Who Am I?

September 9, 2019September 9, 2019 | Rebecca Gibson

I was so excited for last weekend’s A Focus On Nature’s “Now For Nature” conference at London’s Natural History Museum. Specifically aimed at 16-30 year olds, AFON is all about young people in conservation. Wildlife isn’t often popular among young people, so having the chance to meet like-minded individuals my age was a brilliant opportunity. From talks by big names such as Chris Packham and Stephen Moss to productive workshops from successful conservationists, the event was an inspiring weekend full of Conservation Optimism.

I was particularly pleased to meet Tiffany Francis. At just 27 years old, she has three books published, which is an incredible and inspiring achievement. Her big break came from AFON itself, where she wrote an article on wild foraging that was picked up by Bloomsbury and turned into a book. Tiffany went on to write her second about British goats – taken from her time working on a farm – and her latest book Dark Skies, released only last week, is about our relationship with darkness and wildlife at night. As well as writing the book, Tiffany also produced all the illustrations including the book’s front cover.

Speaking to Tiffany afterwards, I discovered how approachable and open she was. We chatted like we knew each other; in fact, when I gave her business card she said, “Oh you’re rebeccaonthewing!” which was a fantastic feeling.

I told her about the trouble I’ve had finding a specific identity in my writing and establishing a niche without cutting myself off from other readers. I also suffer from overthinking, which ends up being a real obstacle that stops me from writing. One thing I’d like to try is free writing, where I just sit and let thoughts pour onto the page. I’m hoping that not only will this lessen the inhibiting effect of overthinking but it will also generate new ideas. I’ve learnt that getting hung up about writing means you don’t write.

Tiffany’s reply was that I should just write what I enjoy writing. For a while she had conflicting ideas about her own professional identity. Was she a writer or illustrator? At the time she felt she couldn’t be both, which made filling out social media bios a real trial.

She later realised that she didn’t have to label herself as anything. She was a “creative”, which could mean writer, artist, public speaker and a whole range of other things. I’ve experienced this too, deliberating over “writer” and “photographer”, and although they’re not my greatest strengths, I also love painting and drawing which ties in nicely with nature writing as Tiffany has proven. I’ve come to realise that all these skills come together to form my identity as a “creative” and it is constantly changing and adapting. It doesn’t need to fit in a bio box. Tiffany said all that’s important about your work is it pays the bills, makes you happy and makes a difference. While the first may take a while, I can continue with the second and strive for the third.

Micrarium

September 1, 2019September 3, 2019 | Rebecca Gibson

Recently I was accepted onto the Travel and Nature Writing MA at Bath Spa University, which I’ll be starting later this month. In preparation for this exciting new challenge, I signed up for a travel writing workshop run by Peter Carty, who regularly writes for publications such as The Guardian. Although my focus will definitely be more on the nature half of my MA, there is a lot of overlap with travel and I would love to develop my portfolio in this area.

Peter’s workshop was extremely useful, especially the postcard exercise. Over lunch, we were let loose into London with a blank postcard. The challenge was to find a new and intriguing place and write a short travel piece about it on the postcard, including quotes from people we met along the way. As a wildlife writer I’ve had very little experience with interviews, so approaching strangers and getting quotes was daunting but rewarding. I decided to visit the Grant Museum of Zoology in Fitzrovia, which turned out to be a treasure trove of taxidermy and scientific specimens.

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Micrarium

A jar of moles, a penis worm and a dissected rat. These are just some of the specimens on display at the Grant Museum of Zoology. But past the imposing elephant skulls and ominous, pickled jars is an intriguing display of alien-like creatures nobody would notice in the wild.

It’s said that 95% of known species of animals are smaller than a human thumb. The Grant Museum, named after British anatomist and zoologist Robert Edmond Grant, sheds light on the mysterious and microscopic in its Micrarium: a seemingly infinite display of backlit microscope slides that are creatively reflected in a mirror mounted on the ceiling. There are 20,000 slides in the whole museum, but the selection of 2000 in the Micrarium exhibit alone is impressive enough.

“It’s probably one of our more popular exhibits,” explained volunteer Margaret, “We get lots of people taking photos for Instagram.”

I can see why. Step inside this bizarre taxidermic phone box and you can observe minute insects and cross sections of tissues in astonishing and multicolour detail, painstakingly plastered across three walls. Among the specimens are the muscly leg of a flea and a whole squid measuring less than a centimetre long.

