A Sojourn in Sevilla. Letters to Rhona: 16/01/22

My dearest Rhona,

It is a great charm for me that you have taken to my initial letter and that you would love to read the happenings of my coming wanderings. Isn’t it sad that the written letter has fallen out of habit? We better exhume this inhumed practice. Besides, I think it will be good for us both to put our pens to paper, and what better way to exercise the literary mind? Do not think that I want to make these missives of mine strenuous or serious, I have a very different idea of how I will try to describe the world that I will find in these coming months. I would like to strike a chord of levity and humour with my words, whilst in moments reflecting pensively on the passing knowledge I will come to acquire. I suspect that you will be quite the expert in this domain.

The adventure that I am about to embark on has long weighed on my mind. I have long thought and fantasied about it, but I have not tried to presage the events that will happen. All I know is that I will set out for France again, on my feet, with my rucksack, and with the cold nights and long reflections ahead. I will have but the rudiments of living, enough for some comfort but not much more. The main source of comfort I shall find will be in the effort itself; and though each hour maybe longer felt than in usual day to day life, each hour will be a whole world more conscious than before; and this is perhaps my biggest draw towards doing this journey. This feeling I have known, for I have experienced it when I first walked alone in France.

Six years have passed since I set out on foot across France, and now I am to return. In many ways, I am more nervous about this adventure than the last. Why? I have placed more weight onto this voyage, and I have devised a plan quite different and more demanding than the last. As you know, the last time I meandered across France from Cherbourg to Menton, following the coasts, canals and rivers. This time, there will be no A to B, but only the ‘to’. I intend to only finish this journey when the story comes to a natural close for me. I am going to walk and walk and give myself all the time in the world doing so.

When I set out six years ago, I spoke only rudimentary French, but now I have a lot of the language mustered in my head. This time will be the moment when I will sally out and bring to fruition all this learning I have acquired. It will be very much fieldwork, to borrow a military word (I believe), and I will do this by doing what I think I do best, that is meeting people. I am going to try and network through France, using the chance meetings and lodgings I take along the road. Maybe, I will stay here or there for a week or a couple; and though my stay maybe for a few days or fewer, I will seize each opportunity to establish the next. This will allow me the time to write and create the media I wish to create, and, that is, to write you these letters.

Enough of this coming adventure of mine, for now, I am in Sevilla! Who would have thought, at the very early hours of January 1st, I was being flown over my old France to that beautiful country of Spain? It was a more difficult affair to take my flight than I had anticipated – not the travelling part – for I did not think I would be so exhausted. I had made an unapproachably wise decision to book a flight from Gatwick to Sevilla from six o’clock in the morning. Wise in the idea to forego sleeping, and travel straight from the NYE party I would attend. Albeit, I did sleep on the plane. The stupid idea was to take a bottle of Prosecco with me for the train journey (it wasn’t full, mind you) – the effects of which can be assumed. On the Spanish side, I could not connect to the wifi and therefore had a difficult task – through bleary eyes – to fill in all my crazy locator forms for Covid (which I had already done two days previously). Nonetheless, I found a taxi and was off-loaded on some boulevard called Paseo de Cristobal Colon, which runs parallel to the river Guadalquivir.

Yes, the Spanish sun is bright, even on January 1st, and especially bright after the booze of a new year’s eve and only a few hours of sleep aboard a plane.

I must tell you, that the evening before I arrived in Spain, the most wonderful thing happened to me. The NYE party was at my friend’s – Sarah’s – flat, which was a party whose guests were centrally the Franco-Chateau-Terre-Blanche cortege. That night, I was suddenly chosen to be the centre of attention by none other than that Spaniard (Catalonian) called Jacob. He was wearing a tux, would you believe, on NYE! Such class. (Alas, he did look good.) A ruse had been undertaken against me (or ruses), for suddenly, I was being asked to solve riddles. I think I managed half of the five riddles by myself. They were bread crumbs, you see, leading me like a Hansel or Gretel to the oven, literally! The end of the string of riddles brought me to a fireplace, wherein was hidden a Christmas-paper-wrapped, rectangular object.

Up until that point, I thought these riddles were collectively some greater joke for the entire party to enjoy themselves – possibly at my expense – and that I was the butt of it. The last sentence not being disqualified, it was not a joke at all. Instead, I discovered within the fireplace a present – a present for me. I was stunned. Rhona, you must see it one day soon, it is an oil painting, commissioned by my friends in thanks for my organising our chateau trips in France. Truthfully, my friends are too good for me!

by Benedict Flanagan

The painting has Chateau Terre Blanche in the background and it is painted from the perspective of the pétanque court. I have just thrown a boule whilst I stand in my short-short, cherry-red swimming trunks. There are two expertly painted silver boules on the court in the foreground of the piece (daubed spherical). My friends Barbara and Gethin populate the mid-scene as spectators to my throw. The painting successfully captures the tone of the trip, in particular, the summer-ambient colours of southern France, reflected well in the warmth of the mason of the chateau – this will age well alongside those golden-rosé tinted memories which we will share as we age with the years.

