“Solo in Seville” – Part Five

18 minute read

Previously in Part Four of “Solo in Seville” – Things feeling different, unexpected changes in weather, changes in plans because of said changes in weather, quiet time reflecting, coffee, there’s always coffee, buying an umbrella from a smiley man, damn that umbrella was easy to find, a 180 change in weather, wandering Seville, people watching, the Real Alcazar and a ceiling that blew my mind, and a garden that blew my brains, basically my whole head was blown, mmm coffee, lovely ducks, the awesomeness of nature, unexpected flamenco dancing, some wicked pink n mix, cheesecake ice cream, and a rejuvenating end to the day

Day Four – Thursday

It was my last full day in Seville and the weather forecast had proved to be accurate, having awoken to an overcast morning in which a heavy rainfall was threatening.

I picked up my phone, finding another message from Maddy.

“Good morning. Looking forward to another day of adventure?”

The support of my friend continued to make a difference, and it went some way to improving the disappointment that I was feeling about the weather.

I moved into the kitchen and brewed myself a coffee, before wandering across to the living room where I embedded myself on the sofa; putting my feet up and kicking back to read for a little while.

It was mid-morning before I left the apartment and the rain hadn’t arrived yet, though the clouds had grown increasingly dark and had taken on a truly menacing appearance. It felt as though an apocalyptic rainstorm could show up and wreak havoc at any moment.

I’d not made any plans for my final day as I’d already ticked the boxes of the main places that I’d wanted to see. Instead, I decided to just wing-it, wandering around Seville and seeing where the day would take me.

I started by engaging in a little retail therapy, weaving in and out of shops and seeing what trinkets I could buy for my home. And it proved to be productive, buying a beautiful vase and several small items which celebrated the tiles and mosaics that play a fundamental part in Seville’s culture.

I then moved onto Seville’s cathedral (more formally known as Santa Maria de la Sede) and La Giralda (the tower), which I’d only been able to admire from the outside up until now.

With construction beginning in 1401 and taking just over a century to complete, the Santa Maria de la Sede is the second largest cathedral in Europe. It’s a wonderfully impressive structure, though I couldn’t help but compare my experience to those that I had during my trip to Florence.

Whereas my Florentine ascents of the duomo and the campanile provided an adventure and epic views, Seville’s cathedral felt uneventful and unsatisfying in comparison. I knew it was unfair to judge one experience by another – it was a different country, different culture, different architecture – yet I couldn’t help myself.

The climbing of the tower was also achieved by using gentle ramps (34 to be exact) rather than steps, and this somehow made the completion of the ascent feel not so hard-earned. And though the views at the top were enjoyable, they weren’t particularly impressive and the whole experience just left me feeling underwhelmed.

And it’s funny how that can happen sometimes. It was a beautiful place and I could hear numerous tourists oo-ing and arr-ing about the view, yet I just wasn’t one of them. But I guess life would be pretty boring if we were all impressed by the same things, at the same time.

What did impress me though was my return to La Tradicional Bodega Bar Tapas where I sat back and engaged in some people-watching, while devouring several plates of tapas, a beautiful paella, and a few glasses of sangria.

It was turning into a very relaxed and lazy final day.

The gluttony of food and sangria had left me feeling lethargic and a little bit woozy, and so I returned to my apartment for a siesta. A couple of hours later I felt reenergised and was able to head back out with a second-wind.

Once again, I was wandering aimlessly around Seville before spotting a sign for the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza (the bullring), and it was at this point that I found myself in an ethical dilemma.

While I don’t condone animal cruelty in any way whatsoever and most certainly wouldn’t be able to engage in it myself, I am also respectful of foreign customs and culture. I was not in England, I was in Seville; and it’s not for me to look down upon something just because it doesn’t align with my own beliefs, especially as a visitor in another country.

If anything, I believe it is important to try to embrace – or at least be open to embracing – other cultures when you’ve been welcomed into a country, and so I decided to pay the bullring a visit and to keep my mind open.