“While public displays very much focus on larger animals,” said Jack Ashby, manager of the Grant Museum, “Most natural history collections have thousands of very small specimens kept in their storerooms which are rarely shown to the public.”

Once used for research at UCL, the neighbouring university, the Micrarium now enthuses the general public instead, uncovering secrets of the miniature monsters that crawl well out of human sight. It’s not quite the blue whale at the Natural History Museum, but it’s an insight into 95% of animals on our planet, which definitely deserves a second look.

Art, Music and Dance

August 7, 2019September 13, 2021 | Rebecca Gibson

I began my last full day in Madrid with a bit of vintage shopping in the district Malasaña, just north of the downtown area. I’d gotten quite badly overheated from walking yesterday so I used the metro for the first time, journeying from Sol to Tribunal. Although the platforms were a little stuffy, the trains themselves were air-conditioned (unlike the ghastly London tube) and the time saved was more than worth it. As long as you knew the station at the end of the line and the direction, the metro was very easy to use and I would definitely recommend it to avoid getting hot and bothered before you even arrived anywhere!

The street to be for vintage shopping was Calle de Velarde, with second-hand shops lining both sides of the street. I pinballed out of one directly into another: Magpie Vintage, Biba Vintage and La Mona Checa to name a few. The clothes were very affordable and I bought a lovely maxi skirt from Retro City for 20€. I could have also bought about a dozen denim jackets, but after remembering my extensive existing collection back home I managed to refrain.

I stopped for a drink and a slice of carrot cake at a dinky little place by Plaza del Dos de Mayo called El 2D and wrote for a while in the shade of an outdoor table. Aside from an unfortunate amount of graffiti (and not the skilled kind) it was a perfectly nice place to sit, but lacked the striking appearance of the frescoed walls of Plaza Mayor.

I hopped back on the metro and tried my luck getting into the Prado Museum, the main Spanish national art museum. Luckily I’d timed it right and sailed straight in. When faced with such a colossal museum such as the Prado and lacking any professional art knowledge, I decided to wander into the first room that took my fancy. It was filled with vast paintings of stunning natural landscapes with one stretching across an entire wall: “Landscape at El Pardo, Mist Rising” by Antonio Muñoz Degrain (1866). I’m always most drawn to realist paintings and get a little sceptical with the more modern, interpretive types. The colours in this oil painting were beautiful; it captured the perfect moment when the sun was at its most golden, casting a soft light over the tops of the trees and the clouds. There was so much depth in the scene; you could really believe that the rider letting his horse drink in the river was many miles from the distant mountains. I loved everything about it, from the glassy reflection in the water to the fluffy clouds.

Once I’d had my fill of the Prado I faced the peak of the day’s heat, which would remain at 37°C until 6pm. I’d planned on reading in El Retiro Park, but there wasn’t enough granizado de limón in the world to keep me cool enough. In addition, my sandal promptly broke, and I took that as affirmation that I should get out of the sun.

After a brief cooling off period, I ventured back out in the early evening when the temperature was far friendlier. I bought a strawberry slush this time, just to mix things up a little, and took a leisurely stroll up Calle de los Bordadores and then Calle del Arenal, where two school-age boys were busking. One was playing violin, the other cello. As well as classical pieces I also recognised Dancing Queen, Viva La Vida and Smooth Criminal, which all sounded fantastic played on strings. A little further up the street another busker was strumming Spanish guitar: the epitome of a balmy evening in Madrid.

To make my last night even more Spanish, I went to see a flamenco show. Of the many tablaos (flamenco venues) around, I chose Las Carboneras, which was just around the corner from Mercado de San Miguel. As I sipped my complimentary drink, I had to suppress a sob when one tourist asked for the Wi-Fi password. I was delighted when the waiter denied it, and instead told them to enjoy the show.

Unfortunately I had waiters marching to and fro in front of me for the duration of the performance, as well as several tourists who couldn’t sit still. It was a shame that photography without flash was permitted so there were dozens of distracting phone screens blaring. After testing my patience too far, I had to tell one man to stop because he had begun to lean into my view. It wasn’t the cheapest flamenco show in town and I wasn’t about to watch it on someone else’s screen.

