks and the moon rises elegantly to cast its light upon the sea. The street lamps go on across the beachfront, the shops close and the bars open, one half of the populous makes room for the other half. Soon the sun rises again, casting her pink flame over the crags and rocks of Cap De Creus, hitting the lighthouse before cutting gracefully to her place high above the Casino and the olive trees.

We watch all this from our hill, binoculars and naked eyes scanning the road that snakes along the waterfront, removed by vegetation from any activity past our garden walls. A few streets distant scooters buzz through the cobbled streets, on the beach tourist boats crash against the shore, cooks and waiters take a quick cigarette break before plunging back to the steaming inferno of the kitchens dotted around town. Up here however an air of scholarly seriousness looms over everything. A cardboard box is tacked up against the window, taped calendars and timetables replacing the view of church spire and garden poplar with proof of our academia. Our math work is temporarily laid aside, SAT books replaced by reams of poetry translations for our next project, the writing of a five page paper. And outside the sun drags lower in the sky and activity trickles downwards in tempo as the night appears.


Steve on the hill above Cadaques

Cap De Creus, North East Spain

Running feet pausing briefly upon the dirt, taking off again, hurried like worried grouse fleeing death in a far away land. A shoe lands in a miniscule cloud of dust, the earth lifting skywards only to submit to harsh gravity and come down again in a puff of friction.

Running I can see. The sky is purple, heavy hues splashed lightly onto the canvas of ancient rock. My gaze swings between sky and ground, each footfall jolting my vision slightly, sweat stinging at eyes and neck. Ahead on the rocky path is Steve. With little effort my teacher turns neatly round the corner, skipping over dusty brambles before jogging onto the length of a once-used dam. I follow, feet scrambling for purchase, head starting to ache with effort, hands balled into tight fists.

Running, I feel free. The wind blowing and serenading, the sun burning brightly as it launches from the horizon, upwards above the sparkling ocean. My lungs may ache, pain may shoot from my legs, but none of that seems to matter when I run. My feet float almost gracefully and I will everything to give me speed, to hurl me forward into the next turn. Broken buildings, their shells cracked and torn appear to the left before we pass them in a second, the smell of aniseed thick around us.

Running, I forget. Memories are replaced with the present while grudges and fears slide off into the dust behind me. Any problems from the previous days are forgotten as my joints loosen and I can think clearly again. Work and stress, arguments and fights, all is forgotten as I run, the sky the limit, nothing unattainable in those brief moments.

Cadaques, North East Spain

The thunder has gone, clouds shifted from above the town, the sun revealed if only temporarily. We have been here in Spain for a week and yet I have not written before now, hopefully to the vague disappointment of my readers. Looking out of the dirt stained window I can see the hills rise away in the distance around the town, forming the stage for this expedition and looking perfect for me to sketch at some later time.

Now though, I plug in my headphones, switch on A Beautiful Day by U2 and start writing again. This week feels like years, every day intermingling then slipping slowly away like the sailing boats heading from the harbor and out to sea. Every day we work from the kitchen table, piles of schoolbooks confronting us with their serious print and boring titles. We read through these, figuring out mathematical problems that to me have no point other than to act as stepping-stones for applying to collage. Could we not, I wonder, figure out problems to deal with world hunger and racial injustice, calculate food usage in Africa instead of figuring out how many eggs Jill has if she buys five more? A thick layer of test papers lies like fresh snow upon all this and finally some are starting to be filled in with scrawled pen marks.

Sitting here, my thoughts wander to France where we went for the day to see some Matisse’s on show in the local gallery. The sun low in the sky we strolled down leafy avenues and drunk coffee after touring the art gallery. In France I saw so much to write about, both for my blog and serious reference papers. I wrote briefly on crossing the border:

France seemed an extension of the dusty Catalonian landscape as we crossed the border above a wide ravine. Continuing though the olive tree covered countryside I saw subtle differences, the French number plates of the car in front and the indecipherable signposts sliding by. Catherine was quick to point out random snippets of information ‘Here’s the pass used by Hannibal’s elephants’ or ‘Quick, look, that is where a princess used to throw her lovers out of windows and down the cliffs’ followed usually by a good natured laugh as we cruise deeper into Europe, the sun shining and thunder clouds no where to be seen.

Clapham Common, London

London is humid, the heat sickly and clinging and the rain still frustratingly absent. Even deep in the earth on the tube, rattling along inside the mysterious iron tunnels the air was warm and foul, like I had been sucked down into some giant maw. It was my first time in London since the dreadful bombings and things felt slightly different in the tube, like a cloud of mistrust was lurking underground. It was with relief then that I arrived at my stop, flung my bag onto sweaty shoulders and climbed the stairs to the street.

Being in London is a wake up call for me, my last few days in Britain and on holiday for three months. In about 48 hours I will meet my friend and tutor Steve, board a plane and be in Spain by nine a clock that night. In Spain we get to work, studying high school curriculum with the aim of graduating me by Christmas. Shackleton may have closed and, although I have not graduated I have not failed either. So instead of studying at school Steve and I will be cast loose in Spain. We will therefore set up our own place of learning in Es Puig, my families summer house that will become our school

We will be based in Cadaques, a town perched by the mountains and fronted by sea. This artistic community should provide us with a base and the chance for me to improve my writing and enrich my future posts and entries. Everyday I will learn, from cooking traditional food to riding challenging paths on my mountain bike to studying poetry to algebra.

Now I am still in London. I hear sirens and glance outside, staring at the lush green of plants and the hazy spire of some church next door. Already I have left behind my usual innocence and am ready for the change in schedule a city trip demands. Instead of walking through wheat fields I will dodge pedestrians in crowded streets, instead of eating at home I will eat out. I will have to keep doors locked and watch out for pickpockets, things rarely done in Aberdeenshire. And then in two days when I am just settling down I must swap London for Barcelona and the known for the new and frightening.