A Van of One's Own

by Biddy Wells

  *

  I notice that I find it so hard to make decisions. Shall I stay in this place or move on? It doesn’t seem to get any easier, and perhaps this is because it really doesn’t matter where I am. Still, I find myself getting a bit restless and lonely these days, just for moments. This is a new thing and I wonder if I have simply done what I came to do. Maybe I cannot go any further at this time. I don’t want to backtrack either – I must keep moving, however slowly, towards home.

  There comes a point when the traveller has reached the furthest extremity of a journey – the point at which she turns the nose of the horse in the direction of home. The feeling changes: suddenly there’s no longer the anticipation of what lies beyond. Even though the return trip might take a different route, the sense of curiosity and mystery that was present on the outward journey subsides. It’s a psychological shift, like the difference between breathing in and breathing out. And the out-breath is almost a sigh of resignation or relief. However, I still have a long way to go. Christmas, New Year and the journey back to Wales are all things that I will have to live through. Why am I thinking ahead and feeling as though I have run out of steam?

  *

  It’s time to say farewell and start a journey that I am not sure I want to make. After three months in Portugal, I am about to head for Spain to meet up with my son, who, along with his little family and some friends I have never met, has rented a house in the mountains above Malaga for Christmas. At eight thirty this morning, a huge JCB came and started noisily digging up the ground right next to my van. It was clearly a sign to get moving.

  I enjoyed a final coffee in a tiny coastal village en route, one of the few places where the old Algarve can still be seen. There were fishing boats, small houses and a beachside shack that served as a cafe, perched beautifully where the thickly wooded landscape ends and the rocky, sandy shoreline begins. All too soon I was crossing the Guadiana river, the border, this time with a deep sadness. Immediately the views were different. I had left a softly undulating green landscape, and now I saw only a hard road bordered by endless parched vegetation.

  I drove for hours, with a sinking heart and an ambivalence about what I was doing. After all, I could have stayed longer in Portugal, driving slowly north through the areas I hadn’t yet seen. But how could I pass up the opportunity to spend Christmas with my son when, by coincidence, he would be staying relatively so close? I longed to see him and I knew that, whichever way I travelled, the journey back to Wales would be long and I would be alone, something that had not been a problem until now.

  Spain feels like a foreign land where I know nobody and don’t understand the roads or the ropes. This is ridiculous, because Portugal was just as foreign to me when I first arrived there. Is Spain really such a different world or has something happened inside me? It’s slightly disconcerting and I simply have to keep on going, snaking ever closer to Malaga.

  I break the journey at a campsite, near an Andalucian town that’s famous for the million pilgrims on horseback that gather here every year, but today the whole scene is almost deserted. There are impressive churches and scores of hotels and bars, but its many wide streets are sand-covered and have the appearance of the set for a cowboy film. Outside each building there are wooden rails for tethering the animals. It’s strange and fascinating, but I am not really in the mood for more than minimal engagement with this extraordinary place. I am in travelling mode and I just want to get to my destination, where I imagine I will be able to relax for a week with my son and his companions.

  The next day, having driven for hours up to and via Seville, of which I saw only the industrial outskirts and road systems, I arrive in a small town near Malaga, where I am hugely relieved to find the car park where I have arranged to meet them and delighted to be hugging my son. He warns me that the narrow mountain track to the house is in a poor state and will be a challenge for Myfanwy and me, so he will lead the way along the four miles of rough road. He has asked the owner of the rental house if she thought I could manage the track in an old, long wheelbase van. She replied that the track is certainly a challenge, but one that I should take. ‘Just tell her to be patient and brave,’ was her advice.