Nonetheless, the show itself was electrifying, which may sound melodramatic and cliché but it genuinely was. The atmosphere created by the seven performers – four dancers, two singers and a guitarist – was nothing short of incredible. The sound of the dancers’ shoes hitting the floor was like the crack of fireworks. One minute they were spinning in a frenzy, long skirts swirling, and the next they were frozen with just their fingers clicking or their wrists twisting in slow circles.

At times I didn’t know where to look. While the dancers obviously caught the eye in their elaborate and brightly coloured dresses, I found the guitarist fascinating too. His fingers moved almost in a blur but his actions looked effortless and he barely watched what he was playing. As mesmerising as he was, I most enjoyed the parts where the only sound was the lead dancer’s feet and the other dancers’ – who took it in turns to take the stage – clapping. They watched the lead dancer’s movements like a hawk and increased or decreased the rhythm of their clapping in response. There was such dramatic contrast between the gunshot stomps and moments of utter silence. As each dance built to a dizzying climax I felt my chest tighten. The tension in the room was overwhelming.

I would be interested to see how other shows compare to Las Carboneras. It was cabaret-style seating with tables dotted haphazardly and waiters weaving between with trays of drinks. While this suited the environment and lent itself well to such an intimate and emotional performance, for the sake of being fully immersed in the whole ambience, I would have preferred more traditional theatre-style seating. The constant interruptions of drinks coming and going was irritating, not to mention inconsiderate tourists. Venues more catered towards locals may be less tolerant of taking photos, or perhaps locals don’t feel the need to take any in the first place. Even considering that, I would recommend flamenco to anyone visiting Madrid, purely to hear that explosion of sound with their own ears.

When I left the show I didn’t feel like turning in. It was a beautiful evening so I strolled to Plaza Mayor for some night photography. At 11pm the square was buzzing with activity. A saxophone was serenading diners with “Sway” and a tour group was in full swing, assembled by Felipe’s statue in the middle of the plaza. A woman walked by with her dog. Life continued just the same after dark as it did during the day. Perched on a bench, I felt perfectly safe in the bustling square. There are, without a doubt, things that a girl shouldn’t do alone at night, but in a place like downtown Madrid I felt perfectly at ease. When I got peckish I tried another portion of churros from a café and still found them hard as nails. If there was one disappointment from my trip, it was the let-down of the churros.

As I people-watched and scribbled in my journal, I reflected on the past five days. My time in Madrid had been both diverse and enlightening – my first trip alone to a non-English speaking country. While the language barrier had sometimes felt like quite the hurdle, I’d muddled through and had some incredible experiences. I’d watched terrapins up close and personal, sampled the buzz of El Rastro flea market and had been truly moved by the passion of flamenco. With a little more Spanish under my belt, I could really see myself living like a true madrileña.

Fancy Ceilings

August 4, 2019July 30, 2019 | Rebecca Gibson

I arrived at El Rastro flea market while the traders were just finishing setting up. It was the place to be in Madrid on a Sunday morning: before long the streets would be crawling with people, including pickpockets. I avoided the upcoming crush nicely and browsed at ease without having to clutch my bag too tightly.

It was very similar to Camden market; in fact some of the floral dresses and pendant necklaces were identical. There were also plenty of trademark Spanish items such as flamenco dresses and more fans than you could shake a stick at. Luckily there were some lovely items amongst the kitsch. I bought a silver-plated necklace with two inset pieces of labradorite, my favourite crystal. I indulged in a few beaded bracelets (a holiday tradition of mine) and found some other small gifts to take back home.

Once I’d done most of the circuit, the sun had cleared the surrounding buildings and the crowds had visibly swelled, so I decided to make my escape. I dropped into 100 Montaditos for lunch where tapas only cost 1€ each. I had adorable little mini brioche buns stuffed with potato omelette and hard-boiled eggs. The place had quite a rotary feel about it; orders were placed and paid for at the bar and food was called out over a microphone for diners to come and collect. Situated so close to El Rastro, I guessed that they were accustomed to being full to the rafters after the morning’s shop and thrived on efficiency. It wasn’t the place to relax but the food was good.

