2019 Wrapped Up

December 24, 2019May 3, 2022 | Rebecca Gibson

Christmas is here again, which means it’s time to reflect on what I’ve achieved in 2019. I still have a long way to go before I can really call myself a freelance writer, but I’m so proud of the progress I’ve made this year.

A particularly significant event was the Grant Arms Wildlife Book Festival in April, where I travelled to the beautiful Cairngorms National Park to stay in what is undoubtedly the coolest hotel in the UK for wildlife lovers like me. I attended some fascinating talks, met many established writers and was thrilled to see my first pine marten. However, perhaps the most influential moment was meeting author Stephen Moss, who runs the MA in Travel and Nature Writing at Bath Spa University. We sat down for a chat and spoke about my work so far, and after our talk I began to think seriously about doing a masters. I was sad to leave the beautiful wilderness of Grantown-on-Spey behind, but I was also intrigued by the possibility of further study and what it could do for me.

In the summer I visited Madrid – my first solo trip to a non-English speaking country. I don’t think it occurred to me how daunting that prospect could be until I arrived and realised that my A Level Spanish was a lot rustier than I had anticipated. Nonetheless, despite the language barrier and the most intense heat I have ever experienced, I really enjoyed my stay and learnt a lot about my resilience when travelling alone. Madrid is a beautiful city that I would love to return to some day, just in a slightly cooler season! The highlight was undoubtedly the flamenco show on my last night – that experience will stay with me for a very long time.

Not long after Madrid it was time to drive up to Rutland Water nature reserve for Birdfair, which has now become a yearly tradition. I caught up with good friends from uni, met the lovely Lucy McRobert and finally christened my new tent in the campsite. As always, Birdfair was a fantastic networking opportunity and I met some lovely authors and conservationists who were keen to share their advice. I also saw Stephen Moss again and bought rather too much wildlife art…

September saw some more networking at the AFON conference – I’d never seen so many young naturalists in one place and I felt proud to be part of that community. During the weekend I introduced myself to author and illustrator Tiffany Francis, who is one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met. I swapped Instagrams with lots of inspiring writers and conservationists, many of whom I’ve stayed in contact with since. Events like the AFON conference are such a great way of reaching out to like-minded people and I was so happy to build my network further.

In October there was a very big change: beginning the MA. The week-long residential in Corsham was a chance to meet my fellow students and be introduced to the way the degree was run. I’m sharing the year with a diverse and enthusiastic group of people and I already feel close to them after so little time. An unexpected achievement has been my rekindled love for drawing and painting, which has proven to be a great tool for inspiration. So far I have submitted two assignments for the course and have been really pleased with my results. The second term will begin in the new year and I can’t wait to tackle the next module – a trip completely organised and funded by me where I need to try and get writing commissions from professional publications. Naturally I’m apprehensive about it, but I’ve done this before with the Isles of Scilly so I know once I begin my research I’ll be away.

Finally, the end of 2019 saw my first official commissions – two for Blue Sky Wildlife, two in Hertfordshire Life magazine and the completed annual report for SEZARC. The team in Florida loved what I’d done and have now asked me to make the next report for 2019, which I can’t wait to get started on. In fact, I’m excited to announce that I shall be visiting Florida again in 2020. Not only will it be a chance to see my friends and work colleagues, but also a fantastic opportunity to gather new images to use in the next report. I don’t know when it will be yet, but I’m so excited to get the details in place.

Hertfordshire Life Magazine

I began this year feeling a little shaky and unsure of exactly where I planned to go. I still don’t have everything figured out, but the commissions have given me a real boost of confidence. It has been great meeting other naturalists including young women like Tiffany Francis and Lucy McRobert, as well as everyone on my course who are all making amazing contributions to wildlife writing. I have a great feeling about 2020, and I can’t wait to see where I am this time next year.

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.

Paella and the Palace

July 28, 2019February 4, 2020 | Rebecca Gibson

Breakfast was an undeniably Spanish affair. There were potato omelettes, sausages the size of grapes, large fans of hams and cheeses as well as a broad assortment of condiments in small glass jars: sesame seeds, cashew nuts, dates and some things I didn’t even recognise. There were fruit and vegetable smoothies in slim shot glasses as well as long plates filled with pineapple, kiwi, orange, grapefruit and pizza slices of watermelon. There was also cake, and when the opportunity arose to eat cake at breakfast I took it without hesitation. In addition to maple pastries, croissants, mini muffins and wafer-thin slices of marble cake, there was Tarta de Santiago; a delicious almond cake dusted in icing sugar and cut into narrow wedges.