  My son and his six companions were crammed into a seven-seater rental car with no room for their luggage, which had to be strapped to the roof. I followed them carefully along the bumpy, potholed track – so far so good. There was a place where the road had been washed away – a broad, deep ditch, now cutting right across our alarmingly narrow path – and continuing looked highly improbable; but somehow, by copying my son’s precise manoeuvres, I made it across the divide. After that, I felt somewhat relieved, and relaxed into the dead slow pace as we bumped along, avoiding huge potholes and small landslips to one side and the edge of the dirt lane to the other. I was glad I wasn’t driving one of those large, swanky Winnebagoes of which I have seen so many on my travels. Then the climb began. Up and up we went, and I began to feel nervous as the land dropped away sharply just beyond the rim of my tyres. I hoped that nothing would come the other way.

  Progress was slow and the road got steeper. Now there were hairpin bends to negotiate, and I had to keep my speed up to manage them successfully. My heart started thumping and I knew that all I could do was keep going. I hadn’t thought it would be so steep and so bendy. We were now snaking around the edge of a mountain. This section of the track had been nicely concreted – which must have been a tricky job – but it was very close to the precipice, from which we were protected only by a low metal barrier, good lane control and grace. Up ahead I saw the rental car disappear, putting on a bit of speed in order to get up and round the final set of hairpins. I was horrified! Could we really make it?

  The van is old, heavy and long, but there could be no going back, and I could not even consider stopping as I knew that Myfanwy’s handbrake would not hold us. I put my foot down, steered like a demon and prayed. Three or four ridiculously sharp and steep bends, a rising cloud of dust and gravel, and we made it! It was the most terrifying drive of my life. I sat shaking and sweating and almost in tears. Getting out of the van, I made it absolutely clear that I would never, ever do that drive again. Now we could settle in for a week of festivities – a week in which I would have plenty of time to contemplate driving back down that infernal helter skelter. There was no alternative.

  *

  The sky is huge and bright blue. We are high up in the sierra, perched at the top of a mountain, looking out over a system of peaks which are speckled with dark bushes and look surprisingly green for this parched region of Spain. Silvery grey gravel tracks appear and disappear as they weave their way among the contours and lead to white houses dotted about on the mountainsides, some almost at the top of the pointed peaks. Small trees cling to the more sheltered of the slopes. I have to admit it is spectacular, even though there is a part of me that has already decided I don’t like this place – the part that is engulfed in fear. Can I bring myself back to the present moment and enjoy all this beauty? Standing on the veranda, I can just see the coast in the light, distant haze beyond the dimishing mountains. I guess that this is part of the reason for building villas in such unlikely looking locations: that view and the remoteness, the peace. Our accommodation is a wooden cabin with a tiny terrace upon which stands a small pool. The water is freezing cold.

  We sit around the kitchen table eating and drinking, and I start to get to know my new companions: the family who are sharing this week with my son, his girlfriend, Lara, and her adorable son – technically my step-grandson – Mica. Baz and Kerry are old friends of Lara and they have two teenage daughters, who are hiding out in their bedroom in the loft. Kerry takes sandwiches up to them. I sleep on a mattress on the sitting room floor – not as comfortable as my sofa bed in Myfanwy.

  Next day, there’s a shopping trip and a visit to the beach. I haven’t recovered from yesterday’s ascent and I decide to stay at the cabin. Mica wants to hang out with me, so when the others all go of
f, the two of us take a walk further along the ridge. We follow the track up and down and round and round, passing the occasional villa, listening to the silence. Sometimes Mica hums to himself. He has his arm around my waist and mine is round his shoulder. The morning sun warms our backs as we try to step on the single gangly shadow we throw out in front of us.

  Strolling back towards the cabin I can see the dreaded track, now far below us, with its absurd hairpins. These treacherous routes are the only access for vehicles carrying the materials needed to build all the dwellings up here in the sierra. How on earth do they manage? Looking down from here I can’t believe Myfanwy made it. I feel slightly light-headed and focus on getting back to the cabin for coffee and cake. Eventually the others return with supplies, and we eat again at the large wooden table. The two girls are still too shy to join the party.