Upon arrival at the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza, it quickly became apparent that the season for bullfighting had come to an end and that I’d missed any opportunity to see it; though I admit to having felt somewhat relieved by this.

Ethical dilemmas aside, the bullring is an impressive sight, with the contrast of yellow and red painted features against whitewashed walls providing a striking and alluring appearance.

Though the season was at an end, I was able to enter the arena and take a look around, and I’m glad that I did, because it was fascinating.

The museum detailed the history of the bullring and boasted some colourful matador costumes, and the concourses proudly displayed myriad posters of past events.

But the most glorious moment was walking out into the arena itself, and as the sheltered tunnel opened up to daylight, my heart began to pound. I couldn’t help but imagine what it must be like for the matadors and the picadors (lance-carrying horsemen) to enter the arena, hearing the cheers of up to 12,500 spectators.

Though it was almost silent in reality, the imagined sound of horse’s hooves and cheers was deafening; as though the ghosts of past glory were somehow there to greet me.

But the most striking thing of all was the colour of the sand, which was a vibrant yellowy-orange that was raked out in a giant and perfect circle.

Walking slowly towards the very centre of the arena – like I was approaching the bullseye ⁽¹⁾ on a huge dartboard – something caught my attention.

I squatted down and ran my fingers over the cold links of an iron chain that was secured to the ground, which I can only imagine was used to keep the bull in place before a fight began. And then, looking around me, I imagined the brutality that had taken place in the very spot that I was now occupying, and this left me feeling conflicted.

I left the sand and ascended the steps, finding myself a seat in a quiet part of the arena where I could reflect for a while.

In this very moment I was feeling saddened by the thought of bullfighting, yet I was in awe of the bullring itself.

It can be so easy to try to take the moral high-ground about different things in life, where we judge the actions of others by our own values and belief systems.

Though we should never have to abandon our own convictions, it doesn’t mean that we have the right to impose them on others. And instead, we need to be able to respect others in the way that we wish to be respected ourselves.

This, of course, is only true within reason, and when cultures and beliefs are at such extreme opposites, this is when it’s sometimes necessary to walk away in different directions.

You go your way, and I’ll go mine.

But wherever we can be tolerant, yet without relenting, then this is something that can allow acceptance and peaceful coexistence.

Would I have watched a bullfight if one had been starting when I was there? The honest answer is, I don’t know. But the one thing I do know is that it wasn’t for me – an Englishman and a visitor in Spain – to tell the Spanish that they were wrong.

Because the simple truth is that it would be very easy for a visitor in England to look at me and my country, and to make similar conclusions about my own culture, traditions, and actions.

And who would be right?

Evening time was upon me, and though the clouds had lightened and the sun had made an appearance during my afternoon jaunt to the bullring, the sky had now turned darker than ever.

I’d taken a different route while walking back to the centre of Seville, and by doing so I stumbled upon an artisan market that was housed in a spectacular looking building.

The Mercado Artesania El Postigo was an incredible find, with locally-made arts and crafts for sale that spanned over two floors. As somebody who loves to bring home trinkets from places that I’ve travelled to (read this – Trinkets from my Travels), I was in heaven, spending the best part of an hour looking at pottery, ceramics, jewellery, and wood and leather goods; while saying hello to the vendors of each individual stall.

With a couple more purchases sitting comfortably in my rucksack, I stepped outside to find that the rain had finally arrived. I’d been the last customer to leave El Postigo, and I heard a click as the door was locked behind me.

I sprung open my umbrella and headed back towards a familiar area of Seville, but while walking through the Plaza de San Francisco, the rain began to intensify.

Quickly making my way towards a tapas bar situated just off the beautiful 16^th century square, I found myself a table under the outside canopy. A waiter greeted me while commenting on the rain, and then I ordered three plates of tapas and a large glass of red wine.