P1000133 — Street art on the walk down to El Rastro

Later I ventured back past the Palacio Real and found there was no queue so I made use of the opportunity and paid for entry. I’ve never been overly fascinated by royals so for me it was more the case of ticking a box, but the interior was as stunning and regal as one would expect. I particularly enjoyed the Carlos III Chamber of Gasparini room, which was where the king performed the ceremony of getting dressed. It was designed by Matteo Gasparini in the Rococo style of ornamental and extravagant three-dimensional decoration. I wasn’t allowed to take photos in that particular room but there was a dramatic contrast between black, swirling filigree detailing and paler sections. It was far more gothic than a lot of the palace’s other rooms, where gold ceilings and weighty chandeliers took precedence.

P1000360 2 — The ceiling over the staircase

After getting my fill of royal luxury I continued along Calle de Bailén to La Basilica Grande de San Francisco to see a particularly lavish dome ceiling, but unfortunately the gates were locked and the doors shut. I’d checked the opening times beforehand but perhaps as it was Sunday, an unexpected religious ceremony had come up. I was pretty worn out anyway, so after a stop off at a bar for another granizado de limón I headed back to the hotel to freshen up before returning to Tapa Tapa for dinner, which had become my favourite eatery in Madrid. This time, as well as the langoustines, I had a portion of fried squid with its ink and salad made up of seafood, avocado and chopped mango. Once again, it was all delicious. I particularly liked Tapa Tapa because despite offering a wide range of choices, they seemed to excel at them all whether you chose seafood, bocadillos or vegetarian options.

I thought about going for a spot of shopping while the air was cooler, but once I’d paid the bill and left the restaurant I was met by a raging thunderstorm. Obviously even Madrid had a temperature limit and as I huddled with other diners watching the rain thrum wildly on the pavement, a stream already gathering strength in the gutter, I hoped the storm would crack the enduring heat.

I decided against shopping, and when there was a slight lull in the onslaught, I made a dash back to Calle Mayor and watched the rest of the storm indoors.

Reptiles in the Park

July 31, 2019May 3, 2022 | Rebecca Gibson

I bought a ticket for the Madrid City Bus Tour from hotel reception and hopped on at Plaza Mayor. With such intense heat, I thought it would be a good idea to explore the city in the comfort of an open-top bus, where I could jump on and off wherever I pleased. First stop was Puerta del Sol with the bear and strawberry tree statue, and then we headed east into the Retiro district, which was probably best known for its trio of world-famous museums. As I’d anticipated, the queues to get inside were eye-watering even at late morning, so once again I was content just admiring the exterior. As much as I quite liked wandering through art galleries, I wasn’t willing to spend an hour waiting to get in. Besides, on a weekend day you wouldn’t have seen the art for the tourists anyway.

I was far more interested in what lay beside the museums and I hopped off the bus. El Parque de Buen Retiro was a vast and beautiful park spanning 350 acres. I began at the north end and made my way leisurely past elaborate fountains and sprawling trees. One of the trees was the oldest in Madrid, but there was no shortage of vast leaved giants, which provided much-needed shade for tourists and locals alike. While some people were lolling on the grass with food or books, others were jogging and walking dogs. It was a hive of activity and yet seemed extremely tranquil, similar to how I felt in Plaza Mayor. Despite a population of several million, the city didn’t feel cramped or overcrowded the way London does. The pace of life in Madrid was far more relaxed and I was keen to savour it. The only signs of congestion were from the parakeets perched in every treetop, whose disgruntled calls sounded like trainers on a squeaky floor.

In almost the very centre of the park was El Palacio Cristal – a beautiful glass building overlooking a lake where ducks and a lone black swan were swimming in lazy circles. Surrounding the water were dramatic sprays of white blooms, rosebushes as tall as trees and a miniature waterfall cascading over a rocky outcrop into the lake below. I sat down on the stone steps of the palace to see the ducks a little closer and was surprised to find the water full of tiny terrapins. While their shells remained submerged, their black and yellow-striped heads poked out of the water, eyes blinking up at the child beside me who was throwing popcorn. On the steps, feral pigeons and sparrows tussled for the prizes, while in the water the terrapins were joined by ducks and the occasional gaping lips of a fish. The black swan came gliding over for a look too.

One terrapin made the monumental effort of grasping the side with its broad claws and heaving itself up. For a few surreal moments we gazed at each other before it realised I wasn’t the one with food and plopped back underwater. Meanwhile, a pigeon strolled nonchalantly across my foot in pursuit of an unclaimed kernel, while others exploded into flight around my head, their wing beats sending a welcome burst of fresh air.

