3+1=4

That is a good start to a new year, Birthly speaking.

4 in Japanese is Shi. The same sound as the word meaning death, although they have different characters. But nevertheless, many hotels in Japan do not have a room number 4. But it is a lucky number for me. And my Japanese friend Takuya.

Before me and Takuya became a double act for the year we lived together, his partner in crime was Kodai. I met a boy called Kodai here in Cordoba a few days ago and it was great to meet a whacky Japanese fellow here where there are many tourists.

He is a modern hero for me. Cycling from Barcelona to Naples and then Camino de Santiago. Not because it was his dream, although certainly a dreamlike adventure. It was actually his friend´s dream, but the friend died in the Tsunami, so he´s doing it for the friend.

Then when he gets back to Japan the clock that measures the milage of the journey will be his gift to the family.

In the days leaving Granada, I encountered a few people who seemed to be possessed by the spirit of friends and family. The last of these encounters was Kodai, who made me feel the comfort of being with my friend Takuya.

The first was Ronoldo. Or Rodolfo. I´ve forgotten. But when your hopes of getting a ride are fading, having managed to only hitch-hike ten kilometres in 2 days, the you faind a ride witha man your Dad´s age, and with a similar sensibility, and the only thing your longing for is a coffee, and he´s sitting at the back of a hatch-back drinking instant coffee, (My dad ONLY drinks instant coffee), what are you expected to feel.

I felt that it WAS my dad, come in a different form to help me along at a difficult point. Haha. Then I had it again in the hostel when the woman washed all my clothes and told me off for leaving hair in the shower – Mother.

And then I was just thinking when am I going to bump into my brother. And the 6 difficult (but adventurous and beautiful days) between leaving the comfort of Granada and finding the comfort of Cordoba were put to an end by meeting Omar – Brother, physicaly too, he calls me primo which means cousin and is from Mexico, and is beauitful and invited me to stay in their house. He morphs sometimes into Sam, especially when with his Girlfriend Maria as they also have a beautiful relationship.

So family finds you wherever you are. And I´m sure I´ve been meeting other friends and family here, so thank you for visiting me (need I say ´spiritually´). I love you too. xxxxx

A few points. And then details. Omar is Omar and Maria is Maria. I am me but also I am you. I think thet sets the first part straight. Now some details of the last 2 and a half weeks.

Leaving Granada

I left Granada on a thursday. It had been five weeks of dreamlike simplicity. Could have easily been in India. Many ´´hippies´´ parties. Every night fire. Cooking on the fire. Food recycled. Spent no money. Safety and security. Food and shelter. Always. For free.

We lived in what is essentially a squat. An abandoned house squatted, but open to all, and mostly garden space with a wall, and mostly inhabitted by travellers passing through. Magic Garden. Jardin Magico.

The supermarkets at 8 o´clock close and all the food that is out of date, plus any vegetables that are even slightly damaged, bread not sold etc. goes into large bins out side. There is already a crowd waiting when the man trolleys out the bin containing several black bags, containg mountains of food, called ´rubbish´. There are a few reprsentatives from a gypsy family, with their beautifully colourful dresses and mystic features, there are representives from a family of another squat, mostly Spanish, there are representitives our Magic Garden family and a few other representitives of families I don´t know.

I won´t lie, that at times the scene to follow was slightly manic. Bags torn and food flying around. But really there was so much waste food that there was always enough for everyone.

I have no problem living like that. To be honest, the five weeks in Granada, I ate like a king. Loads of vegetables and fruit, meat too, and yoghurt and all sorts.

This is called recycling.

Another recycling place was the big saturday market.

We took the car and litterally came back with 20 boxes of fruit and veg. Pears slightly dented. Tomatoes slightly too green or too red. But most of it perfect (imperfect too of course but you know what I mean). Seconds in a world of firsts. Free. But takes time and energy.

So I left Granada on a thursday. I had a slight knot in my stomach about jumping into the unknown. No money. Going to hitch-hike for the first time. To Cordoba, a city without squats. I wanted to leave but could easily have stayed. The people were good, music was plentiful, food was abundant and free, women were attractive and attracted. But something inside told me to leave and as I said in the last blog, the circle had found itself closed.

When you wake up in magic Garden there are people sitting on the sofa. New people. Hitch-hikers and musician. Attractive American girl. Maybe I should stay another day. But no. I make a sign that says Cordoba, drink a glass of wine with John, American boy, and walk out. Long walk to the motorway with all my stuff. But left my tent behind and heavy guitar case with nice guitar at Miguel´s.

——————————-

Hitch-hiking

I´d been waiting by the side of a road for two hours in the sun. The kind of road that leads onto the motorway, but is quiet enough to stop. I´m told an important part of successful hitch-hiking is where you stand. I have a sign that says ´Cordoba´in blue and looks attractive. John wished me well. I feel cofident and am making eye contact with all the people. But seriously, after 2 or maybe three hours of this I´m getting disheartened.

It´s my third attempt at hitch-hiking in my life. All times in Spain. The other two times ended in failure. But I´m determined that I will get to Cordoba. And I´ll get there this way.

After 3 hours a man stops and asks to see the sign more clearly. He´s going in the direction of Cordoba. But not far. In the end he only takes me about 10km. Cordoba is 150km away. But it´s a start, and I´m far enough fnom from Granada that I can´t turn back.

The driver of the car is a gypsy, and extremely gay. But very nice, friendly and really just wanting to help. But in the 10 minute journey manages to talk non stop about sex. Make blow job signs and insist that Indian people have massive cocks. I deny it of course. And mention subtly my experiences with women in Granada. He asks me if I like sex. Laughing and making more gestures.