After all that, I was definitely fuelled to start the day. I began by walking west to my second plaza of the week: Plaza de la Villa. Although a fraction of the size of Plaza Mayor, this quaint little square was just as pretty. The architecture was 17th century Madrid style baroque: a picturesque combination of stone, brick and the same wrought-iron balconies I’ve seen on many other buildings in Madrid so far. The statue in the centre of the square was Don Álvaro de Bazán – a famous Spanish admiral who was never defeated in battle. The Madrid City Council chose to commemorate his memory by constructing the monument on the three hundredth anniversary of his death in 1888. The statue is surrounded by a richly coloured flower garden.

Next I paid El Palacio Real a visit. Although still used for state ceremonies, the palace is not the king’s official residence. He and his family live in the smaller Palacio de la Zarzuela just outside the city. I’d toyed with the idea of going into the palace, but when I saw the queues waiting in the baking sun I decided against it. After all, the line for those with tickets was nearly as long as the line for those without. I could still admire the palace through the gates, though.

Opposite was La Catedral de Nuestra Señora de la Almudena: a Madrid landmark that could easily rival other cities’ grand cathedrals. In many churches in the city there was a strong religious presence among those who attended. There were no touristy parts to these buildings – while they were all intricately decorated the style was very subdued. The few I visited were full of praying madrileños and I often saw nuns strolling down the corridors. Although I didn’t feel unwelcome, I didn’t stay long out of respect for those using the cathedral for worship. Visitors should never go to cathedrals in Spain during mass, but even between these times it seemed that tourists were tolerated more than welcomed, and I respected that.

Soon I turned my attention to finding a shady spot to rest. The Jardines de Sabatini were just what I needed. Take away the denim-clad tourists and it wasn’t difficult to imagine ladies in Elizabethan dress wafting fans as they strolled past pruned hedges and thick-limbed trees with bunches of waxy leaves hanging from their boughs. The area was established as a garden in the 1930s as a replacement of the royal stables that were once found there. Now, instead of braying horses, all that could be heard was the crunch of gravel, the chirrup of birds and the lilt of an accordion.

I had lunch at Toro Tapas and ordered a cuttlefish paella. The word “paella” derives from the Latin patella for pan, so the infamous dish is actually named for the black, handled pan that it is served in. When in Spain, you should always eat paella and this one was delicious, popping with juicy prawns, mussels and squid. To drink I chose granizado de limón, which is the Spanish answer to a slush puppy. It was wonderful after the heat of the afternoon and just as refreshing as it sounds.

On my way back from the palace I dropped into La Chocolatería de San Gines, which I’d been told was the place to go for churros – a timeless unravelled doughnut that has planted itself firmly into British culture as well as Spanish. I couldn’t wait to sample what I hoped would be the best and most authentic churros I’d had, but sadly I came away disappointed. The churros were hard and dry, as if they’d already gone stale. I’m not sure if adding cinnamon sugar was a British twist, but I really missed that extra sweetness here. Perhaps I’d been unlucky with a bad batch, but I’d had far nicer churros back home!

I cheered myself up by visiting a few librerias (bookshops) and found some lovely items. In “Desperate Literature” in Calle de Campomanes there was a copy of “Alicia y El País de las Maravillas”, although this classic by Lewis Carroll is confusing enough in English let alone Spanish.

In pride of place on busy Calle Mayor was a shop named La Librería, which had every book on Madrid you could ever want. I bought “Madrid en 55 Dibujos”, which was a gorgeous little hardback full of paintings of Madrid scenes, a lot of which I’d already seen.

By then I was truly exhausted, so I retreated back to the far more tolerable temperature of my hotel room and wrote for a while before heading out for dinner. I sampled the broad range of tapas available at El Mercado de San Miguel, one of Madrid’s oldest and most popular food markets. I forced myself to browse before choosing anything, and I eventually plumped for two crab tapas. In one, the crabmeat was sandwiched between a neon pink burger that had a similar consistency and appearance to a macaroon but was doughier and less crumbly. The other was a miniature pot of crab, which was a slight disillusion as underneath the first inch the pot was filled the rest of the way with straw fries, but the crab itself was delicious. I was also very happy to find a stall laden with sweet treats, so I bought the largest marshmallow pastry I’ve ever seen.

After a good night’s sleep, I planned to explore a part of Madrid that I’d been excited about for weeks: a park stretching across 350 acres that I could just see myself getting wonderfully lost in.

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.

