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

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mosquito net looking like some fairies wedding dress out to dry, they exist in a time warp, their memories of me long out of date.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.