Some of the healing, I think, began in Spain and had to do with, in part, being lost in translation. When there are no familiar benchmarks or yardsticks as to who you may be within a wider context, it is a time where you are able to come to terms with who you are, rather than what you are. The initial discomfort of being dependent on a bossy and at times very confused SatNav that failed, miserably, to get us from the airport onto the correct highway, soon began to fade. Whilst for practical reasons, I had volunteered that I would drive the hire car if entirely necessary I elected not to put myself under the pressure of coming to terms with a gear shift on the wrong side of the car as well as narrow, un-chartered roads, at night, driving counter intuitively.
The timing of our flight was influenced, though not dictated by the cost of my mum and aunt’s train tickets from where they live in the midlands, to Heathrow. I find it fascinating that even though it is abundantly clear that, as pensioners, they have more disposable income than we do, they are still as fearful, if not more so, of impending economic gloom and talk of recessions. Be that as it may, we eventually arrived at our destination at midnight, without any contribution from me as regards the driving, except navigation and deciding which town would be best to stop at for provisions as we were in a self catering cottage.
In Sweden, little over a year ago, I drove on the wrong side of the road, but we had taken our trusted car with us on the ferry. But not electing to drive in Spain was something of an achievement, for me, because it meant that I was being honest about my capability and the cost to my nerves that would have resulted if I had, on the face of it, been the confident, competent, wrong side of the road driver. Because no matter what I would have appeared to be on the surface, would have belied a tummy full of prickly jelly and a mind full of, ‘Right, right, right, right!’
It is also hugely significant to me that I did not assume that what was going through my husband’s mind or his physical form was the same discomfort I would feel. Paul has mentioned how he does not understand how I could have won a reading competition when my hands shook so much. They did and always do, when I am under any form of pressure or scrutiny. My experiences over the years have only amplified my nervous disposition. My naivety has meant that I have imbued everyone else with having to overcome the same nerves. In so far as that assumption is concerned, I have found myself wanting and a failure by comparison.
My husband is not one for sightseeing, anyway, so day trips were interspersed with long, almost contemplative days, whilst we all survived the heat, in readiness for long, hot, dusty walks towards the evening, probably nearer 6:00 o’clock than 4:00. There was of course, conversation to be had, even though we were essentially a mix of ethereal, slothful, neurotic, fidgety, scrabble and Thai rummy playing, competitive, interesting, snappy, opinionated, book reading, mobile phone gambling, sketching, insomniac, premenstrual, smoker’s coughing, will and expectation.
But as the ten days unfolded, I realised that I was quite comfortable with who I am. When I am not being asked, ‘What are you?’ When I do not have to explain or justify my social position or lack thereof, I am, essentially quite happy. We were, really, in the middle of nowhere, in a very rural community, where the only passing traffic was a man on a horse or another, herding pretty, light coloured cattle, with bells round their necks, along the dusty track in front of the finca (small holding). Our conversation with the locals was pretty much restricted to, ‘Hola! Gracias and por favor,’ or hand gestures, never of the two fingered variety. There appeared to be a leisurely calm about being an olive, black pig, or fig farmer or labourer, although their use of petrol powered leaf blowers, in preparation for olive harvest was, to me, anachronistic.
So communication, except within the inner four peopled sanctum, was sparse and even within it, sometimes, treacherous. On one occasion I even resorted to drawing an acorn for our local publican in Montanchez, because we had seen bottles of acorn liqueur in shops but were too scared to buy one, until we had tasted it. For the uniformed, it’s great, very sweet and the closest flavour I can compare it with, would be hazelnuts. I can safely say that we were the only English tourists during our time there and I am confident that there are seldom very many. There were three villages within six miles of our finca to choose from, but Montanchez became our cold beer pit-stop, on the days that we did venture further, to, in some cases, delight in immersing ourselves in Roman influenced towns. The two remaining villages were not far removed from towns I’ve seen in westerns, where a tumbleweed courses its way down a dusty, deserted track. Whilst the roads were tarred, it was hard to imagine that the villages were inhabited and if they were what it might be like to live under such desolate, humourless conditions. When residents were in view, they were either ladies dressed in black, with fierce expressions etched by sun into their countenance. Or elderly men, sitting in a row, wearing vests and trousers, watching, seemingly nothing go by, except, perhaps, the Ingles, which they would stare after with indifference; their expressions showed neither hostility nor curiosity.
But the little bar in Montanchez did deliver up, without exception, the tastiest snacks and home preserved olives, ever, as an accompaniment to ‘Cerveza.’ There is absolutely nothing like a cold, draught beer in such heat. It becomes almost viscous and slides down like no other liquid. Certainly red wine is best kept for the cooler evenings, though, cool, in this case, is entirely relative. I also discovered that they sold, ‘Tab,’ which you can’t get in the UK, a nice little counter balance for hefty holiday calories, which reminded me of South Africa.
So, within this context of no global morbidity, no knowledge of impending floods in Thailand, where my youngest son is living, or further south, in Spain, I felt okay to be me. I was not even contactable by telephone because I mistakenly believed that my old Nokia would be on a par with the pensioners’ and I was wrong! Mine, predated theirs, so their chargers were of no use to me, whatsoever. Stripped bare, I felt comfortable to inhabit my skin, which also, gradually, took on some colour. I am always surprised at quite how white I have become in a climate where exposing my skin is something of a novelty. There is also something about the ambient temperature and physical freedom when in warmer climes, that I find helps to remind me of who I am, at core, rather than who I am beneath the layers of fabric both physical and metaphorical.
But it is also fair to say that I felt that I might be entering the realms of high, edging towards mania because although I took half my dose of antidepressants every other day, certainly, I was feeling the physical and mental effects that come with such high levels of sunshine and seratonin. So I am very conscious and aware that self belief, in this context had the potential danger of edging towards and entering the realms of delusion, self importance, grandeur and impulsivity; all, manifestations of mania. I don’t believe I ever got there but the spectre loomed. I have, however, managed to salvage some sense of self, outside of this, which I brought home and am still clinging to.
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