Memories of the Alhambra

There was plenty of rain, not in heavy downpours, but in soft tiny tears from the sky, falling intermittently to the ground. The sun came out too, briefly, just enough to make a dramatic skyscape, before disappearing behind the grey clouds. But we wouldn't have it any other way, the Spanish city of Granada is in its most mystical on cold December days.

When I first visited John's tiny flat above an estate agent shop in Bell Lane, off Gibraltar's Main Street, he spread out on the living room floor a road map of Andalusia and revealed that he came to Southern Spain in search of adventures, to one day be able to greet those unfamiliar names like old friends. It must be then that I knew, and when I asked him to bring me along, it must have been that moment for him too. A few months later, we embarked on our first long journey on the road.

It was December 2009, a few days before our first Christmas together, at a time when mobile phones did not yet come with GPS or internet connections and all we had was a good old road map that I couldn't make sense of. But despite a few missed turns, we eventually arrived, long after the sun has lost its lustre, at the Alhambra Palace Hotel, to be met with the spectacular view of the city and the snow-capped mountains of Sierra Nevada from outside the walls of its most famous attraction.

Granada at Night. A view from our balcony at the Alhambra Palace Hotel.

The now five-star hotel we can only afford when there are fewer tourists around dates back to 1910 and evokes a feeling of stepping back in time, with its Arabian Nights interiors of orange and brown overtones, multicolour tiles and Moorish arches and pillars. It was the perfect prevue to what we really came there for, the UNESCO World Heritage site of the Alhambra.



Spain's most popular monument is a gathering of splendid Moorish palaces and landscaped gardens, beautifully located on a rocky hill overlooking the city of Granada.

It was a few minutes walk away from our accommodation, along a row of towering trees with glistening autumn leaves.

Winter in the Alhambra. The streets outside the fortress walls in winter.

Inside the fortress walls, we walked in the footsteps of the Moorish sultans and their many wives, stepping into the gardens where secret liaisons would have been made and sneaking a kiss on one of the quiet corners of Alameda de la Alhambra hidden by tall hedges and rose bushes amidst the sound of running water from several fountains and cascades.



Within the palace chambers and corridors, we felt the energy of a civilisation that held such a significant portion of Europe in its clever grip for eight centuries. The intricate patterns on the walls, floors and ceilings speak of tales unknown to us but their mysteries would continue to intrigue us. And as the sun began to set, we found ourselves in a balcony overlooking the city as it slowly gets ready to burst into the lively Spanish nightlife.



When we made our way down the narrow streets of the old town, we were still engulfed in the city's enchantments, of its dramatic past and its equally exciting present. Christmas lights have adorned the busy streets, filled with local people hurrying home or heading towards the many tapas bars.

We were looking for a shoe shop, my feet was soaking wet from the pouring rain and a more reliable pair of boots was needed. We asked for directions, in our broken Spanish, from a young woman under an umbrella and she happily walked with us to get to the city's main shopping thoroughfare and we naturally fell into a companionable chat as she happily practiced her English. We do not have any memory of what we talked about, but we can still remember the warmth we felt on that cold rainy evening in an unfamiliar city that suddenly felt like an old friend.



We went back to the old town the next morning, to Granada's cavernous Gothic and Renaissance cathedral that leads to a chapel where Isabel & Ferdinand were buried, the Catholic monarchs who commissioned Magellan to set sail in the fateful expedition that eventually led to the Spanish conquest of the Philippines that lasted 300 years.

Then from Plaza Nueva, we followed the course of the Darro River, crossing little bridges and passing by the Iglesia de Santa Ana with a mosque's minaret atop its bell tower, a characteristic of several churches in the vicinity. In a square with several cafes and restaurants, we paused to admire the Alhambra's fortifications that looms above.



We took a turn on one of the narrow lanes heading up the Albaicin, one of Granada's most fabulous treasures and another Unesco World Heritage site. We walked up the steep winding streets in search of the Mirador de San Nicolas, the best place to view the red palaces of the Alhambra with the backdrop of the Sierra Nevada.