The rain fell heavily, bouncing high up off the slabs and pounding on the canopy above my head. A candle burned inside an orange glass in front of me, and the flickering flame caused shadows to dance around on the table.

Though the night was intensely dark and the rain showed no sign of letting up, I felt content and cosy, hidden safely away inside the frontage of the restaurant.

An hour and a half later, the rain had steadied to a gentle shower, and I stood up to begin the steady walk back to my apartment.

I left my money on the table and thanked the waiter, and then I stepped outside and opened my umbrella where the rain immediately greeted it, beginning a rhythmic pattering above my head. As I looked to the ground, the neon lights from the passing shops reflected brightly off the wet paving stones, and though I’d hoped for nicer weather on my final day, I couldn’t deny how pretty everything looked.

Maybe it was down to my journey over the past few days, or maybe it was just down to the wine, but in this moment, I was feeling peaceful.

But that’s when I was taken completely by surprise, as I felt my ex-girlfriend’s hands wrap around my arm, her body pressing close against mine as we huddled together under the umbrella, her head resting against my shoulder. I could smell the shampoo in her hair and the perfume that I’d come to know so well; and though I knew it wasn’t real, for just a few moments we were together again, enjoying a short stroll through the beautiful city of Seville.

And then, just a few seconds later, the sensation passed and I was alone once again.

It had taken my breath away, and it was an experience that felt as kind as it was cruel. A reminder of what had been. A reminder of what no longer was. And though she hadn’t been there with me, the sensation of her hands gripping onto me felt real, like a phantom limb, like a ghost, like a fading memory.

Though my experience had unsettled me, I was feeling better when I entered the apartment. I opened the fridge and the light spilled out onto the floor, and then I took out a beer and made my way into the living room, where I drew back the shutter doors and stepped out onto the balcony.

The beer was cold and refreshing, and the rain had intensified once again, with giant raindrops hammering down into the small public square below me.

Couples moved swiftly through the rainfall, and restaurateurs brought out the evenings waste, dropping garbage bags into nearby wheelie bins as they began to close up for the night. A crack of thunder rang out in the distance and I heard a dog bark somewhere down the street.

I took another sip of beer as the night sky flickered with lightening, and as I quietly said my goodbyes to the city of Seville, I fell deep into reflection.

My experience had felt so real, so vivid, and it had left me with a weird feeling that I couldn’t quite understand. I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel lonely. I didn’t feel regretful. In fact, I didn’t feel much at all.

If anything, I was feeling a sense of peace.

But it’s taken me until now, sat in front of a laptop more than two years after the trip, to really understand what it was all about.

To understand that it was the night in which I’d begun to heal.

As I finish this feature in early 2025, I can tell you that there had still been a long road ahead of me, and that there were many more times in which I found myself hitting a new low. But Seville had been the point at which my recovery from the break-up had taken its most significant turn.

When you’ve loved somebody and given them all that you can give, it takes something away from you when that relationship comes to an end. It feels like there’s a hole inside of you, and no matter what you do or how hard you try, the feeling doesn’t go away. It’s like a wound that won’t heal. Like a broken bone that won’t mend.

Everything reminds you of them, because they were once a part of everything. You’re forever hearing songs you’d once shared, or movies you once watched. You can’t eat the same meals anymore. Or drink the same drinks. Everything is a reminder, and everything brings pain.

Yet somehow, you learn to live with it.

And then, the day eventually arrives where you realise that you’re not thinking about them as much, and that when you do think of them, the pain isn’t as intense, and it no longer has a hold of you. And then the strangest thing of all happens.

You begin to miss the pain.

It feels strange to say that, yet it makes perfect sense. Because no matter how much it may hurt, when we’re feeling pain, it keeps us connected with the person that we’re hurting for.

Yet when that pain has gone, the connection also disappears. Like there’s nothing to tie you together anymore, other than the memories which start to fade with time. And then you begin to forget more and more about them; their face, their smell, their touch. You even begin to forget their voice.