  The next afternoon, my son says he feels ill and goes to bed. He has a raging temperature and a fever which makes him delirious. It gets worse: he is burning up one minute and shivering uncontrollably the next. I try to stay away from thoughts of doctors or a trip to A and E in Malaga, and especially the journey that would take us there. I lie on the big bed and cuddle him in a way I have not cuddled him for many years. I stay there all afternoon, putting cold flannels on his forehead while everyone else sits on the veranda. At one point, Lara pops in and says she thinks this is a great chance for us spend some mother/son time together alone: a rare treat. I am grateful for the opportunity, though I suspect she is rather pleased to be relieved of the job of mopping his brow, as bottles of cava are being popped open outside in the sunshine. Lara swept my son off his feet a couple of years ago, and I find their relationship unfathomable. She is a funny mixture of cool and warm and I haven’t got the measure of her yet. Her dark and attractive appearance often prompts people to ask if she is Spanish or Brazilian, when actually she’s Welsh.

  My overheated son sleeps, then wakes, and we talk. In the strange bubble of his sickness we slowly, quietly talk about our life together, from his birth to now – twenty-five years of shared memories.

  ‘You do know how much I love you, don’t you?’ I say. I am not sure where this has come from. Perhaps it has to do with my thoughts about my dad on his birthday.

  ‘I think so, if it’s possible to know,’ he says, half into the duvet.

  ‘It’s hard to live through life’s ups and downs and always be a good mother. I didn’t know how to be consistent, and I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything that requires forgiveness,’ he says. This makes me cry.

  ‘I know I have let you down at times, and you can tell me if I’ve been an idiot.’

  ‘You’ve been an idiot,’ he laughs, ‘just like everyone else.’ We both laugh, tears still rolling down my face. He sleeps again for a couple of hours, then wakes, saying he feels quite a bit better.

  It’s a few days before Christmas, but it doesn’t feel like it. It’s hot, dry and sunny. The two teenage girls come out of their lair and sit at the window, looking awkward. I pretend not to be too interested in them and casually offer them tea and a piece of cake. I make a stupid joke and see the hint of a smile on their two very similar faces. I can’t fix their names to them yet. They are strangers, but I know I like them.

  Someone finds a delicate bare branch and we make it into a Christmas tree, standing it up in the sitting room. The twin-like girls make little origami decorations from wrapping paper and Mica hangs them on the spindly tips of the tree. This activity breaks the ice; they show me how they fold the paper and start to talk about their interests. The older girl wants, more than anything, to go to Japan. The younger sister is stressed about exams and feels she should not be here in Spain, but ought to be at home studying. This seems sad to me and nothing like the way I approached my education when I was fifteen.

  We cram into the car one day, – Mica on my lap, his head crooked awkwardly against the roof – and drive to Competa, which perches at six hundred metres above sea level. It is further up into the Axarquía, so we don’t have to take the scary track back towards the coast, but this road through the sierra is not one I would want to negotiate in Myfanwy either. Anyway, she is having a much needed rest among the scrub near the cabin. Competa is a small, ancient town, famous for wine, and so we spend some time in a bodega, sipping from little glasses until we have tried them all. From medium sweet to extremely sweet, they are all delicious and fragrant, and of course we buy a few bottles to take home.

  After that, we wander off in various directions, arranging to meet later. Soon I notice the younger of the girls walking alone. I catch her up and see that she is crying. As we walk and talk, we link arms, and within a short time we have become friends. I can really relate to how she feels: her bewilderment with life, her lack of comprehension when she and her mother have a row – as has just happened, it seems. She simply can’t get it right, and yet I can’t see what could have gone wrong. I think about the way I felt in Portugal when I couldn’t be honest with Maira, how it took me right back to my young self and my fear that to be myself and express my needs would set me at odds with my mother. We form a bond that continues over the rest of the holiday. We talk freely and she smiles a lot. Now and then we wink at one another across the table. I wish I could help her, but I can’t see how, apart from showing her how much I like her and listening to her. I can’t get involved in what appears to be a long-running issue within the family.