Beside me on the step I could hear the child with the popcorn munching. “One for you, one for me” was obviously in play. When the bag was empty, birds and reptiles slowly dissipated until the next snack arrived.

I wanted to sit and watch the terrapins a bit longer, but the steps were in direct sunlight and I was beginning to fry. I left the diverse gaggle of creatures behind and headed out of the park, but not before passing through La Rosaleda (rose garden) for a few photos. A dozen other young female tourists were posing for shots, no doubt gathering new ammunition for Instagram.

All along the downward slope leading back to the museums were small wooden huts overflowing with books, which I made a beeline for. It was La Cuesta de Claudio Moyano bookstalls. Nearly all were in Spanish but there were a couple of titles I recognised. I couldn’t help buying “Harry Potter y la piedra filosofal”, which would probably be challenging enough for my rusty Spanish.

For lunch I had a bocadillo de calamari (squid ring sandwich) from El Brillante – another Lonely Planet recommendation that fell short of the mark for me. The calamari itself was good, with just a thin layer of batter, but when sandwiched in a dry baguette it had me gasping for a drink. It seemed that the Spanish didn’t use sauces much in their cooking. The bacon bits and bare bread at Casa Revuelta had been the same. Perhaps the locals just washed it all down with a few cervezas, but I was left wanting after El Brillante.

Later in the evening, after a full circuit on the bus and hopping off on Gran Vía, the hub of central Madrid, I walked back towards Plaza Mayor and a sign for “Tapa Tapa” caught my eye. I ignored the guidebooks and had dinner in a place I knew nothing about, which was an excellent decision. I chose four cheese croquettes, mini portions of Iberian ham and mozzarella toasted sandwiches and langoustine skewers, which were all absolutely delicious. To drink I had a mocktail called San Francisco, which was bursting with the flavours of orange, peach, pineapple and blackcurrant juices. It was an extremely satisfying end to a long day exploring the park. Tomorrow I had a real Madrid tradition to look forward to: the infamous El Rastro flea market.

Arriving in Madrid

July 26, 2019 | Rebecca Gibson

I thought I was reasonably calm about staying in Madrid by myself, but on the train to Gatwick I felt sick to my stomach. After the stressful ordeal of flying to Florida I thought this would be a doddle, but then again I always panic when I travel. I lost count of how times I checked my camera, purse and passport were still in my bag. I knew I wouldn’t be truly relaxed until I checked into the hotel.

I wanted to make this trip the best it could be. Initially I had designed an elaborate agenda for each of the four full days I was in Madrid, pretty much hour by hour, but on reflection I decided just to list a few things in each district that I wanted to see and keep the rest of the time free for happy accidents. Ultimately it was supposed to be a holiday and if I dashed around cramming everything in I would come back needing to book another. There was also the heat. It was over 30°C all week, day and night, and the last thing I wanted to be doing was frogmarching around Madrid ticking off my wish list. I was embracing a little spontaneous.

The flight was delayed by nearly an hour. While we were sat in our seats, the pilot announced that another plane had been parked in their spot and Gatwick’s announcements had been “a mess”. It was nice to hear he was frustrated too. At least I didn’t have a connecting flight, but it meant I had to gaze outside at muggy drizzle for a while longer.

Eventually we took off and it soon became too bright to look out the window. When the clouds parted, the landscape stretched out in a never-ending blanket of blue; ocean blended seamlessly into sky with the horizon nowhere to be seen. A plane passed us, which was a bizarre sight that I’d never experienced before. It looked minuscule and quite surreal as it zoomed back the way we’d come, soon disappearing out of sight. It seemed as small as a bird flying alongside a car.

Soon we left the ocean behind and land took its place: a spectrum of browns and pinks swirled in patterns like a gigantic marbled ink painting. Pockets of civilisation sat amongst a jumbled jigsaw of fields, their winding roads linking them in a complex web.

We sank lower and my ears popped. The sandy browns transformed into the greens of a vast expanse of forest, split into dead straight and uniform blocks by white boundary lines. All the while, bulging cumulus clouds slid slowly by. At times they covered the ground completely, puffing up like a worldwide bath full of soapy suds, their dark shadows blooming below them.