I think what is truly the cherry on the cake, in terms of this painting, is the bold exhibition of my cherry-red swimming trunks. It is a strong point of reference for the eyes, possessing the only punchy colour in the painting, if I may say so. Those trunks lead the eyes on an easy trip from reference point to reference point, in a Fibonacci spiral: from trunks to boules to spectators to the chateau. If I were Ruskin, I’d say it’s a masterpiece of the highest order and is probably worth a few houses on Pall Mall, combined.

All that joy in that painting being what it is, I shall now continue my diary to you from Sevilla. For me, January 1st was a day of rest, or rather convalescence. I rose out of my host’s bed at eight o’clock, in the evening, to come downstairs and find sustenance. I found fellow resident Monsieur Salazar with his wonderful girlfriend Saki in the living room. The apartment is in a building owned by an old and prestigious family of Sevilla. In the entrance hall is a grand staircase, which one climbs whilst being overlooked by three large oil paintings. They are portraits: two are of two serious-looking ancestors, and the third is a large painting of Jesus bearing the Cross with a crown of thorns.

There is a small functionary kitchen for the four occupants of the apartment and a dining room. The salon is a large space with bookshelves replete with books. Mostly of a literary nature, the collection extends beyond the borders of the Spanish world of writing. There is a complete collection of Shakespeare in Spanish. Plus, I noted a book by Henry James and one by Dylan Thomas. On the walls are more works of art: a copy of a self-portrait by Picasso and even an oil-on-wood portrait of Erasmus writing. The floor is laid with maroon-coloured tiles with veins of white, like steak, I thought – Levantina marble.

Paseo de Cristobal Colon and the Guadalquivir

We spend most of our time on the balcony that overlooks the Guadalquivir and the Puente de Triana (a name related to Emperor Trajan, I am told). There are bars below us and a six-lane boulevard. The noise of the city from the apartment jostles between the music of the bars below and the going of traffic between the traffic lights. A boat club is half a mile away down the river and throughout the day, one can watch the rowers on the water going back and forth.

The apartment is right next to the Plaza de Toros, the amphitheatre of the city for bull-fights. It is not the season, I am told, so we will not have the chance to go spectate the gory spectacle. It is on my ‘bucket-list’, mind you, and I hope one day to watch a proper bullfight before they are removed from Spanish culture. Kevin tells me that it is quite the scene along the boulevard when all the beautifully frocked who’s who and prestigious arrive for the fight, descending from their cortege of expensive vehicles.

Kevin and I are having to share a bed, which I thought might be trying at first, but it seems we have made good bed-fellows – we don’t disturb each other. Perhaps, we are becoming quite like King Richard the Lionheart and King Phillipe Auguste, who once shared a bed in Paris. We do like to joke that we have become a married couple, although we are unsure as to who wears the trousers in this circumstance. Half of our meals are had out in the city, whether it be for lunch or supper. We haven’t put much effort into cooking at the flat. I thought I would be putting in more of a hand, but Kevin, when we do not go out for food, has cooked most of our meals.

I did not come to Sevilla with a mindset towards sightseeing, rather, I am here to see my good friend and spend the time leisurely, as well as go through the editor’s edits of my book. It is quite the glorious place to work on such a thing: to sit outside on the balcony, with the veranda rolled down to inhibit the glare of the sun, with a glass of vino tinto or beer, whilst I read and re-read my book.

Paseo de Cristobal Colon

My favourite word I learnt from this trip is Gambrinus, which comes from Latin (cambarus, or celleraio, assigned to the cellars; or from Ganeae birrinus, ’the one who drinks in the tavern’). Gambrinus is sort of ‘the god of beer’, but he is more akin to being the hero of beer. He represents the joyousness of revelry and song that comes with the melange of the golden brew. He is jovial and possesses the joie de vivre of any good host of a mighty hall.

The local beer here in Sevilla is called Cruzcampo and on its can is a depiction, or a version, of this warrior drinker, Gambrinus. I would quite like to adopt this name as an adjective, and I believe it works well in such use. For example, in the pejorative: ‘you bibulous, drunkard, Gambrinus fool!’ Don’t you agree? Anyhow, I will begin to use this word as such, with jollity and levity, and with jesting insult.