The Dreaded Block

June 24, 2019 | Rebecca Gibson

Although it may not look like it on this blog, a lot has happened over the past few weeks. It’s high time I put out an update, as I was very conscious of the gap between posts getting longer and longer. I’ve been suffering from a crippling case of writer’s block pretty much since my last post from the Grant Arms Wildlife Book Festival in April and it’s been driving me crazy, as The Block has a habit of doing.

Recently my optician told me I have both blepharitis (dry eyes) and Posterior Vitreous Detachment (PVD), which is the reason behind my numerous floaters and flashing episodes. Luckily, neither condition is sinister in my case, but I’ve now become very conscious of straining my eyes from too much screen time. However, as a writer who prefers to type (it’s the only way my hands can keep up with my brain), it’s meant that I’m now reluctant to gaze at my mac screen for hours on end. So, I’ve been considering going full-on retro and getting a typewriter, which honestly is something I’ve dreamed of owning for years. As well as being loads of fun, it would be a screen-free alternative to typing that would give my eyes a rest.

Elsewhere during my long absence, in an attempt to meet new people and also learn new skills, I’ve joined my local writers group and started singing lessons. Verulam Writers has already pushed me out of my comfort zone. I’ve read out several of my pieces during manuscript evenings and got new perspectives on description in a recent workshop. It’s so refreshing to hear how others write because although it’s not always a genre I write in myself, it’s still so useful to hear how different writers approach tackling synopses or developing characters. Although I’m still trying to fight my way out of writer’s block, being around fellow writers has been very reassuring and it’s the right environment for me to get back into it again.

As for singing, I’m having an amazing time. I got back in contact with my piano teacher after a three-year break – it’s hard to believe that the last time I saw her was before the whole whirlwind of university – and asked her about taking up singing lessons, which was one of the best decisions I’ve made. She is an absolute tonic and helps me forget my uneasiness about The Block (and honestly my whole future) for a short time. I love singing; I find it incredibly relaxing and often quite uplifting. To now be able to improve my technique and feel my voice getting stronger is so incredible. After only three lessons I’m already hearing a difference in high notes, which is something I’ve always struggled with.

In addition to singing lessons, I’ve got something else exciting to look forward to: next month I’m going to Madrid! I was determined to make the most of a block of holiday off work and I’ve wanted to go back to Spain and practise the language for ages, so I seized the day and booked myself five nights in Plaza Mayor – bang in the centre of the city. I’ve been shredding through Lonely Planet guides and have assembled a list of landmarks, events and, perhaps most importantly, restaurants that I need to visit. Now I have to schedule a plan of action to see as much as possible without burning myself out. Either way, I’ve indulged in a beautiful new Panasonic compact camera to tuck into my bum bag and capture some of Madrid’s charm.

So, although writing has been agonisingly slow this month, I’m hoping that my new extra-curricular timetable will really help me get inspired. Writer’s block is an inevitable evil that you can try and push through, but I think sometimes it’s best to step back and approach new things that take your mind off it, which can actually help more in the long run. All I can say is bring on Madrid!

In the Spirit of Summer

April 2, 2015 | Rebecca Gibson

April is here, and I am beginning to overlook the daunting hurdle of A Level exams and peer at the distant summer holidays.

My mind wandered back to last summer, when I went to Majorca with a friend I’ve known for fourteen years. They say you are friends for life after seven years, so it looks like we’ll be close in this life and the next!

I love Spain. I’ve soaked up some history and culture in Barcelona, but I also love simply relaxing. I believe that a holiday is designed for unwinding, not rushing around clutching a tourist guide. I rush around too much in my day to day existence; when I holiday I want a change, and a reduced tempo.

The Spanish seawater is dazzling. I couldn’t help but snap away at the waves lapping at the salt-glazed rocks.

I also loved watching the daily lives of the locals. Occasionally I would walk past an open terrace and see a man playing a Spanish guitar; I felt as if I were part of a documentary. Once on a visit down to the seafront by the apartment, we watched a dog playing on the rocks, his owner throwing a ball into the sea. I couldn’t imagine letting my mad puppy leap in the ocean like this one, but everyone is so much more laid-back here.

I would have loved to have captured some of the vibrant fish I saw whilst snorkelling on camera, but I didn’t quite have the right kit for underwater photography! I did glimpse what I thought to be a shag sitting proudly atop the rocks. I decided to give him space and not get too close.

A beautiful sunset was something to look forward to every night. Often we would eat outside in the evening warmth and watch the sun sink under the sea, leaving splashes of red and orange across the sky.

Once again, I shall conclude with a sunset. Thank you for reading!