After so much open countryside, Madrid sprang up unexpectedly. Large tower blocks loomed over car parks and long bustling streets. I only managed to snatch a quick glimpse before the plane reached the runway and touched down. Once we’d disembarked, we crossed the bridge into the entirety of Madrid–Barajas Airport. Departures and Arrivals were all combined into one chaotic space. Passengers were amassing by the passport check kiosks so I followed, but when it was my turn my passport wasn’t recognised. I was sent to another queue, this one about two hundred-strong. By then I was getting anxious about my case arriving without me, not to mention my poor taxi driver who’d already suffered as a result of my flight’s delay.

The queue inched forwards. A woman in uniform asked to see my passport and told me I needed the other queue. I explained I’d already been rejected there, despite another attendant saying it was for European passports. The woman took me out of the queue and bumped me right to the front. Apparently I’d been in the right place but the machine didn’t recognise a passport if you pressed it down on the sensor, despite the natural instinct to do so.

Eventually I was through and hurried to Baggage Reclaim where I was quite alarmed to see that I shared a luggage belt with two other flights. Luckily my case appeared after only a minute’s wait so I dashed off to meet my driver Santiago, who was all smiles when I spotted him. He took my case, gave me a bottle of water and once we’d reached his car, pointed out the best shopping and tapas on a map. I was pleased to find out that I’d read about most of them during my research, so it was reassuring that a man born in the city recommended the same places.

We left the stress of the airport behind and I finally began to relax. Santiago showed me several landmarks on the way. There was the Wanda Metropolitano Stadium where Madrid-based football team Atlético Madrid play, and the Cuatro Torres Business Area – a business district with the tallest skyscrapers in Spain.

As we drove further into Madrid, the buildings closed in and soon the city had a similar feel to bustling London. I glimpsed zapaterias (shoe shops), panaderias (bakeries) and lots of tapas bars. We dipped down into an underground tunnel and Santiago told me that we were right beneath Plaza Mayor, arguably the heart of Madrid and where I would be staying. When we emerged back into daylight, the architecture changed drastically. In place of the drab, sombre buildings I’d seen on the approach were quaint apartment blocks in pastel shades with tiny wrought-iron balconies and pinstriped awnings. We had suddenly arrived at my hotel: the Petit Palace Plaza Mayor, one of a chain of Petit Palaces found in six other cities across Spain: Barcelona, Bilbao, Valencia, Mallorca, Málaga and Seville.

In stark contrast to the bright and gracefully aged Plaza Mayor, the boutique-style hotel’s interior was subdued in colour with a significantly futuristic feel. I told the receptionist in Spanish that I had a reservation in the name of Rebecca Gibson and he proceeded to reply solely in English, which was a shame. One of the main reasons I had chosen Madrid for my destination was to brush up on my rusty Spanish. I knew a lot of tourists weren’t too keen to attempt the language, but I was very eager to talk in Spanish and I hoped that the locals would give me that chance.

My first trip out was to Plaza Mayor itself, which was only a minute’s walk from the hotel. There were numerous people milling around but the square was spacious and tranquil in the early evening. The plaza was built in the sixteenth century when Madrid became Spain’s capital. It was used for state occasions including executions and bullfights, where the spectators would be crammed into the square and royalty would watch from the balconies. Luckily, the plaza is now filled with restaurants and cafes instead, and hosts a stamp and coin market on Sunday mornings.

On three sides the buildings were terracotta in colour with prim white balconies and shutters. On the fourth side – a building called La Casa de la Panadería (Bakery House) – the bricks were covered with intensely detailed frescoes dating back to only 1988, when the Madrid City Council launched a competition for the design covering the wall. The winner was Carlos Franco, whose artwork incorporating mythological characters was completed in 1992. Each part of the fresco was rich in colour with shocks of marigold yellow, rose pink and dusky orange.

Standing pride of place in the centre of the plaza was King Felipe III on horseback – the subject of hundreds of photos found in Madrid guidebooks. I’d seen him at most angles before I even arrived, but I couldn’t resist taking my own version.

It really was as hot in Madrid as I’d been told. At nearly 8pm, the temperature easily reached the most blistering of summer days in England. I perched on a stone seat to write and had to move to the shady side almost immediately to avoid burnt thighs. I vowed to definitely look into using the metro during my stay, as it was far too hot to walk any considerable distance.