It was a brilliant journey really. You know me. I love the madness of it. And he was really a great guy and I was glad for my first ever ride as a hitch-hiker. I thought it was an ideal way to lose my virginity.

Then I waited in the dying day by the side of a fast road, but with a place to stop if anyone wanted. Wore out my smile on people passing by and decided to find a place to sleep before the sun went down. There was a shop so I bought some cheap chorizo and some bread and saw a Hill in the distance. Slightly dreamingly I thought it would be a heavenly place to spend the night.

I got to the hillside as the sun was setting and it took all my energy to reach the top. I ate like a beast. The view was amazing. Lights of city. Outline of mountains.

I didn´t sleep to well as the wind was a bit strong at the top of a hill and i was worried and that snoozy unrealistic way that it would take my guitar away. But i couldn´t be bothered to get out of my sleeping bag.

Woke up late. Beatiful view. Needed water. Saw a town in the distance. Walked there. Took an hour or so. Was feeling a bit tired. Stood in a good spot for a few hours but nothing. Opposite a restaurant.

Due to my time in Granada was reluctant to spend money. But desparate for a coffee. Went to the restaurant.

I was scanning all the ffod leftover by other people and wanting to ask them to keep it for me. This is the recycler´s mind set. Anyway in the end i ordered a beer and it came with a big sandwich. I needed it.

I thought i´d mention about my travel. In the end I didn´t have to pay.

On the house. For the road. Travellers are respected. I was grateful. The grateful alive.

The man at the restaurant thought i´d have better luck at a petrol station and there were some a few km down the road.

The first one i asked a few people but wrong direction. I walked to the next one and asked a lot of people. The man in the petrol station said i was mollesting the customers. And told me to move on. Bearing in mind that I´m now quite in the middle of nowhere i didn´t appreciate it too much.

He said there was another station about 2km down the road. It turned out to be more like 5. My bag was feeling heavy. There was no necent place to stand. But walking felt good. Especially after 5 weeks in a city.  The weather was fine and the air open. The view wide. I was very content, in reality, and somewhat up for another night in the open.

By the time i got to the noext petrol station it was getting dark again. And i noticed a problem. it was all farm land. I kinow what land owners are like. I didn´t want to sleep by the side of the road. Therewas an off road and seemingly a good spot.

My worst enemy of the road. Barking dogs. All the land is protected. But a voice is calming down the dog.

I speak to the man. I´m feeling quite desperate. I hope he´ll invite me to sleep in his house. There´s a hotel 5 km down the road. I´ts already getting dark. And anyway i don´t want a hotel, just a peaceful spot to lay my head. I´m asking if all the land is private. He seems to be saying sympathetically, ýes, and unfortunatley if you try to sleep on it dogs will bark. it´s quite unavoidable.´

Well then he says that two km down the road is a restaurant. Go down and there is a good place to sleep. Ï don´t really understand. I hope i´m going in the right direction. How is there going to be a restaurant here, by the side of a main road motorway. I) can´t remember what he said it was called.  Are they really going to let me stay for free. Maybe they´ll feed me too. More luck of the road. These are my thoughts.

I´m thrilled when i find it and i understand what he was saying. It´s an aboundonned restaurant. I go down, as he said to do and there is a safe flat out of the way beautiful place to sleep.

I end up climbing through the wall and going into the restaurant. Thrree stories, marble, beauitful, empty, no plug sockets. A venture that didn´t work. Lots of money put in though. All for m. Roof terrace. My own room. Record a song in the darkness.

Canñt sleep. Body´s too caked in sweat.

Wake up at sunrise and start walking.

I´m begining to think I´ll walk to Cordoba. I´ve already clocked off 22 km or so. Only 140 left.

3 km down the road. After free cake and juice. More gifts for the road. All that´s missing for  a perfect breakfast is coffee.  I decide to sing Birds by Neil Young. ´´Ít´s oooo—veee—r´´I´m really out of steam by now. Is it really over. I get the sense it is. My wait for a decent ride. A car has stopped at the petrol station down the road. A single stopped car. I walk to it singing ít´s all ovefr now baby blue.

It´s over.

It´s my ´´Dad´´ and he´s going to take me not to Cordoba, but at least 100 km in the right direction.

He´s a lovely man. German but spent 30 years in Africa and married to a Ghanaen with kids my age in London. feeds me a bit and the all importand coffee. Listen to Fats Whaller and Django and talk about the madness of two hours non stop olive trees. They really never end. All owned by a few massively powerful Spanish Families.

Billions and billions litterally of olive trees.

50 km from Cordoba I find a grapefruit plantation. Delicious. Wait another hour and a half but think i´ve had my luck for a day.

I´m smiling at the cars of conservative spanish whizzing by. Some beeping me respectfully for the audacity. But no rides. A tractor is coming. At least it´s going slow enough to stop. For a joke I prepare my thumb. A white car overtakes it furiously. And is gonna bolt past me and my thumb. I´m in desbelief as a suddenly halts in front of me.

Deep smokey voice of a modern working class hero. ¨¨Cordoba….¨¨

¨¨Yes¨¨

Flemenco music blaring . Driving like lightning. Out of work builder, painter decorator. Figures of christ and what not in the car. Dice. ¨¨No smoking¨¨

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII mmmmmmmmmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaaddddddddddeeeeeeeeeee iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttttttttttttttt…………………

Cordoba

After all that i spent 3 hours walking around the city looking for a cheap hostel only to end up at the first one as the others are all full. See most of the city with my backpack.

First real room in 5 weeks.

Shower, food, and the best night´s sleep of my life.

20 euro a night is too much.

