Hope Street

She arrived at Hope Street, smiling

She left that Place, shamed

The white man trigger, fired

‘If it was up to him’ he’d said

‘He wouldn’t let her in ‘

No one looking out, for her ( or anyone else ? )

No understanding eyes

On a reactive path

Set up to fail

The white man trigger, holding the gun

The white man abuser, hating difference from himself

The white man

The white man pattern repeating itself.

La Herradura

Why I didn’t take photos of the place, I really don’t know. The scattered upturned chairs, unswept leaf ridden place did not resemble the ‘Boutique Hotel’ photos. There was just a phone number on the locked doors that I couldn’t access because the phone connection that was promised in the UK, was not working.

I made my way up the steep winding road lugging my suitcase behind me, to check if I’d made a mistake with the details. Along the way were pretty well kept dwellings, and I got a clear view down to the hotel’s unkempt terraces. Right at the top was a long track leading to a solitary house. This was placed much further back than I recalled on google maps so I turned back. On the return I ventured down a little cul de sac to the left of the road but no joy. A lady came out of her house and asked me something that I didn’t understand. ‘Dondé esta ‘La Tartana’ por favor? I query. I think she’s been asked this question before. She points to the original place. I go back and sit on the bench and try my phone again. Nada. Niente. And not a soul in sight. I have nowhere to stay. I’m not hanging around here.

As I arrive at the main road, I see a lady leave an apartment block on the other side. I ask her for help. I’m glad to have learned a few Spanish phrases at this point. She starts pointing and explaining. On seeing that I don’t understand, leads me down some steps, then onto a bridge over what looks like a dry river bed. We approach some arched metal gates set into the wall, they’re closed and locked too. I’m wondering where I’m going to sleep tonight. She is talking to me but her words are too fast for my novice ears. We back track and she leads me round the corner, to a road side entrance, which is also closed and no one is about. Eventually a lady emerges from within. The two women exchange words and Gloria, my new Spanish friend indeed, leaves me with the hotel proprietor. Her hotel is full. I’m becoming a little disorientated now. But….she has an apartment I can rent. She goes to collect keys and we step a few paces along to another road side entrance, up marble stairs, to view it. It is dark. It seems it has been closed up for winter and that she is opening up the space especially for me to use. There are lots of closed doors. I’m wondering to if anyone else is in here. Sensing this, the lady tells me it’s all for me. The apartment reveals itself to be spacious, I have a choice of bedrooms, I am given the breakfast times, we agree on the price. I gratefully accept her offer.

I thoroughly recommend La Pensión in La Herradura Andalusia. The accommodation is very clean, comfortable and stylish , the breakfasts are generous. It’s a short walk to the beach. And most of all because Delia is a wonderful, kind host.

Ψυχή – Soul

Tender hearted. Cabbage heart, a strawberry heart. A whole heart loving and true. My heart. That beats like a drum a with a walking beat. Erika Badu. We listened to her songs, a couple of them, whilst sitting on the log under the trees with the moon shining through the bare branches. The sky was clear, people still in the park. Simone singing along, which was so beautiful. I love her voice. It’s tender and strong. It comes from another place. The first time I heard her sing, she stood around the corner of the kitchen as she felt so shy. I was amazed and moved by the Spirit running through her.

Save the Day

Walking – Thinking – Walking – Thinking

Each step walk, each step think.

a walking meditation, excercising the muladhara,

Connecting with earth and soft mud.

Avoiding the squelchy parts that have been invaded and trampled over. Grassy verges have turned grey brown, new paths forged. Smooth flattened earth. A flash of dusty pink, a jay landing on a branch then hopping across to another. Nature saves the day.

So what do you do when your shadow side darkens your day? When ugly thoughts, uncomfortable feelings, take hold, that kind of thing ? Do you even know what to do ? Have you got it covered, able to shrug it away ?

Here’s what I did. I journaled it, I went for a walk, a little journey. Arrived at a point when I actually took stock, able to look deeper at the story hiding in the shadows of the the shadow. The thing behind the surface darkness. A mysterious place and not in a good way either. whilst the surface reactions are not very nice, the hidden story is one that requires honesty, self questioning and a lot of digging.

