Las Ramblas, Barcelona

A few memories from the last twenty-six years . . .

Arriving for the very first time in Barcelona and opening the taxi door late at night and seeing the sand in the indigo air.

Sitting on the terrace of Café Opera watching the Spanish 'pasear' (stroll by) and commenting on their dress sense.

Sitting in the pay-by-the-hour seats at the top end, prompted to offer the necessary coins by the uniformed jobs-worth chair attendees, marching up and down with their eagle eyes on who has paid and who has not.

Walking down the main thoroughfare on sun-lit mornings pausing at newspaper kiosks and pet shops and flower stalls.

Revelling in the grand opening of the avenue to the sea, passing the caricaturists stands, and breathing in the Mediterranean morning light and air.

And today, crouching at the Miro paving half way down, where a Fiat van driven by a Jihadist terrorist came to rest two days ago after mowing down and slaughtering thirteen people and injuring up to a hundred others.

The scent of flowers and burning candles fill the air . . . a poor substitute, albeit offered in memory, for the vivacious laughter of the recently deceased.