Meet Omar.

Circus folk, artisanas.

Family life with the beautiful people.

Thank you universe.

Even spent the week with a truly amazing woman, who just happens to be both beautiful and a clown. (I mean with the red nose and big shoes) well i don´t know about the shoes.

Cordoba is different. Reflective. Peacful. Better money from busking.

I have to spend more and don´t recycle. But don´t pay for the house, but will give a bit if i´m allowed.

I´m really happy here.

Speaking way more spanish.

It´s not such a bubble as Granada.

I followed my feelings although everyone was trying to say it was a bad choice.

Getting much faith in intuition.

Follow it!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is the end.

I´m going to a flamenco gig tonight.

Tomorrow I´m going to the countryside near Jaen for a week.

Only me.

In the wild open. After seven weeks of cities and meeting, it´s time for Neil-time.

I haven´t said much about Cordoba. But will in the next installation.

Thank you Cordoba, Granada, and the road.

Thank you all the beautiful people.

Thank you earth, the universe and the madness of the flow.

Lots of love. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The beer was well proportioned and the food was a big plate of paella.

Don´t be vegetarian in Spain. Now I understand Antonio of Church Farm.

I don´t normally take tapas, especially in the afternoon. But I felt like celebrating, and the particular bar that I had it at couldn´t have been passed by.

Last Friday I walked for about an hour to go to this place for a tapas, but when I got there it was too late. That was just as well because as it happens I didn´t find any tapas and remained abit hungry but kept all my money. A little bit later I found a flyer for a Tango gig as last week was the international festival of Tango in Granada, and Friday´s gig had been recomended to me by a beautiful Argintine guitarist who plays on at a row of Terraces where I´ve played a few times. When we clapped his playing from a bench on the other side of the wide walkway infront of the row of five restobars with terraces he smiled the most beautiful smile. Looked like my friend Aymar. Soon I was clapping more to see his smile than for the music. But he plays well.

So I picked up the flyer as I was on my way here. Free internet in the university of Granada´s Social Sciences department. Then I looked up the price and it was twelve euro. I´d had two days of bad busking and emptied out all my coins, (and all my money) and counted them. It was 11.95 euro. I thought it was a sign. So I borrowed 5 cents from Barbara, a girl who was with me, and decided to go.

I was still hungry, but luvkily we decided to go to a friend´s house. The friend wasn´t there, but we got fed. Then the gig was certainly of the highest musical quality. The place was like a west end theatre. The people too. Old and posh. Fine people. I was in rags. Haha. Since then I´ve washed all my clothes. I wasn´t in rags but the night before I´d cooked in my busking trousers and the smoke and the pans and all that had dirtied my trousers. I didn´t look too bad.

After spending all my money on this concert, which had a trio of Argintinañ´s top`guitarists I was falling a sleep. It was funny in hind sight. The next day, I wore my white trousers and pink shirt. My best busking clothes and made 35 euro in one hour. So all was good once again.

I´ve gone so far off the original track. I´m just going to pop outside for a second to see if the german girl Karo has finished on the phone. I´ve had a funny day of bumping into people. I´ll explain in a minute and finish the story.

…………………

She wasn´t there. But anyway, that brings me to the longwinded point of my story.

Maybe.

Which is this…………………………..

ONLY BEAUTFUL THINGS END IN CIRCLES.

I could be wrong. It´s just a thought.

But you see the reason I was looking for the bar that day, to have a tapas, was because I had decided to leave Granada and thought it would be fitting to go there and write a bit about my time in Grandada. Because this particular bar was the place I busked on my first day in Granada, when I was staying at the campsite by the motorway miles away. It was the first time I´d busked at a terrace in my life and I was nervous and apprehensive. But Due to a book I´d read about the repercussions of losing the battle against ´giving up´I decided to play. It´s an important hurdle to overcome. And if you´ve read other blogs you´ll remember that I made 7 euro, and next bumped into nice people and found my way to magic garden. A free place to camp. In the heart of the cool part of the city.

So as I was leaving I wanted to go there but couldn´t. But anyway I didn´t leave so it was ok.

My storytelling is strange. But you see I plan to leave tomorrow. And I didn´t look for it today, I just happened to be walking by it and there it was. The time was perfect. I was hungry. I had time to go there and then come here. Conditions were perfect. And the tapas was 2.25. Which is not too bad. But the food was epic.

The best part though was my guitar.

……………….

My last blog was written on a Thursday, 13 days ago.

That was a full moon.

I was telling you about the caves and the people who live there. I´m not sure if I mentioned the Senegalese community or a Russian Guitar maker called Miguel. I wouldn´t have mentioned Miguel because I only met him yesterday.

Every Tuesday and Thursday the Senegales community who live in the caves and mostly belong to a branch of West African Islam called ´Bifal´ have a ceremony, which anyone can go to. It´s a lot of singing, drumming and walking around a pole in a circle, followed by lots of rice and Chicken, eaten Senagal style, with hands, gathered round the plate. I went to a Bifal ceremony when I was in Gambia, and knew about the tradition from my time in Africa.

Everyone is welcom, and many non Senegalese are there too to sing, dancem eat, and see what´s going on. The singing is loud and it pours down from the top of the hill onto Albaysin, every Thursday and Tuesday. Thursday, 13 days ago, being full moon, was particularly boisterous I think. I went for a while, ate, then wandered down the hill on my own feeling a bit lonely because on the walk up I´d been talking to a Belgian girl who lives here, in Spainish and it was the first prolonged conversation I´d had in Spanish, and talking about deep stuff too. So when I saw her going off with a Senegalese man I felt jilted. But it went by the morning and I´ve not in fact thought about here agin until this moment now.