  I am conscious of the fact that I am a guest – someone’s mum, piggybacking on a group holiday. I’m not sure if the deal has been negotiated between them all, or whether my son and his partner invited me along without further consultation; after all, it was their idea, initially, to spend Christmas here. Either way, I wonder if my presence feels like an intrusion to this other family, who don’t really know me. My intention is to be helpful and self-sufficient – and we seem to get along overall. However, I am aware of lapsing into judgemental thinking – if only within the privacy of my own thoughts. I feel sad for the girls who seem to come in for a lot of criticism from their mother. I get the impression that, deep down, Kerry is a soft and sensitive person, whose life has been tough and whose protective armour is a little spiky. She can seem fierce, often chastising the younger girl. Her husband, Baz, is a likeable and soft-spoken man, and I find myself wishing he would stand up for his daughters. I know it’s none of my business and that I am only seeing a snapshot of their life, but I can’t help feeling tense around this disharmony. I am caught between wanting to stand up for the younger child, who seems very vulnerable, and remaining quiet, staying away from my mind and its judgements. It’s a dilemma.

  I remember another conversation I had with Maira. I’d mentioned that some people ask the question, ‘How can I get rid of my judgemental mind, my ego?’ She’d laughed heartily.

  ‘You can never get rid of the ego; it’s a lifelong companion. And it’s not necessary to try – in fact, it’s a complete waste of energy. Just be aware of it. Accept that it is part of your experience as a human being. It has a purpose, you know,’ she’d said. ‘Don’t leave home without it!’

  I find that helpful. The ego is like a default programme that repeatedly starts up and runs by itself. It has a function, but I don’t have to let it run my life. I don’t have to give it power through rapt attention and belief that it knows best. Just being aware of this is liberating – sometimes I forget that. Amusingly, it seems to be the ego itself that wants to get rid of the ego, so that it can feel good about itself or even superior to others, whom it likes to see as less aware. That strikes me as funny – a cosmic joke.

  *

  On Christmas Eve, everyone wanted to go to the beach, and I opted to stay home and cook dinner. The rental car was overstuffed already, so it was a sensible and fairly inevitable decision. I spent several hours alone, doing things I really enjoy: cooking and listening to music with a bottle of local wine. It was an opportunity to revisit myself in a way I had
n’t done for what seemed like ages, yet was, in fact, just a few days ago. It was a welcome return to solitude: a time simply to be. It struck me that wherever I am, and whatever is happening, I can find sanctuary by staying quiet and letting my mind relax its grip.

  On Christmas Day, we all sat around in the sitting room and watched while Mica opened dozens of little presents that his mum had brought from home in a big suitcase, along with a large bag of Brussels sprouts (she wasn’t sure if they sold sprouts in Spain.) My daughter had sent a present for me with her brother. It was a CD she had put together for the remainder of my road trip. I put it on and, hearing the first familiar bars of ‘Lay Me Down’ by Crosby, Stills and Nash, I burst into tears. I wept through the whole song. Everyone was lovely; Kerry said, ‘It’s good to cry. Maybe they are tears of joy.’ My son smiled. He knows me.

  And they were tears of joy, but more than that, they were tears of hiraeth. To say that hiraeth is Welsh for longing is not enough – it is hard to translate – but I believe I feel its meaning. The Portuguese have a similar word: saudade. Both have to do with longing and nostalgia, with a sense of incompleteness, yearning, and the desire for something that might not even exist and may never have existed. Yet we know it – I know it. How is that possible? Hiraeth is often associated with the notion of home or homeland, yet I feel it as something else now. I am not sure I can explain.

  I didn’t want to leave, yet I longed for something. I missed my beautiful daughter and David. I missed all my loved ones – I longed to feel at home. And the song… the lyrics speak of all that has happened: how I have opened myself up to life, let go and been carried along by the endless river, not able to bend things to my will – no longer wanting to, most of the time. I have laid something down; I am on my way home. My tears were the tears of all those things colliding: of being really alive and vulnerable and strong; of knowing that I can trust life; of the sadness and the joy which were almost indistinguishable from one another in this moment.