After admiring the breath-taking views, we explored the medieval old town where Moorish houses, the traditional gardens of the 'carmenes', old mosques converted into churches and Arab palaces coexist with artisan workshops, traditional bars and local businesses. And as we walked downhill, we watched the captivating sight of the fortress walls of the Alhambra being magically bathed in roseate by the last glows of the setting sun in the horizon.



It was dark by the time we reached the Puerta de Elvira, one of the original entrance gates into Granada, and took the bus back to our hotel to settle in for our last night. The next day, we drove up for a quick visit to the Sierra Nevada which was slowly being covered in snow, ready for the skiing season.



It has been nearly a decade and we have been to many European cities since, embarking on exciting adventures we have set out to do together but when asked to name one place that is the most unforgettable, we still always say Granada.

All this time, the memories of those few days exploring the ancient walls of the Alhambra, the evening walk under a shared umbrella in the ancient cobbled streets of the old town and the breath-taking views from the Albaicin still makes our hearts flutter. Perhaps there was something in the gentle rain that slowly seeped into our skins, forever bewitching us with the charms of the beautiful Granada.

A Weekend Walk at Longshaw

In plain common-place matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine October morning - so fine that you can almost hear the song of the birds drawing you to the countryside where the air is fresh and the woods are bursting in colours. And it happened to fall on a Saturday, a perfect day for an autumn walk.

The clouds scuttled across the deep blue sky, allowing the sun to break out in bursts as we made our way to Longshaw Estate in the Peak District on a car journey that took us less than 30 minutes from our side of Sheffield.

We've had our weekly helping of the traditional English breakfast from our local pub before setting off but it was only 11am when we parked at the National Trust car park that was already busy with early birds, mostly families with young children and walkers with dogs.

From the car park (where you can pick up a map) we were faced with a choice of two routes to get to the teahouse and we followed the one that led us through the woods by crossing a wooden bridge leading to the stone steps up a hill.



Along the path we found a little village of chopped down trees carved with doors and staircases where boggarts of the English folklore store away their stash of stolen goods, making them look like dried leaves to the naked eyes, or so we imagined.



This is Boggart Rise and in this enclave we found dens made of broken tree branches, crossed a river through a dodgy log bridge and chased dry leaves being blown by the wind where it took many attempts before Isaac managed to successfully grab one. He put them in his jeans pocket ("This is golden money", he says).



Back in the main path, there is a welcome booth directing us to a small serviceable café beside the privately owned Longshaw Lodge with an open view of the moors in the horizon. The lodge was once a shooting retreat for a duke and became a military hospital during the wars. They have now been converted into private flats for those who have chosen the mostly bleak English country life.

There is a path that leads to the three waymarked walks around the estate and we took on the route of the pink arrows, a 1.5 mile circular walk popular amongst families with toddlers.

We followed a corridor of rhododendrons leading us downhill and hidden behind the bushes is Boggart Rise where Isaac played balance beam on a log while we looked out to the lovely view of the pond in the distance, eavesdropping on a mother explaining to a toddler the importance of leaves in the ecosystem (and instinctively smirked at the confirmation that we are with the right crowd).



We carried on to an open field where an herd of sheep are lazily grazing and Isaac excited pointed out to the many different forms of mushrooms and molehills on the ground. We reminded him not to venture off the footpath because we were surrounded by marshland where he can easily disappear on one of the bogs ("Will I go up the sky?", "No, you'll sink underground.").

Before we reached the pond, we followed the sound of children's laughter from under the bushes and discovered Boggart Burrow. On the ground is a clump of bony tree trunks stretching outwards like spider's webs or mangled snakes however you imagine it to be, where we found the little voices we heard jumping from one branch to another, like happy monkeys in the Indonesian jungle before the coconut plantations took over their habitats (but that's another conversation).



Within this realm we spotted a little wooden bridge leading to a tunnel of green we have to crouch to get to the end of and where we were welcomed by a carpet of brightly coloured fallen leaves and more trees spreading outwards. It felt like entering another world, a little version of the enchanted forest kingdom of Terabithia.