I was tired. Slept well. The next morning was Friday, and my little adventure began…………

Well no. But maybe yes. Oh I don´t know. I´ll just carry on with the story.

As I said in the last blog I´d become a bit tired of playing covers and found a nice square to play some improvised tunage and make up some songs. On Friday then I went to do that. Again I felt good. I´ve recorded It so I´ll put it up. Probably played for an hour and by then had taken three or four euro. Actually it doesn´t sound much, but we go days here without spending a penny. So I was content with that.

As I was going around with a hat a fairly wild looking man was talking to me and I din´t quite get it. But he put a five euro note in my hat. So I started listening. Then his friend put a five euro note too. ´Oh´ I thought. ´That´s´very generous´. Then he asked me to play a private song for them. I got my guitar and played strange eight. Before playing they were saying that they wanted to speak to me because his friend, who looked a bit like my Auntie Ramone, said that I had a beautiful smile. His energy was so positive, that I really played the song with all my heart. I really felt it too. It was a beautiful moment. Then they invited me to join them for a beer. The woman bought my CD. We talked lots. Got more beers and tapas. The money was one thing. I ended up up about thirty euro from the whole thing. But there was much more to it than that.

They were really wild people actually. Spanish born Germans who´d returned back to the motherland with a slight Allemagne twang. 40, 50 60 respectively. Working now as tourist guites for the German tourists in Grenada.

I don´t want to spell out the details because you´ll probable find it unbelievable. But Angel sincerely belived that the meeting between us was not a coincidence. He repeatedly said that I was a spacial musician, writer and singer. And that I needed to belive in myself. Also to know my roots, that I was a Hitano at heart. Also that your parents are your roots. That your mother and father may not always be perfect, but they made you. You are only part of them.

It was equally humbling, to think of the significance of your parents to who you are, and also self-lifting as he kept on repeating that he believed in me and that I had to be succesful and that I would be. I don´t knopw how often people meet someone who claims to be your Angel, but he did.

So the meeting was quite strange, and I certainly did not leave it feeling in any way like a God, or neither that what he said was true. But elements of it linger on. And the truth about roots, parents, and beliving in myself, also linger on.

Then there was the Hitano thing.

……………………………………………

I feel that I´ve already bored you but there is so much to say.

Ok I´ll be brief.

The people who play Flamenco music are called Hitano.

This means Gypsy.

But actually there are two very different groups of Gypsy here in Andalucia.

Who I call Hitano. And who are generally refered to as Romani.

Those who play Flamenco are the Hitano.

So I look like Hitano. Actually I look like the Romai here too. And the Spanish. But mostly like Hitano.

Just today when I was having my tapas a man came and asked for some help. He was Hitano. I said, sorry, i don´t understand you too well and he was very surprised. ´´I thought you were Hitano Espaniol´´ he exclaimed.

Anyway part of my luck here in Spain is that I can pass as Hitano, which gains me closer access into the world of Flemenco, I think. I´ve been to so many awesome jam sessions. One of the first was on the night of the day I met Angel and Isabel.

Isabel was taking a group to a Flemenco show in Sacremonte. It´s normally 20 euro. Five dancers. It would be a good opportunity to connect with my Hitano roots. It was free.

The show was great. The dancers beautiful. One particularly beautiful. I spoke to her after the show. That felt good.

Then i went to the garden.

Then I remem,bered my friend was going to a Tango gig with possibilty of going on the guest list.

Other side of town. I went.

Got in free.

Music amateur, but goot to hear the sound of tango, without dance, with singing.

Then i was walking home and diceded to go see Miguel who i met on the night i found the garden. If you remember. He´s boring now.

He´s got a gig tonight, but I won´t go.

Only beautiful things end in circles.

Anyway. At Miguel´s bar, which is a flamenco bar, although he loves blues. Were some people singing some flamenco a la knuckles. Singing, knuckles, clapping, actually there was a cajon. A small group, but wicked music. I had my guitar.

That was the last time my guitar was playable. I shouldn´t have brought it.

It was on it´s last legs all ready, and by the time of this night, a few notes were allready buzzing.

After a night of being the guitar of a big old flamenco session it was unplayable. Also the Hitano who layed most was bleeding. Steel guitars and flamenco don´t mix too well. I recorded that jam. About two in the morning i´m strolling home and decide to go toward sacramonte. It´s near the garden and some american girls were heading that way.

I bumped into Dimelsa who I ended up sleeping with later on that night from Canaria who loves to sing Flamenco and does it really well and who I just bumped into on the street in perfect timing to say goodbye as i´m leaving tomorrow.  We went to a cave for another mamoth music session led by a mexican guy on a guitary type thing and a Nice singer hitano.

I can´t write anymore. Since then it´s been lots of flamenco. Ending up sin sessions. Meeting other nice girls. And much beautiful coincidence.

The last story is the one I set out to tell you.

My guitar.

One girl I met after a beautiful day last Wednesday when i went to the student union and mety Lola and Jimmy studying gender studies Masters. We had such a great time singing songs and then went for a tapas. It was really beautifl.

Too many great times I can´t go into it all.

But anyway, then i ended up at a stupid place, with a stupid guy, english style jam session with guy in love with himeself. I played well and and then he didn´t let me play. Oh no………..

I canñ´t tell any more stories.

On Monday I stayed at the house of a lovely girl. I´d intended on Monday to seek out a guy called Migulel. The morning after that stupid jam session i was with the lovely girl, Maria, from Granada, studying architecture. And at architect square met a guy called Rem. Russian guitarist, great bandana, black and red squares. Chatted. Mentioned my guitar and he wrote a map of where this Russian guitar maker plays everyday from 10 til 2, so i could meet him and maybe he could fix my guitar. Maybe even for frree.

