After the funeral, I went back to Mijas, thinking maybe being home would help. It didn’t. The house was still ours, but it didn’t feel like mine. I tried to settle, to do the things you’re supposed to do—keep busy, keep moving, keep pretending you’re not waiting for something that’s never coming back. But no amount of rearranging furniture or cleaning out cupboards changed the fact that Brian wasn’t there.
People mean well when they tell you to stay occupied. It’s advice that works if you’ve lost your keys or your phone or a bit of motivation—not when you’ve lost your person. But sitting still was worse, so one day, I got in the car and left.
Brian and I always talked about driving the coast. Not in a planned-out, itinerary-heavy way. Just setting off, stopping when something caught our eye, taking it slow. We never got around to it. No particular reason—we just didn’t.
So I drove. I didn’t really have a destination in mind, just a vague idea that I’d follow the water and see where I ended up. Days blurred together, towns passed by. I stopped in places that felt right, kept going through the ones that didn’t. Eventually, I found myself in Barcelona, a city that had always been one of Brian’s favourites.
We’d been before, wandering the Gothic Quarter, debating whether we liked Gaudí or found it all a bit much, sitting in tiny bars with glasses of vermouth, watching the world go by. This time, I wanted something different. Something for him.
Brian had always loved Priorat wines. I never really listened when he went on about them, not properly. I wish I had.
So I looked at Priorat wine tours and found a lovely little company. Just a small tour. No big crowds, no fuss. Just a guide, the vineyards, and the people who made the wine.
The drive out was stunning. The city faded behind me, replaced by rolling hills and roads that twisted their way up into the mountains. Vineyards stretched out across steep terraces, the land rough and unyielding. The guide talked about how the monks had first planted vines here in the 12th century, how they built the walls by hand, stone by stone. You could still see their work, holding the land together centuries later.
The first winery was small, family-run, the kind of place where you feel like you’re intruding on something real. The cellar smelled of oak and earth, deep and familiar. The winemaker, a man whose hands carried years of work, poured a glass of Garnacha and handed it to me.
I sat with it for a moment before taking a sip.
And there he was. Not in a big, dramatic way. Just a flicker. A feeling. Like he should be there beside me, grinning over his glass, making some joke about the tannins.
We walked through the vineyards as the sun started to dip, the light stretching golden across the hills. The stone terraces had been standing for generations, the vines twisting their way through the cracks, holding on. The land is harsh. The vines struggle. But the wine? It’s something else.
At the second winery, I tasted a red so deep, so layered, it stopped me in my tracks. Bought a bottle, not for any reason other than it felt right.
Dinner that night was simple—roasted vegetables, jamón, thick slices of bread. Everything paired with wine from the hills around us. I sat there, watching the last of the light fade, and something shifted. The grief was still there, but something else was too. A sense of warmth, of gratitude, of remembering Brian not just in sadness but in the things he loved.
That’s the thing about Priorat. The land is brutal. The vines have to fight for everything. But the wine? The wine is strong. Deep. Full of life. Just like him.
I didn’t set out on this trip looking for anything. Maybe I didn’t even realize I was looking. But somewhere in those hills, I found something anyway. A reminder that love doesn’t just disappear. That even in the hardest places, something beautiful can grow.
If you ever find yourself in Barcelona, go. Priorat is worth it. And if you book with the same guide I did, you’ll get something real—no fluff, no gimmicks, just a proper experience.
For me, it wasn’t just a wine tour. It was a way to hold onto Brian. And maybe, just maybe, a way to keep moving.