Along with the glamorous architecture were splashes of kitsch, as with any city location that tourists have access to. Headless mannequins donning flamenco dresses stood in lines while people peered from behind them in Madrid’s answer to the Brighton beach scenes you could stick your face through. Mickey Mouse and Pikachu stood idly for no obvious reason, and several traders ambled around selling light-up toys and novelty whistles. All that aside, Plaza Mayor had undeniable charm. Restaurants and cafes lined the entire square’s border, but I’d been warned against their extortionate prices. I’d read that if I ventured only a few streets further afield I would find high-quality and authentic tapas at a fraction of the price.

I unintentionally threw myself in at the deep end by going to Casa Revuelta for dinner. It had come highly recommended for its bacalao (cod) tapas, but I soon realised it wasn’t your typical restaurant. There weren’t any menus – a waiter came over and you told him what you wanted. Every bit of food vocabulary flew out of my head and all I could utter was pescado (fish). Luckily, I was brought some of the bacalao, which really was delicious. With no bones, the meat was beautifully smooth and with only a thin covering of batter. I ordered something I saw on my neighbour’s table, which turned out to be bite-sized pieces of pork crackling, which I wasn’t a fan of. It was my fault for not brushing up on my vocab beforehand, but by happy accident (the first of many I hoped!) I had tried my first Spanish delicacy in the bacalao.

After settling up at Casa Revuelta, which was already swelling with hungry customers including many native Spanish speakers – I strolled back through Plaza Mayor. Street entertainers were in full swing and Pikachu now had a throng of children around him. I passed El Restaurante Sobrino de Botín, the oldest restaurant in the world, which already had a queue out the door. The dramatic soundtrack of a flamenco show drifted out of a dimly lit doorway.

I wandered further on and found myself in Puerta del Sol, which was buzzing with activity. One of the busiest places in Madrid, Puerta del Sol (Gate of the Sun) is home to the clock that chimes during the traditional eating of the twelve grapes and signals the start of the New Year. At the far end was a fun little statue that many people had flocked to for photographs: El Oso y el Madroño (the Bear and the Strawberry Tree). Although reasonably small in size, this intriguing bronze statue weighs twenty tonnes and replicates the similar emblem shown on the Madrid coat of arms. The determined bear stretching for the fruit symbolises the resilience and tenacity of madrileños (people from Madrid). Bears used to be found in many of Madrid’s forests, as well as trees bearing fruit that closely resembled strawberries. Madrid was thought to have once been named Ursa, Latin for bear. You wouldn’t find many foraging bears in Madrid nowadays, but Antonio Navarro Santafé’s sculpture in Puerta del Sol was lively enough.

I decided to get an early night after a long day of travelling so as most madrileños were heading out for the night, I made my way back to the hotel. Casa Revuelta was a bit of a shaky start, but as time went on I knew I would start to find my feet.

Up in the Air

September 26, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

The plane roared to life and I experienced the age-old feeling of excitement whenever I fly. As we chased the runway and the plane slowly lifted, I pressed my face to the window to see the ground fall away. I will never tire of that feeling of utter weightlessness – the peculiar thought of something so bulky taking to the air.

I’d been invited onto my boss’s plane for a morning trip to Naples, a city in southwest Florida looking out onto the Gulf of Mexico. We were flying to break in a new engine, and planned to refuel in Naples before returning to Yulee. It was a whistle-stop state tour, a four hour round trip that would take twelve in a car.

Within moments of take-off we were over the beach – long piers stretched out into the sea like the teeth of a comb. At 9am on a Saturday the beach was almost deserted. It was a treat to see so much uninterrupted sand before the tourist tide came rushing in.

We curved back inland and passed over a maze of river and marshland that I had already explored by boat, but this time we were too high to look for egrets. The only movement was the white streak of a lonely boat as it navigated the watery trails. I wondered how many alligators were down there, then decided not to think about that.

The marshy solitude of Amelia Island dissolved into towering office blocks, and I soon recognised downtown Jacksonville. There was the Landing, where I’d been just a week before the shooting. It had been enough to dissuade me from visiting downtown again, but I still had fond memories of the river walk, the MOSH museum and the topaz blue water of Friendship Fountain.

Leaving vast, sprawling Jacksonville behind, the landscape was soon dominated by trees again. Green was undoubtedly a primary colour in Florida – a patchwork quilt of field and forest stretched as far as the eye could see. In some places the trees were confined in tightly packed cubic parameters. In others, they were sprinkled sporadically. Criss-crossed over it all were the highways, dead straight lines in parallel and perpendicular.