So on monday i´d intended to go to see him. But really. With the expensive tango that I fell asleep at. The next day, mad flamenco all night madness. And also about two weeks of going out during the day, every day, to busk, or walk around, i hadn´t spent a day just lazing at the garden for two weeks or so and decided that instead of going to Cordoba on Wednesday, i´d try to find miguel on wednesday and go to Cordoba. What´s one day when you can relax. Plus I had a rranged to record music with Max yesterday. Which we did.

So i was lazing in the garden on Monday when Maria turns up. I went off with her then. Good times…… Cooked food. Sat on some grass. (Not too much grass here, that was an occasion) Cooked more. Slept. Very tired. On Tuesday we´re going down the street and she´s late for her classes. Stops to talk to a guy. I´m introduced. He´s called Miguel. I´m Thinking.

Say goodbye to Maria and go back to see if this miguel knows a good place to buy a guitar string since he´s playing, and i need a guitar string for Max´s guitar so we can record. When he starts explaining and i need a bit of help in English, i notice the russian twang, and it´s the Miguel I was going to have to look for.

I love it when that happens.

You know when my guitar broke i needed a new guitar. Luckily, due to the money i´d gotten from Angel and Isabel, I had 30 euro, which was enough to buy a make shift spanish guitar. That´s much better for learning these rhythms. The less exciting part to write about is practicing flamenc wrist action. But slowly i´m getting the hang of it.

I don´t want to travel with two guitars.

Today i went to Miguel´s workshop.

He´s a legend. Building beauiful guitars. One at a time. Full of love and sound great. He´ll keep my guitar and try to fix it. The cost will be tiny. Plus my guitar has a safe home for the next few months that i carry on in search of Flamenco. If got a bit if a taste for it now. Especially the singing.

It means the most to me that my guitar is in safe hands.

I´m tempted slightly to work as a tefl teacher to make 600 pounds to buy a lovingly made flamenco classical guitar. But I might not. But I might.

Cordoba is where I´m going tommorrow.

It´s got tourists, but much less travellers. More chance of speaking spanish. My spanish is ok now. But i need submergence. But also Cordoba has great Flamenco.

I´ll keep you posted.

On the way back from Miguel´s workshop I passed the tapas bar I played on my first day in Granada.

The man who served me. Who I´d asked before twice, ¨¨¿Puedo tocar ai?¨¨ – ´´Can I play there?´´ was leaving I really wanted to tell him the story and significance of that little bar to me.

I said. ¨¨May I tell you a little story¨¨ and I told him.

¨¨Estupendo”" was his reply.

Oh I love this life on the road.

Hope you´re very well.

Lot´s of love.

Neil.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Well it´s been an extraordinary week in many ways. I hope it translates well into story world because most of the exitement has been internal.

I think my first two posts focussed on the journey from England, and the arrival in Granada, particularly Magic Garden.

The fairytale romance of Magic Garden began to shift into somethong less idyllic soon after the last post. It´s not bad now, but that was a really great moment, with just the right number of people and all of them really interesting and positive. Since the garden has an open door policy, anyone is free to come and stay, and since everything in the garden is communal this can lead to difficulties, as last week many new people came and it felt like starting again. It´s very interesting though to experience and things are getting better again now. My main problem is finding personal space, but all things are on a good track.

Let me start from somewhere along the river of the last few weeks and try to sail the storyboat towards the moment right now where I´m sitting in the same internet cafe that I sent the last two posts from.

It´s just near to plaza larga, a small square where the sun sits late. This morning in the square was a market with vegetables etc. There is a cafe, a shop with stuff, a bakery, a flower shop and a restaurant there, and some nice stone benches. I just sat on one of the benches and had a cafe con leche, which the Spanish do incredibly well, and a bar of white chocolate that was on offer.

The square is on the way to Huerto de Carlos, the place I mentioned in the last post where all the musicians go in the afternoon to play music. And it´s a little square where you can´t help bumping into people you know. I don´t know if it´s mad how many people I know here already – a lot is because many people come to the garden for the fire, but also just musicians met, and other sorts met.

For example, I went to Huerto de Carlos on Tuesday morning at 10.30 for a free yoga session. That was nice. But funnier was that on Sunday I went for a walk with Jan, a really great Czech guy living in the garden. We walked up the hill past the caves, went into the cave of a friend of ours, Omar. It was the first cave I´ve been in. The caves are hundreds of years old and there are hundreds of them in the hills here. The first thought of a cav is a single dug-out space, but no….. The roofs are high and in Omar´s cave there were three rooms all fiarly sized. The feeling in the cave is amazing actually. Before the caves were mostly inhabited by gypsies, but now it´s half gypsy and half a variety of people really. The chinese girl who teaches Chi Gung has a cave. The Irish guys who are young, funny and full of goodness live in a cave. Omar and Sarah live in separate caves – they have a beautiful daughter together, Chloe, but are not together anymore. Gigi is in love with Sarah and mieows like a cat when shés around. She is really beautiful. Gigi is Italian and likes building stuff in the garden and sings nice Italian songs from time to time.