Pain is a funny thing. Bittersweet. We do all that we can to avoid feeling it, yet it’s one of the few things that reminds us that we’re still alive, and it reminds us that our hearts are still capable of feeling love.

You can’t have one without the other, because if you want to feel love, then you also have to be willing to accept the pain that comes with it.

And I don’t know about you, but I would rather experience as much love as I can in my life and to accept the heartbreak that may accompany it, than to live a life of avoidance and disconnection, and to hide behind the illusion of safety that we believe these things may bring.

THE END…

…well, almost

Buddhists say that to live is to suffer, and I believe this to be true. Because to live fully, is to love fully. And the more we love, the more we’ll hurt.

You can’t have darkness without light. You can’t have laughter without tears. You can’t have joy without sorrow.

We have to experience one, in order to appreciate the other.

This feature has taken me longer to write than anything else I’ve ever done; this final part having taken longer than the other four parts combined. I had to wait until I could write it in the correct context, and in a way that was balanced, fair, and respectful; ensuring that I navigate the fine line between sharing something personal, but without getting personal.

For two and a half years this article has been shelved, abandoned, re-visited, abandoned several more times, and then I’ve torn off the band aid and started writing again. Over and over. And it hasn’t been easy.

I would never write about any of the relationships that I’ve had in my life, nor would I write about the people that I’ve had those relationships with. That’s personal. That’s private. And I believe in dignity. This is not an article about my relationship, but about the process of getting over a relationship.

I wanted to write it for myself, but I also wanted to write it for anybody out there who is experiencing their own break up and is struggling to find a way forward. It’s for anybody that cannot see a way through.

And I’ve written it for the men out there. The men who feel the pressure to hide their feelings. The men who feel the pressure to ‘man up’. And for the men who pretend they’re okay, when they’re anything but okay.

Men hurt just as much as anybody else. They love as much as anybody else. And they struggle as much as anybody else. This is something that needs to be recognised.

And I hope that by sharing my own story, it will help others to feel less alone.

I promise that brighter days are ahead.

EPILOGUE

Well, I couldn’t leave the story like that could I? I mean, talk about ending it on a serious note. Jeez!

And so, I’m going to sign off by sharing one final story from my final morning in Seville.

Day Five – Friday

My final morning in Seville started like the previous days before it, with a text message waiting for me when I woke up…

“This is the final day of your epic adventure. Enjoy!”

Maddy’s daily messages had made such a significant difference on the trip, and I knew I’d miss them when I got back home.

And it’s at this point where I send out my second and biggest thank you of all, to Maddy, my friend of many years; thank you for everything.

I sent a quick reply and then put my phone back down on the coffee table, and then I stood up and stretched out my back, which clicked and cracked with each movement.

I looked down at what had been my make-shift bed for the night; a tiny little two-seater sofa that had lumpy cushions and a dubious stain that I hadn’t noticed before now.

And it’s at this point where you’re probably wondering why I hadn’t spent my final night tucked up in the same bed that I’d spent every other night in. And you’re probably wondering why I chose to spend my final hours laying cramped on a tiny and dubiously stained sofa instead. Well, it wasn’t a choice that I made. Instead, it was a situation that was forced upon me.

Let me explain.

I’d gone to bed feeling good, content, hopeful. But within just a few minutes of settling down, I heard a noise.

Bzzzzzzzzzz.

I opened my eyes and looked around in the darkness, yet there was nothing. It was silent, save for the distant sound of rain which was still falling outside.

Plumping my pillow, I settled back into it and then I closed my eyes.

Bzzzzzzzzzz.

It was there again. Sitting bolt upright, I spoke out loud, into the night.

“Hello?”

I spent what must have been a couple of minutes scanning the room, my eyes having now adjusted to the darkness. And I swear that for half that time I’d been holding my breath; listening, waiting, like I was a nocturnal predator, or a ninja assassin.