Fluffy cumulus clouds were gathering, and a rather ominous feeling began to grow in my stomach as we bumped over them. Sunlight poured into the stuffy cabin, which did nothing to suppress my queasiness. Because of the new engine, we had no choice but to fly low. While the views were still stunning, I was somewhat distracted by the turbulent ride, and as Naples came into view I couldn’t help feeling slightly relieved that we’d be getting out of the clouds.

Once down on the ground, we stopped just long enough to stock up on drinks – fuel for the plane, a Gatorade for me – before taking off again, back through the spectrum of concrete jungles and green wildernesses.

A Grand Day Out

December 10, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

On my first day off, I decided to cram in as much natural history as I could. First I went to Bristol Zoo for a spot of nostalgia. Going to the zoo was a thing of great excitement when I was younger – though half the time I was equally excited by the gift shop as by the animals – so considering I’d heard some good things about the Bristol Zoological Society and their conservation programmes, I made the chilly walk over to Clifton.

Unusually for me, I was drawn to the reptile house. Perhaps that was partly so I could warm up, but I also fell in love with the blue poison dart frogs. I’d seen them on TV before, but as is often the case, the screen dilutes the real wonder. Shocking azure and midnight blues and black speckles, with a perfect sheen across their skin. Lacking webbed toes, these beautiful frogs aren’t strong swimmers and instead frequent leaf litter or nooks and crannies in boulders. As their name implies, poison dart frogs release toxins from their skin, so don’t taste half as good as they look.

Other reptiles also caught my eye. There was the mountain chicken frog, so named because of its likeness to poultry when eaten, and the Chinese crocodile lizard that was locally known as the “lizard of great sleepiness”. I was also privileged enough to watch a face-off between a male turquoise dwarf gecko and an olive-coloured female. The pair were rather nonchalantly standing on a vertical wall of the tank, gazing intently at one another. The male twitched his tail and turned his head sharply to the side, perhaps displaying his beautifully chiselled cheekbones in an attempt to woo the female. I watched them with my neck at a unique angle for ages while they continued to stare at one another, until eventually the female headed back down the wall, obviously unimpressed.

I ate lunch on a bench overlooking Bug World. Almost immediately I was joined by a menagerie of birds trying to catch my eye; woodpigeons, blackbirds, and a particularly plucky starling. Just as I was admiring his beautiful plumage, he tried his luck and flew up, snatching a loose prawn from my sandwich. Before I’d even blinked it was down the hatch, leaving a smattering of mayonnaise on his bill. I doubted he’d been introduced to seafood before, and began to worry how he’d digest it. Then I remembered that the starling had in fact stolen from me, and I knew the resilience of urban birds was quite astonishing. The starling perched on the wall behind me, burbling for a while with head twitches this way and that. I finished the rest of my lunch in peace and he heartlessly left.

After a loop of the zoo, I headed back into town. A man sat playing the accordion with a huge and very contagious smile plastered across his face. Opposite him was another man selling the Big Issue, rather begrudgingly wearing a Santa hat. Lights led the way up Queen’s Road, with shoppers dashing around laden down with bags.

It was undoubtedly winter. There was a chill that tightened my lungs when I gulped the air and my ears were moaning, wondering where my hat was. It had been consistently cold all week and there was a definite hint of trepidation in the air. Snow was waiting in the wings, I was sure of it.

When I reached the museum there was a Pliosaurus waiting for me; a large, blue poster flapping seductively. I couldn’t resist and hurried in. Meandering through an army of taxidermy, I gazed at okapi, kakapo and kingfishers, as well as a sea of dinosaur bones that included miniscule prehistoric teeth laid out in perfect rows. There was also Bristol’s very own dinosaur, Thecodontosaurus, which stood no taller than a Labrador but roamed a tropical habitat during the late Triassic period, 210 million years ago.

After a slice of bakewell cake in the café and customary browse through the shop, I headed back out into the quickly darkening afternoon. As I was trying to make my neck as short as possible in the biting air, my eye caught on £3 bookshop and I veered sharply to the left without a moment’s hesitation. Bristol was amazing! Every wall was lined with books, every one brand new and three pounds or cheaper. I purchased a copy of Moby Dick, but had a sneaking suspicion I’d be back before next week was up.