After a few moments of climbing around the fragile branches, we managed to drag the little boy out to let other children enjoy the magic. Around the bend is the pond, beautifully reflecting the glorious autumn colours of the trees surrounding it with a flock of ducks waiting on the bread crumbs.



Behind the pond is Granby Woods, where at the root of a fallen tree a den has been created, large enough to play houses or to stop by for a picnic.



We carried on with the walk and Isaac found a tree with a tiny hollow where he could wiggle his fingers towards the other end. Not long after we found an old barn with exhibits about the history and wildlife of the estate but we didn't stay long.





Beside the barn is a road where an ice cream van is strategically parked to tempt little feet to venture further, and that's what we did. The stunning view before us was the flat-topped hills of Carl Walk, a Bronze Age hill fort about 3,000 years old and the gritstone outcrop of Higger Tor.



We followed the path downhill to Padley Brook, which we crossed following a stone bridge instead of the wooden one. On both sides of the stream, few walkers have settled down with their sandwiches, amongst the grazing cattle scattered around the meadow.



The proximity to the enormous beasts has made the little one weary so we didn't stay long. We walked upstream along the side of the brook where at one point the boys decided to play pooh sticks in the stream but alas there were no sticks to be found so they settled for dried leaves. There will only ever be one winner, all the time, so all was well.



We crossed another river and walked uphill and Isaac ran up the rock called Toad's Mouth, like all the other children before us have done.



We were now back to the car park, on a circular walk that took us over two hours with a lot of stops in between. The cafe was getting busy so we did not stop by, the car park was still filling up when we drove away.

We spent two pounds on the ice cream and used a bit of petrol on the car. When they say happiness is free, they must mean days like this - blue skies and chirping birds in the countryside, holding hands.

The Summer Isaac Fell in Love

Twenty eighteen is a summer that we will remember for a very long time. For the weeks of endlessly beautiful sunshine. For the Saturday mornings sipping coffee in the beer garden of our favourite café that sits by the riverbank. For the lunchtime picnics in our own patch of green turned brown by the lack of rainfall. But most importantly, for the season that Isaac fell passionately in love with football that constantly played and replayed in our living room and brought to life in our own tiny football field in the garden.

He can recognise the flags of the countries that took part in the World Cup, remembers the full-time scores of every game he has watched and cried every time a favourite team made an untimely exit. Foreign names of football heroes rolled off his tongue as though he was talking about a friend in class. One time he declared that he wished he was named Benjamin, later on we realised that he was talking about the French player named Benjamin Pavard. He commentated on games, mastered the tricks of scoring a penalty and tackled head on without fear. In school, he played the game with older children, chasing after the ball as though his life depended on it and scoring free kicks that earned him high fives and popularity award.



But love for football runs deep in his blood. His forefathers have been avid supporters of our local team, the same one near the bottom of our road, both in their glory days and mediocre years that it is still stuck into until now. Such passion for the sport is one I could not embrace especially when I had to witness family members' agony over the games that could have been, the constant replay of key moments that could have made a difference and the pain in the gut for the eventual losses that came more than the glorious victories. It is a fate I would have wanted him to avoid, but I had been told that football simply chooses you. It snatches you without warning and does not ask permission to chain you. It makes your heart pound hard with excitement and anticipation for every game that is yet to come but it also gives you so much heartache and pain from broken expectations. And yet you do not turn your back and stop hoping that things will get better again. Football is a lot like love.

So my little boy, barely five years old, has chosen the same path as his father's. After the World Cup ended, he asked, "Are we back to Sheffield Wednesday now?". Yes we are, my lad, at least once the season starts. Then it will be back to Saturday afternoons discerning the crowd chants from our garden, gripping the radio for the full time results and listening for the match-end reviews at the end of each game. Occasionally, they would go to the stadium to join the more than 20,000 supporters who had nothing better to do while I could have an afternoon for myself. Perhaps, I can look forward to the new season after all.