Anyway we were walking up by the caves and Jan said we were going to a cave to have a cup of tea. We were coming towards pure nature. A beautiful view of the snow capped Sierra Nevada in the distance on the rolling hills in the foreground. And then we came to where it was and it was spectacular. A garden perched at the edge of a valley with gorgeous view and run by an old spanish man who told stories and wore a colourful hat and used some of the Berber and arabic words even though he was Spanish because it´s the old Spanish language in fact. He was such a positive guy. Reminded me of my Buddhist friend Sumana. He brought out the tea in little jars and perched on the tea was the most amazing buscuit I´ve had in my life. A small buscuit, but with a carefully cut fruit sald resting on it´s small surface of kiwi, banana, strawberry apple, chocolate spread and a hazlenut – not all on top of eachother but spread out like jewels on a buscuit sized pendant. It was awesome.

Anyway, it was pure peace and tranquility there. Played some tunes, chatted. We also had with us a really lovely and nice looking girl called Petra, and a new girl at the time, Teresa. There were only thrre places to sit in this garden full of flowers and and a few sofas overlooking the valley and mountains, but in one of the others i met a Canadian musician who spoke Japanese and taught yoga for free at the Huerto de Carlos on Tuesday mornings.

Wow. That was a long story. I think I have more but I want to go into something about my mental state because a week ago I began to become really sad, and as I said at the begining it´s been an interesting internally. I´ll try to keep it brief.

So, as I said in the last post, busking was easy. I got very cocky about it and just thought, ýeah, I can spend money because busking in the cafes for a few hours brings me fifteen twenty euro and no problemo´. But actually, since my busking last thursday which took a while to get into, I stood in front of the fountain in the middle of ´bird square´for an hour, thinking i wasn´t gonna play, but then did three cafes, got 25 euro and sold a cd.

Anyway, since then, I found it very hard to play. I got really sad and entered a vicious cycle where I had a down energy and then couldn´t bring myself to play. The I was frustrated at myself for being weak which made me more down and the thing spiralled. I kept on going to the place to play but just feeling really down and not up for playing.

I mean, a I said the living here is basically free, but having no money in my pocket ad not being able to play, again the future was looking bleak. Especially to travel around and stuff. Any way on Tuesday I was in bird square trying to get psyched up to play when a crazy Morrocan alcoholic guy came and sat next to me and saying things. I´d just about got myyself into an energy where i was ready to go to a terrace and play. But this random dude just somehow brought me right back down again. Anyway, I went to the terrace nearby where i was going to try to overcome it. I´d practiced a few new beatles songs, Michael Jackson songs as I´d thought the problem was playing the same songs.

When I got to the terrace a guy was there already. He asked me to watch his stuff while he played, saying that i could play after him and i said yes, even though i wanted to say no, and go find somewhere else to play, but he´d already started playing so i took out my book and pencil and started to write. This place has about five cafe restaurants in a row, all with many tables and chairs outside, and some more reastaurants behind. People drinking, chatting, having as good time. I was weqaring my sexy pink flowery shirt and white trousers sitting on a bench beneath a palm tree with the sun not as hot as usual, about 3.30 and i slight cloud in the sky. Thie guy playing was a flamenco guitarist and started with one of my favourite songs. Mañha de carnival. Brazillian song. I started writing, thought I´d tell the guy I couldn´t watch his stuff cause I wanted to play. Then words started coming, and he played another song. After this one I´ll tell him, I thought. But nice words were coming and I was still writing. After this one. Actually. I don´t need to play right now. It´s good to sit here while he plays and write. And by the time he´d played five songs and come back, I´d managed to get out whatever sadness was in me onto the page and had gained a sudden massive clarity about what I was feeling.

I felt much lighter, but also like i wanted to cry, which i couldn´t. I was going to walk to the university square, my favourite place to play, nice girls. But decided to follow the wind. I then bumped into Gosling and Peter. Accordian singing American girl and Clarinet playing, blue eyed Danish boy. I´d known the wind was bringing me something and there it was. We went to a place and it turned out to be the place that the flamenco guy had told me to go. And then we were abou to jam when Gosling said where´s Jesse. Dutch violin playing beautiful guy who was having relationship things but super open minded and awesome. Five minutes later he comes strolling down the hill. We four played together for two hours until tuesdays moon rose over the cathedral. Spring in white blosson infront of us. We made good money, but the best was playing juicy music as a foursome. All my sadness disolved and also the realisation – I´m not here to play beatles songs in cafes, but to play real music, to learn about good music. To play my music…………..

I´d been getting down because of playing the same covers.

This morning i decided to mix my own songs in. So the two cafes i played today I also played Magic scarf and Halloween song.

The best part was after the two cafes i sat in a big square with my hat on the floor and just made up songs for an hour on guitar voice and harmonica. All around the square are cafes and reastaurants but not too many people. Anyway. It was the first time i´ve busked and had people stop to sit down and listen for a while. And also the people actually came all the way over to put money in the hat. It´s the best music i´ve played so far, and the best response. If i can busl improvising my heart will be happy. It´s what i´m gonna do and record it.

So now my heart and soul are joyful again. Six minutes left to gropu email.

My good friend Perine had her baby a few days ago and named it Neil…………….

Wowwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Happy birthday Neil.

Lots of love to Perine and Bruno.

Lots of love to you all.

Till next time.

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¿Que Tal?

I´d forgeotten about funny Spanish question marks.

If you haven´t read the previous blog ¨Granada for Nada¨, you should, it ended ¨to be continued……¨so this blog might not make too much sense if you don´t. But it´s up to you.I´ll recap abit annyway.

If you remember, the bus journey was one and a half days, the camp site was pricy and miles away on the motor way and i did lots of walking with mucho heavy bags. I wolk up on my first morning wondering how i was going to live but got courage, busked and made 7 euros for four songs.

Then i found my way to the city centre which was much more beautiful than the areas i´d been in so far, but still nothing to write home about. Then I found a street and some french guys and a german girl were just finishing a busking session, and said theyt were going up on the hill where people hang out in the afternoon sun and play music together. Sounded great, but i was in two minds as I thought I should do more busking. But I decided to go with them.