But I heard nothing. It was gone.

I reorganised the bedding and then settled back down into my pillow, leaving my bare body exposed from the waist up. It was a warm night in Seville, and everything was now silent.

But within a few minutes I began to itch. It was mild at first, but then it began to intensify, leading me to begin scratching quite furiously. Little lumps were starting to appear on my foot, waist, and my shoulder, and then I heard it again.

Bzzzzzzzzzz.

It was a fucking mosquito!

Bzzzzzzzzzz.

I did all I could to ignore it, pulling the sheets right up to my chin, leaving just my head exposed. But then I heard it louder than ever, and I could feel it on my ear.

BZZZZZZZZZZ!!!

“Oh, fuck off you little bastard!” I shouted into the night as I waved my hands, missing my ear altogether and accidentally poking myself in the eye.

“FUCK!! That hurt!!”

Bzzzzzzzzzz.

“Oh, FUCK OFF!!”

I jumped out of bed, and while switching on the bedside lamp I managed to knock it off the table and onto the floor, light spilling all around the room at different angles, like a prison spotlight searching for an escaped prisoner.

“WHERE ARE YOU, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!?”

My heart was pounding and I was feeling furious. I was also feeling a little bit foolish, knowing that I was having my buttons pushed by something that was so small that I couldn’t even see it. Here’s me, a fully grown, 6-foot-tall man, complete with beard, and I was getting forced out of my bed by a tiny little insect.

I began to calm down, and then I sat on the edge of the bed and remained perfectly still, listening, for five minutes straight. I heard nothing.

Convinced that the mosquito had perhaps been intimidated by my childish tantrum and colourful use of the English language, I settled back down once again. My outburst had left me feeling really warm and I was now sweating, and so I switched on the air conditioning unit, hoping that it would not only cool me down, but that its gentle rumbling noise would also help me to fall asleep.

And for a little while it worked, until the low-tone rumbling noise suddenly turned into a high-pitched whistle. I opened my eyes, angrily ⁽²⁾, but then the whistling immediately reverted to a rumble. I stared at the air conditioning unit for a moment, and then I slowly closed my eyes again.

The whistling noise returned almost immediately, like it had been waiting for me to close my eyes. And amidst my growing annoyance and the irritating whistle from the air conditioner, I heard another noise, right in my ear.

BZZZZZZZZZZ!!!

“Right, that fucking does it!!”

I jumped straight out of bed, and in a scene that was reminiscent of John Cleese losing his shit with his Mini in that classic scene from Fawlty Towers, I too lost my shit with my bed and the mosquito. But, instead of using a branch off a nearby tree, I used my pillow.

Yes, that’s right, a grown fucking man, complete with beard, began having a pillow fight with a mosquito and a mattress.

“Come here you little shit! I’ll fucking have you!!”

I swung my pillow around the room, hitting everything in sight, and once again knocking over the lamp.

“Where are you? Where? I’ll pull your fucking wings off!”

And as I stumbled around the room, I stood on the lamp, hurting my foot in the process.

“FUUUUUCK!”

I dropped the pillow and clutched my foot with a whimper.

“Right, fine, that does it! You have the fucking room! I mean, don’t worry that I’ve paid for it. Nooooo. Don’t worry about that will you. You selfish little prick!”

I snatched up the duvet off the bed along with both pillows.

“Just make yourself at home why don’t you. Don’t worry about me. Have the fucking room!”

I stormed out of the bedroom, blurry-eyed and half naked, with one side of my boxer shorts riding high upon my bum cheek. And then I slammed the bedroom door shut.

“Good. Fucking. Night!”

And that, my friends, is how I found myself sleeping on that tiny and dubiously stained sofa on that final night in Seville.

(DEFINITELY) THE END

FOOTNOTES

⁽¹⁾ The pun was not intended. In fact, it wasn’t until I wrote it that I looked at my screen and groaned.

⁽²⁾ If such a thing is possible.

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