Journey to a Different Life

          On September 24^th, we set off for Spain to spend some time with a friend who made a new life for herself some five years ago, when she moved to an off-grid finca near Tarragona where she now devotes herself to the organic welfare of her land and menagerie. When we were last there, we helped out with various things, including the building of a hut for the donkeys she was planning to acquire. It’s another world.

          So, selecting a suitable wardrobe for the trip was tricky, given that we’d be spending two nights on ferries, four in cities and ten on the farm – all during a changeable season which had seen the finca recently flooded by heavy rain soon after having been threatened by a forest fire that passed within a few hundred metres. You can overthink packing but, since we were not flying, we were able to stuff garments for every eventuality into a couple of capacious roller-cases that we could then drag along the few streets to the ferry terminal. The vessel itself is fitted out with all the amenities of a mini cruise-liner but if, like me, you’re prone to queasiness at sea, the pleasures of luxury travel are of no consequence. What matters is not throwing up one’s lunch. I fared better than expected but did have to retire to my bunk halfway through the televised Wales vs. Australia rugby world cup match.

          We berthed next day at Santander, caught a bus to Bilbao and bedded down for a couple of nights in the old town, where the transformation from inner-city working district to tourist attraction appears to have benefitted all concerned – the place hums with ‘local character’. Every second building is a bar serving wine and pintxos and there isn’t a McDonald’s to be seen. We had our fill before and after the obligatory pilgrimage to the Guggenheim and would have left town happy, even if the gallery had been closed that day. It wasn’t, of course. The Guggenheim, which has only a small permanent collection, was showing an extensive, crowd-pleasing array of Yayoi Kusama’s works. It was busy – too busy to accommodate the pair of fashionably attired Japanese girls who, wearing wide-brimmed hats, kept on posing for photographs in front of their favourite works. More than a few people walked deliberately in front of them to protest the inconvenience, but our fashionistas were immune to niceties of etiquette.

          People were thinner on the ground in the gallery that contained Richard Serra’s massive sculptural installation – a series of curved structures made of 50mm-thick steel slabs – the scale of which had me puzzling over how and where it had been manufactured. His five-metre-tall steel panels enclose a series of mazes, though which people are invited to wander. They are fascinating to behold but the moment I set foot inside one of them, I was overcome by claustrophobia and a feeling of panic. The effect lasted for as long as it took to find the nearest bar and settle down with plenty of Basque refreshments. There are other galleries and museums in Bilbao for which, despite my good intentions, I had by then lost enthusiasm. Next time, perhaps.

          We travelled by train to Tarragona and our friend met us at the station for the final drive to her finca. We sped along in her electric car, anticipating a glass or two before bedtime, until she introduced an unexpected note of anxiety. “Uh-oh, the donkeys have gone walkabout”. She was consulting a phone app that connects to tracking devices fitted to their halters.

          The rounding-up process was complicated, so it was around 01.30 by the time we got to bed. I slept well but my dreams were of reinforcing the compound fence. Welcome back to finca life, a world away from the simple convenience of a lock-up-and-go city apartment.