We went into a street and then I understood what people meant by Granada. It was like a Morrocan Medina. A host of bazzars and shops on top of eachother winding up a hillside. Winding and winding along cobbled roads until we came out in front of a shop, bought some beers and went along to a big square right on top of the thing where about a hundred people were scattered about in little gropus with guitars and other instruments playing music.

From here the sun sets later. You can see the snow capped Sierra Nevada mountains in the distance. It´s really cool. Then we slowly start jamming. It´s good, i play a few of my songs, and the german girl, Marie, starts playing her violin. Then the french guys start some french songs with guitar and accordion. Then another group joins us and the music is great and vibe is too.

Oh i forgot to say, but Marie had already told me as we were walking up the cobbled streets that I could camp for free outside the city, near the top of the hill, so i was happy. So I was telling this to someone there from the new and she said it was called The Magic Garden. Well as it turns out the two things were abit different but that night I made my 5km trek along the motor way to my 15 euro a night campsite safe in the knowledge that I´d be able to camp in the most beautiful part of the city – for free. I thought I´d sleep like a baby. But it was icicle cold and I froze instead.

As it turns out Magic Garden is truly magical.

It´s in the heart of the old part of the town. An abandonned house that was occupied about 4 years ago, and used by travellers mostly to camp for free. Also we do a lot of ´recycling´, if you know what I mean, and there is always lots of food. We cook together and go to find wood, get water and play lots of music. Everyone there plays music. Of course we often have missions for food and stuff, but everyone chips in, there are some really great people, and a core crew who are trying to do the place up. Building tables, showers, but it gives the place a great positive energy. There are some good characters. It´s very international. Italian, French, Belgian, Dutch, German, Austrian, Israeli, Danish, Norwegian, Czech, Hungarian, American, Polish……….Spanish. Haha. Very european. The common language is Spanish, but some English too.

So actually I don´t need to busk. But it was nice to sit around for a week, enjoying he sunny days, and also the nights getting warmer. Now though I feel like making some money amd working a bit over the next week. Although tomorrow, we´re gonna hitch to the beach.

I went out busking today for about 3 hours and made 25 euro. This is how it has been for me so far.  I´ve probably made about 80 euro so far. But only spent 60, and 20 of that was on the first two nights camping. So I guess things are better.

I wish I´d told this blog better, but I haven´t eaten all day and am about to run out of time. There is more to say, but next time I guess.

Be well……………….. Lots of love,

Neil

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The most challenging thing so far in my small voyage has been remembering the username and password to gain access to my website, to write this blog. I´ve been sat at this computer for half an hour and now have tyo let out a sigh…………………..

Anyway, here´s the story so far……….

I left England on Thursday from Victoria Coach Station. Early start – woke up at five, had to get to the bus stop at 7. Then got on a coach. Went through the euro tunnel. No ferry! That was quite interesting in a quite mediocre kind of way. But the journey was good to Paris. Was sat next to a girl called Patricia, who was French, but originally Congolese, and felt deeply connected still to Congo. Well all of her Mum´s brothers and sisters are still there. We talked a lot about all the madness going on in Congo at the moment. Child Soldiers, Rape, and general state of definitelñy one of the international communities most overlooked war situations over the last 30 years. That was sad but good to talk about.

Changed buses. Friday at 6pm arrived in Granada. Sun going down. One and a half days of sitting in the same position. Then heavy bag, guitar case, tent and a 5km walk to a campsite. I only came with 50 euro so I wasn´t going to spend 10 euro on a cab. But it was a challenging walk, along Motorway and general smoky ways. Passing onlu car shops, factories selling used parts with dogs barking behind fences. Arrived at the campsite at 9 ish, but took a little detour into a park where some gypsy groups were having fires in oil drums, listening to very loud flamenco from car sterios, drinking smoking laughing etc. I got there because the campsite looked closed, so i followed my ears thinking the campsite was very lively with the music and smiled. But as i got closer to the noise i noticed there was no grass. Like a big abandonned car park. Then i noticed there were no tents. It was dark after all. Then noticed that the poeple around the fires didn.t look like campers or tourists. When i was close enough to ask for directions to the campsite, I noticed they were dark and indian looking, and then assumed they were gypsies. They asked me to stay for a beer and play some guiitar. But i was tired after a lo0ng walk, and a little shy to play my relaxed music when the music they were listening to was so fiery.

Anyway, got to the campsite, set up tent. went back along the moterway without big backs and guitar feeling light. Oh except that the campsite was more expensive than i thought. I originally thought it was 2 euro, then i got an email from the owner saying it was five euro. Then on thw way to the campsite i was thinking about her email and thought actually she ment five euro for me and fiver for the tent. So i thought it was ten. But i was thinkling that i would explain how i was strong and walked with all the stuff from the station and she would exlaim, “from the station????” with a respectful tone and i would say how i´m busking and she would think it was cool and offer it to me for 5 euro. But when i got in , it was a guy and he told me it was 15 euro. I was surprised. I negotioated ten euro. But still i couldn´t stay for long. So I decided that i´d have to start busking the next day. Which i did. Made 7 euro by singing five songs.Went along a variety of roads, bumped into some good people. Went up a big hill called albaysin. Oh I´m rushing………… Because my money´s going to run out…….

To be continued…………………

At work, the day went slowly and she couldn’t concentrate.

“Are you going to any festivals this summer?” A friend asked.

“I’m not sure.” She replied.

“Are you O.k?” The friend added.