” Why am I thinking this ? Why is my body energy kicking in, nerves jumping up and down? Is it an ego thing or is it about self esteem or both ? Are they one and the same thing ?” At any rate the shadow side has a message and a teaching within. When I’m brave enough and decide to honestly confront my own self, truth will emerge. I can know what it is that irks me so. However unpalatable. To ask for grace, learn and move on.


Some words enter the world in a straightforward manner, some struggle to get here. Words pulled reluctantly or pushed forward across the page, to the edge, over the edge. Plunging down , descending into a shiny blurry world ,the pressure and noise all enveloping, then the upward rise, up, up, breaking through the surface gasping for air. A big inhale. Bobbing and floating, paddling hands and feet. Treading water, splash. Happy words drifting up into the cloudless sky.


What do you want to do when you grow up ?

The time when you, overnight, are different, a fully formed adult, able to take care of yourself, be responsible for your day to day affairs and choices.

Are you still expecting to grow up? Or do you feel grown?

Taking a few moments and a few steps away from the main road into a pretty enclave, I took a stroll down Pavilion Place, on a freezing night where I alone was in the street. A miniscule exploration. It looked like a museum installation of ‘folk life’ but about how the well to do people lived. The road as an old fashioned shopping place, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Seeing where they bought their upmarket cheese, stacked monumentally , their meat, their stationary, where they lived, where they socialised as they went about their errands.

And this wander down the street taught me that there are people who know how to do things well, who work hard, who make ideas happen.. as I peered into the deserted shop windows, at the stylish shop displays, I liked what I saw. It kindled a desire in me to strive for the same : Quality, style, simplicity. To be responsible.

And also the realisation that I have limited myself to fitting in to a paradigm, a life contained by others expectations, or is it just my own expectation with the brakes on ?

What do I want to do when I grow up ?

What do you want to do when you grow up ?

This is Day 10 of my writing experiment, I hope this finds you well and you enjoy reading my words.


‘Highland Mystery’ solved the crime of the missing horse.

It was the book I put into the metal bowl and set fire to. A whiff of the time and place where I had written it, caught in the air and caught me me off guard. It didn’t burn completely through in one pass. It had a good start but the curling flames ebbed away, the paper becoming flat, smoke streaked scales. Red embers like fiery insects circled the ragged edge of the cloudy paper. I had to add fire and keep adding fire to it. I was disappointed it didn’t go up in one hit.

Occasionally I contemplate burning my journals. It’s something I consider from time to time, something I think I ‘should’ do. To make space as part of the declutter process maybe, or to lighten the load, to refresh and start again. The first consideration. I wrote about burning my words, describing my intention, fully intent on getting rid of the writing. I was sitting at the retro kitchen cabinet, leaning on the drop down table surface, describing my journals fate, when suddenly, in my minds eye, a portal opened. I was shown a drop into a dark bottomless abyss, a fearsome void, inviting the consequences of my actions. I kept on writing.

This is day nine of my writing challenge. It’s an interesting process for me. Quite a departure or interlude from the focus on quilt making. I hope you’re finding it interesting. Thank you for stopping by !

A proper place in space and time

Moving house unceremoniously from one to the next, no goodbyes, no party, no ritual or farewell as far as I can remember, nor any backward glances. I do wonder why Mum needed to move so frequently. It’s almost as if she was on the run and given my desire for escape to turquoise seas, I can relate to this and during these Covid times, I bet you might too.

I went to five different primary schools, all the way through one secondary school and lived in 18 different houses by the time I was in my early twenties. It was interesting to experience different places and spaces and they all had their merits and drawbacks. Childhood memories are defined by houses, by neatly packaged pockets of time.

I do wonder though about the lack of ‘closure’ on each house and the saying of goodbyes to friends made and how important this is actually. To acknowledge time spent in a place, with a beginning , the living in it and eventually the end. A bit like life itself. Much like life itself. And if, along the way, there are a succession of open ended endings, it creates a pattern of doing things ( Quilts ) and not finishing them, or finishing a thing and not celebrating it to give its proper place in space and time.

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