I didn’t want to go. My energy levels felt low and the thought of having to get up at 3.15 am to catch a 6.20 am flight to northern Spain felt a challenge.

My son, who lives in Spain was having a party for his birthday.

He is my son and I care for him.

My granddaughter is living with me at the moment but did not want to stay in the house alone so went to her boyfriend.

I set my alarm, and surfaced blearily. The taxi came and soon I was at the airport. I am visually impaired. The airport is a mist of bright lights and confusing landscape. I need help, where is assistance? I ask a man in a high viz jacket, he says.

‘Go over there, there is a phone.’

I went over there blindly, there was no phone but a lift. I took it and found help.

I arrived at 9am Spanish time and my son met me. We drove through the Galician countryside. There is a clarity of light and the landscape is unique with areas of dark forest that is outlined by the clear blue sky. Then to my son’s house that he has fashioned with such beauty. I stand by the lemon tree in his garden and relish the beauty of both his garden and the landscape.

I didn’t want to come and now I am glad that I am here.

My grandson who is learning to be sound engineer is setting up a sound system for the party. The band that was due to come has dropped out. Panic is rising.

The party guests will consist of ex -patriot British who have mainly chosen an alternative lifestyle, most are practical and work as builders and carpenters, there will also be couples that have a Spanish partner and some English -speaking Spanish plus some only Spanish speaking. My son speaks Spanish.

Preparations became somewhat frenetic. I t was mainly functional, putting up bunting and lights,

My son cooked samosas and other dishes. I hung about being ineffectual but did chop things blindly.

The party came and it was magical. People came bearing food, others came bearing meat, a barbecue was heated up. It was a communal affair, everyone gave something.

Cocktails were made at the top of the garden, in an attractive den, my son had built for the children.

The skies darkened, the fairy lights came into play, more people came and the garden was filled with the hum of conversation.

The depleted band started up, a drum being my bedside table, a super guitarist and a vocalist, my grandson doing a sensitive job with the sound. This was innovation at its best.

As I listened in the dark sky, I was moved.

I listened to stories, a South African man who had met his sister for the first time in 20 years in Berlin where they came to terms with their mother’s early death and the violence of their father.

A Spanish girl who was a circus acrobat and lived in London and met a beautiful Ghanaian actor, they had a relationship that ended in the birth of such a the most delightful little girl but he had no interest in being a responsible father. During Covid, he sent his semen to a woman on line that he had never met, and she had a baby, so he is the father pf two children.

I met a Spanish boy, who was an ex-drug addict and now works in concrete, he creates works of art for parks he showed me pictures on his phone. He was a talented artist.

Finally, I met an English woman who came from a Spanish English family. She is married to a Spanish man. She regaled me with a complex story of I think her great aunt, who as a child had to escape from Franco Spain with her mother and two sisters to the UK. Unfortunately, I might have drunk too much wine and cannot remember the full story. She is trying to write the story because it is part of history and hopefully, I will read it one day.
I was only in Spain three days.