Climbing through the old gate, the heat is instant and enveloping. The stones radiate the morning’s stored warmth; lizards dart along the ramparts. I follow the rough path upward to the bell tower, where a single bronze bell hangs under a weathered brick arch. Continue reading The Tower of Gaucín
In another room, I find The Adoration of the Shepherds. It’s different. More personal. The brushstrokes are slower, more honest. Murillo is no longer copying prints. He is creating. As a former shepherd myself, I recognise the men he paints: weary, awed, practical, resourceful. Continue reading The Sacred and Profane
The railing is old, but sturdy. I lean on it and take in the view, swept by a mix of awe and vertigo. The wind up here feels purer, less of the earth and more of the sky. It tugs gently at the dry grass growing from cracks in the stone dome beside me, as though even the weeds want a view. Continue reading Stone and Sky
I sit alone in a church in Ronda. The carved wooden pew beneath me creaks quietly as I shift my … Continue reading She Has Done Everything
It is hot in Seville. Even though it is only a little after nine in the morning, the temperature is … Continue reading Lux per Oculum
Mid morning on the walls. Swallows flitting and swooping in the hot, torrid, shimmering air, tracing invisible calligraphy across the … Continue reading The Walls of Ronda
It is just after five in the morning. The room is cool and silent, cloaked in that dense, velvety darkness … Continue reading For Whom the Bell Tolls
I can hear it moaning around the eaves: a hot wind blowing down from the east as the day heats … Continue reading The Winds of Andalusia
“There is one town that would be better than Aranjuez to see your first bullfight in if you are only … Continue reading Death in the Afternoon
I arrive in Grazalema under a sky that can’t make up its mind — bright sun one moment, cloud-shadowed the … Continue reading THE WHITE VILLAGE
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