Posted by I was never one to dwell on the meaning of life and all the mental stress that goes with such thoughts. So it came as a surprise that approaching my 40th birthday and very single I suddenly found myself caught in a constant battle in my head–thinking that I was running out of time to find my own nirvana.
My personal terror pointed in the direction of an escape from my family and friends and the pressures of submitting to a public celebration to mark the passage of time. But what should I do? And where should I go?
My desire fixed on the beautiful Spanish city of Barcelona where I had spent time several years before. After a trawl through the information superhighway, I booked myself a small walking tour of the Catalan region, which would include Barcelona. I felt that on such a journey I might find the peace and space to contemplate my future. And with the onset of middle age uppermost in my mind, a dose of culture and anonymous company felt like my best bet.
My arrival in Barcelona was met by a red-hot summer’s day with the heat piercing every inch of my body. The only cold came from the shiver at the realisation that I had booked to walk for 20 miles a day in this heat. Clearly, getting older had severely impaired my common sense.
But emerging from the train at Placa de Catalunya – in the heart of Barcelona, I realised I had chosen wisely. The sun seemed to have endowed every building and person with enormous beauty.
My holiday companions were an eclectic bunch from a variety of nations. I was particularly drawn to Phillipe, a young and generous Frenchman, whose English was peppered with American phrases and who took an obvious delight in calling me ‘homie.’ He was also to become my ally over the coming days when unscheduled rest and relaxation became a burning constant for both my mind and body.
Our guide for the tour was Robert, a gangly Scotsman, with a weathered face, who had lived in Spain for the best part of twenty years. Robert’s Mediterranean existence became obvious as his languid voice hypnotically outlined our itinerary for the coming week.
The real Barcelona comes to life in the late evening and the place to feel the pulse of this cosmopolitan city is along the avenue known as La Rambla. The scene is chaotic, with an ocean of people moving in every direction. The variety of shops, cafes, kiosks and languages adds to the excitement.
Strolling away from my group and La Rambla into the back alleys of the medieval old town (La Ciutat Vella), I discovered the hidden world of the city’s immigrant community. On rickety street corners there were large groups of animated Pakistani and Arabic men hanging around cafes and black Africans selling a variety of fake luxury goods from large shopping bags.
The following morning was a trek across the city to discover many of its artistic and architectural treasures. We walked along the Avinguda de la Diagonal, a long and decorous avenue that dissects the city and seems arrogantly to announce its beauty with every step we take.
Robert deliberately plotted the approach to the unfinished spectacle that is Gaudi’s Cathedral of the Sagrada Familia. We came along a quiet back street and emerged in front of the cathedral with the main spires peeping out majestically above the trees – sheer magic.
The delights of Barcelona are too many to mention and require more space than I am being afforded, but the experience of the cable car from Mont Juic across the city and the astonishing sight of the Palau Nacional from the Placa D’ Espanya are my firm favourites.
Moving south from Barcelona, we headed for the ancient Roman town of Tarragona. We took in the resort of Sitges and a host of small semi-industrial towns and villages. The contrast between Barcelona and Tarragona could not be more marked. Tarragona is a sleepy seaside town stuffed full of Roman history. It is situated on a hill above the sea and was settled by the Romans in 218 BC after their conquest of the Iberian Peninsula.
The heat of Tarragona was unbearable and arriving in the town it felt like we had run a couple of marathons over the past two of days. Once again, I slipped away from the official tour of the town and decided to find somewhere to put my feet up and escape the heat.
In the middle of the old town, I discovered the Castellarnau House, built in the 15th century and situated in a small unassuming backstreet. Once inside, there was almost a monastic aura as I wandered the stunning rooms that displayed fixtures and fittings from across four centuries. But the most appealing aspect was its small, secluded courtyard, shaded from a ferocious sun, where I sat and contemplated that today was in fact my 40th birthday. I don’t know why but I suddenly had a manic fit of laughter, which ended with a huge smile straddling my face. I had made it to forty and seen some of those around me falter, fall or simply die. I suddenly felt that I had been too self-indulgent.
Only in the rarefied environment of such a comfortable existence would I have the time to think about growing old. My struggles have never been on a grand scale. I’ve never had to worry about whether today I would have food, water or shelter available. My biggest worry these days tends to be what tie to wear.
That evening a small birthday party organised by Phillipe was a welcome distraction from my morbid thoughts. After a few bottles of wine, he confessed that before our meeting he had never had a conversation with a black man. I was certain that there was something hard-hitting and political that I should say in response. But the alcohol had taken hold and my reaction was simply to say, “That’s nice.”
Our next port of call was the mountain and monastery at Montserrat, about thirty miles north west of Barcelona and for me the final part of the holiday. I was heading back to Barcelona and leaving my band of merry wanderers to a further two arduous days of walking.
As I sat on the cable car that whirred its way towards the mountain I realised that being 40 was no different from being 39 or in fact 19. It surely is about how mentally adjusted you are and what you make of this life. That’s what truly counts. Not particularly profound, but certainly, a truism in my mind.
The monastery of Montserrat stands high up on craggy rocks and its existence is as a result of the moving icon of the Black Virgin (La Morenta), carved in the sixth century during the Byzantine period. Religion has always seemed a rather dull affair to me, but as I stood and looked at the Black Virgin there was a sense of the mysticism that those awed by religious power must feel.
I reflected that this journey had been my own little miracle. I now looked forward to returning home to my family and friends. I suppose that I could ask for a lot more from my life, but all things considered, standing on top of Montserrat I felt that I already had my fair share of blessings.
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