What’s a feria without virgins?

Having managed to wake myself up at the crack of midnight, I lay in bed for a couple of hours, toying with the idea of turning on the light and reading, but eventually telling myself that resting is almost as good as sleeping. I should have read. The book I am supposed to be reading is Erskine Childers’ The Riddle of the Sands. It’s set in the same place as the first part of the novel I am supposed to be writing (i.e., the Frisian islands) and while I have seen the movie, it was crap and I watched it several years ago, before the pandemic. B.P., as I have taken to calling it. Reading Childers’ book would have had several effects, all positive. It would have informed my thinking, added layers of colour to my writing, imbued my mind with a sense of the Wadden. It would also have sent me to sleep much more quickly than I managed without it. Never disparage the value of literature.

Having, as I said, managed to wake myself up at the crack of midnight, I was not too surprised to find myself waking up for a second time at almost 1pm. It was a pity, but probably needed. I sorted some papers out, tidied away my dishes from the night before, and then gave the Ottawackers a reasonably early morning call. I also called my aunt in England, whose apartment I am using, in the hope that she might be able to tell me how to turn on the hot water. One cold shower is enough, thank you very much. Then I went next door and asked the neighbour.

My back and legs were stiff after the exertions of yesterday, and I was almost tempted to give myself the day off. But it was Hispanic Day, after all, so I ventured out and went for a reasonably long walk. I hoped to find something to make the blip a little different – a group of Spanish girls in their national feria costumes, a procession carrying a Virgin through the streets, a group of pensioners being chased by a bull – but this is Calahonda, not Malaga, and Calahonda is populated almost exclusively by English people. There was nothing; just isolated pockets of unsmiling Anglos, talking about barn conversions and what a pity it was that Mercadona was closed. There is little in Spain that could not be put right by booting out the English. And I say that as an Englishman.

The walk was fine. I managed (according to my Fitbit, which remains stubbornly on Canadian time) some 8,000 steps. I am sore, it is true. And I had to stop two or three times. But the pain is different to that I experience in Canada. It is in my back, for one thing, and also in my hips. The pain in the knee has not materialized and even now, at nearly 9pm, I am stiff but not incapacitated. The back pain will wear off in a day or so, and I am hopeful this will all be steps in the right direction. Time will tell.