Following my trip to Catalonia, I’m back at Spanish HQ in Mijas.
The air in my Spanish garden is filled with the faint scent of citrus from the lemon trees outside, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil. And rain. My grandma always said you can smell rain coming, and I agree wholeheartedly. Psychosomatic or not?
I don’t think so.
I sit cross-legged on the tiled patio or naya as they call it here. I”m surrounded by pots of Irish heather, foxglove, and some struggling shamrocks. I brought the shamrocks back from a recent trip. The irony of trying to grow wet loving Irish plants in the Mediterranean sun isn’t lost on me, but it feels like a piece of home I can nurture—a small rebellion against the arid landscape which they’re not used to.
The wine tour last week was both a blessing and a burden. The vineyards and old barrels provided comfort. Memories of Bryan were foremost but they were more happy memories this time, rather than grief stricken ones, remembering that phone call I received that changed my whole universe. Their timelessness suggested that life, like wine, grows richer and deeper over time, given a little patience and TLC.
Yet, it was still deeply sad.
Maybe it was the stories from the vintners about decades of toil which resounded strongly with me, or the way the wines’ richness lingered on my tongue like memories of Bryan I’m not ready to let go of. It was cathartic, certainly, but it left me feeling untethered. Untethered probably isn’t the word I’m looking for. It was more like an agitation, an itch maybe.
Now, as I add the delicate roots of a foxglove into its new terracotta home, I feel the pull of familiar routine calling. I’ve always been a creature of habit—early mornings with a cup of coffee and my puzzles (think Wordle etc), an afternoon swim, evenings tinkering in the garden or curled up with a book on the hammock which Bryan built in between the two palm trees in our garden. I’m ready to get back to a semblance of normality.
I think.
“Start small,” I murmur, patting the soil gently around the plant.
My hands, streaked with mud, felt the earth for the first time in weeks. The plants will need water, shade, and a touch of patience to thrive here—just like I do. Maybe tending to them will help me tend to myself. There’s good days and bad days in grief i’ve learned, it’s a numbers game. The good ones soon rack up.
As the sun sets, casting a golden glow over the villa, I lean back against the wall and take a deep breath. The heather’s purple blooms look defiant against the backdrop of terracotta and olive green. They’re surviving, for now.
Just as I’m beginning to relax, I spot the mail on the kitchen island through the open door. Among the usual flyers and letters, there’s a stark white envelope with bold print that makes my stomach drop. The electricity bill. When I open it, the number at the bottom feels like a slap in the face. It was ridiculously high.
I’ll need to do something about this. Solar panels, perhaps? The Mediterranean sun is relentless, after all, and it could be a way to offset these costs. The idea settles in my mind, tentative but hopeful.
Yes, I think, this is a start.