She nodded her head and quietly went back to what she was doing.

When she got home she looked through the internet, found a bus going to Morrocco and booked the ticket. 2 weeks later, she’d quit her job, had injenctions and was standing at Victoria bus station with her Dad.

2 days later, while she was crossing the sea between Spain and Morrocco, she experienced a strange sensation in her belly like when you go over a bump in a car. It was Europe letting go of her, like a hand losing grip as you slip from their fingers, and Africa taking hold of her in very different feeling arms.

I remember about 7 years ago at a friend Danny’s house a guy called Dean told me about her album and said it was brilliant so I bought it, but didn’t really listen to it. One thing in particular was the song ‘fuck me pumps’. From the title I assumed it would be a song about her strutting around as a fashionista and glamourising the kind of lifestyle suggested by the title, which turned me off, thinking she was another shallow singer. Actually, since she died, I came to look through the booklet, and that song in particualar. It’s about the opposite of what I thought it was, is a wicked song and video, and I would’ve agreed had i not been so put off by her popularity or whatever it was.

I don’t know if it’s only me who can take take such a negative view of things to cast even bright things in shadows. But yet again I learn that there is more to life than meets the eye.

Watch the video

I’ll have my own song finished and up soon too.

See ya.

Madness in the rain

It’s only superficial, like the skin on some girl’s eyelid, on a war path you created, just to keep the dogs at bay. The twighlight lets the sigh lift, like smokey long forgotten memoirs hidden in the cave, drift. But still some quasi-neutron polar ice cap shifting unerneath the future you decay, when the rumours that you dream of seem so strangley far away, melt. I dealt the cards uneven and the rigid progammed sequence of events that should’ve opened somehow sank beneath the rooftop falling.

The simple twisted joking camels staring in your eye, knows the demons never lie, and receive the darkened wisdom like a ribbon in the sky, twirling.

Pitter patter, pitter patter on the roof. Madness in the rain.

So walking from the tavern that the summer skies have relished squeeze the soapy morning coming soon in jutting ocean fragments, so the tuneful bleating of the swishing swirly dance of temper, dance before the dawning gods in awe and brightened silver sliding.

The aching rapid tortoise walking fallopian wielding siamese dog is smiling in the mirror. “I’m cool”, it says. Then walking with a barking stance, this cleopatra bird of dance, goes paddling in the puddle, singing.

Pitter patter, patter pitter. Raining in the mad.

So English half laments, fight in rigid coated armour, that that the name to hear in French, beats the chink out of the timing, so when sparrows call to lift your brow, the shudder now is funny. Well the magic that the swimmers saw, when crossing that canal, was a dreary sight to see, if pardon my French, the squrrels are not properly aligned. But what I really mean to say Monsieur, is that when crossing that dreary yonder, at once the sky became a lightning sky of pale sea blue. It therof lifted what I can only imagine to be my very soul and held it upright in front of me. And then I could not really grasp the detail of it’s shape, but a resemblance to the moon of things was noticed. And then the swimming continued.

Perhaps the million stardust floating caught in slanting light are boating sailors on a fired river, just about to vanish, dutifully.

There’s no pitter patter for the moment. Sane rhymes with rain.

So sleepwalking downard on a slippery bald patch, I wrestle with the uncertainty I found on the canal. It wasn’t that I hadn’t realised it was me that was my reflection that I was looking at, but at the same insignificant fracture of time eminating, perhaps it was. Broken like a bottle broken bottle after bottle broken sitting feeling broken but also feeling very sharp, I prepare for drifting sideways, it’s my favourite event.

See you,

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Such is how my view of this world is presently, for I’m so far removed from most of its struggle, pain, death and hunger, that I none the less can see going on, though mostly through the lenses that sit emotionless behind television screens.

My thoughts today before sitting down to write this were of wishing to search through blogs from some of the war-torn or difficult countries of the world at present – Iraq, Afghanistan, Congo, North Korea, and I’m sure many other places, to get a taste for the experiences being had in general by people living there. I used to do this quite a lot after returning rom my short trip in West Africa as a way of keeping a part of my spirit alive through being connected to a fuller truth of life beyond the western middle class bubble.

It’s not news I’m interested in, news deals with visible change,  I just want a glimpse into the present reality of existences happening right now, parallel to mine, though completely different, almost untouching.

Is that true though? Are our lives not touched by eachothers? If they are, in what ways?

And out of no where a question has arrived. Our lives are so connected aren’t they? The first and third worlds. Because we are on the recieving end of cheap goods such as cocoa, coffee, metal, wood, cotton, fish, beans from the first world, things that we don’t even notice are there, and certainly do little to tarnish our air, we don’t notice our connection to the third world.

What are they on the recieving end of? Guns to fuel their wars. Money to further corrupt their livelihoods. Advertising of expensive unattainable things. Maybe they do notice our existence a little more.

The key to getting rid of a bad itch is to not itch it. It’s the itching of it that keeps it there. I wish it was easier to not itch it.

That shine on all your demon dreams and luminate the starry streams

Yet somehow in reverse of this, produce no signal to your bliss

That underneath there is a Joy, your heart is waiting to deploy

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That peom was written a few weeks ago while I sat at the pub, my new second home. Playing three times a week is great for the voice, not sure how good it is for the liver! The pub is 500 years old, this farming town is pretty old too.

I’m living on a farm. That’s pretty mad isn’t it.

The skies here are amazingly beautiful. If i was a photographer I’d post some pics, but I’m not, so you’ll have to gather of the skies what you can from the new songs. I’ve written 6 since being here. In fact I think I’m going to go and write another one now particulary about the skies. Will let you know how it goes.

End of blog!