Back in Mijas now. Feels familiar, but also, I don’t know—off, maybe. Different.
The garden’s a bit of a mess, but I’ve seen worse. Rain’s coming. I can smell it, the way my gran used to say she could. Always thought it was in her head, but now? Now I swear I can feel it too.
I’m sitting out on the naya, cross-legged, hands in the dirt, trying to coax life into this half-baked idea of a garden. Brought back some shamrocks from Ireland, tucked them between the foxglove and heather. Dumb idea, probably. Too dry here. But they remind me of home, and I like the stubbornness of it—trying to make them grow where they shouldn’t.
Last week’s trip to Priorat was a weird mix of comfort and grief. The vineyards, the cellars, the way the light caught the rows of vines stretching on forever—Brian would’ve loved it. The whole thing had this weight to it. The wine was rich, full, bold, like the years put into it mattered. Maybe that’s why it hit me so hard. Maybe it was just the wine. I don’t know.
Anyway. Back to reality. There’s a pile of unopened post on the kitchen counter, and I already know something in there is going to piss me off. Sure enough—the electricity bill. Nearly choked on my coffee when I saw the number.
This place guzzles power like it’s got money to burn. It’s been nagging at me for a while—solar panels? The sun’s relentless here, might as well put it to use. Feels like a solid plan, but then, plans always feel solid until you actually start them.
For now, I’ll just sit here a bit longer, watching the sky turn that deep, heavy grey that means the rain’s close. The plants are going to love it.
And maybe, if I let it, so will I.