This small expansion of my vocabulary, from my little foray in Seville, is a fitting thing, I think. Boozy would be an incorrect word to use, but we have been drinking our fair share of that fair nectar of gold – slowly and joyously, I hasten to add, into those sweet hours (the early morning kind) of long discussion. Kevin is a great conversationalist, it is his thing, being a linguist and all that. The propensity towards words is greatest in the linguist, and when you speak several languages, there is something more to you than the common speaker. This, I see in the beautiful soul of Kevin. Endless words reside in his mind, and the nights can go on and on. What domain of history shall we speak of today? I would wonder. Kevin always has a story and a take, and a linguistic angle to share.

But don’t worry, dear Rhona, I have been taking good care of my health. You see, I have been visiting the doctor whilst I have been in Sevilla. It is a funny type of practice, you go there around midnight and you leave about three to four hours later. They take good care of you there – they have many amenities, drinks of all sorts: absinthe, vodka, cruzcampo, lots of English gins, etc… But importantly, it is a surgery of sorts, one which has currently been operating for the health and salvation of my soul. I know, Rhona, that you care, above all things, for the integrity of every soul, especially mine. Here in Sevilla, I have found a means to procure your happiness in this regard, with your coming knowledge of my soul’s security – I am safe, holding the hands, and resting within the comfortable bosom of the bar called El Doctor.

Of course, we have met many folks during this gallivant in Sevilla, and French ones too! Like Axel who was probably one of our best discoveries. The other brilliants were Nicole, José, Salazar, Ben, Saki, Lola, the Argentinian called Mauricio, Andrea, Sophie, Leopold and many Venezuelans. There was an Anouk, francaise, and gorgeous: she had black hair in with a bob haircut – very French – she was petite and joyous, soft and gentile. Her only bad quality was that she had a charming boyfriend. Quelle horreur! It is always a heart-wrenching moment when you discover a woman so wondrous and beautiful, yet she is taken and possessed. How can a man survive in such a world where so many beautiful women are swept away before one’s eyes?

One of my great friends once said to me: ‘you must fall in love with somebody at least once a day.’ Well, I tell you, in Sevilla, there are many people to fall in love with, so it has been very easy to keep up with his maxim. Spanish women have a particular class to them, and this class is generally beheld amongst the lot – ubiquitously, I say. This statement is very much stated from comparing experiences I have had with the other nations of European women. I think, if I may be so bold, that Spanish women are comparable to French women, though they have their differences, and to note specifically in the care with which they maquiller and habilller themselves. They have an aura that is different compared to our splendid, British woman. For example, a British woman has a reserve that their continental cousins do not have; and no amount of beauty possessed by a woman can make up for that amorous spirit that is mastered by the feminine Spaniard.

Maybe the difference is due to a slight difference in feminine attitudes brought about by climate and the way they are nurtured. Perhaps, you can say, it is just for me a certain continental flavour which bewitches my senses. I think this argument can be made, quite strongly. The exotic afar is always more beguiling than that which is familiar and nearby. However, British women remain outranking in number to all those female foreigners who have enticed my heart into irregular rhythms. But in the end, national comparisons of women are worthless, when all that will happen is that one day I will remain with one woman, and her shared qualities will be without comparison, for she will not be comparable. I suppose, I am just being free of mind in making such statements, of which I care little about when all is said and done.

Statue of a matador called Curro Romero

Resisting comparison is a difficult pursuit. I know that today it is very much de rigour to claim that one never makes judgements, and therefore never makes comparisons. But to claim that one never makes a judgement is to say that one judges it not right to make judgements, therefore we find them at an absurdity. Truth be told, it is revelatory to someone’s compass of values to observe the way how one judges. I think within the statement ‘one shouldn’t judge’ is an admission that they are insecure or unknowing of their values, or at least how to describe them. Therefore, I will proudly say I judge, and that I will judge – even though, I may keeps those judgements to myself.

But I know I know nothing like Socrates says, and therefore I often remind myself that my values are always moving and that my experiences are the things that shape them in this movement, and thus my judgements are liable to error and change. But I cannot change my values, and hence my improve my future judgements, without in the first place making a judgement. Judgement invites correction. One must know where one is before one can go elsewhere.

Why do I veer into the philosophical, Rhona? I am just jotting down thoughts and I need a place to allow their expression, and to you I give them. The very open discussions amongst the lot in Sevilla has given me a little boost to my sentiments. And who better to serve those sentiments than Kevin. He is a brother to my soul, and like in the poem by John Donne, A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning, where he speaks about how his soul is connected by his love to his wife’s, through their souls’ spheres entwined by their centres which are ever compassed towards each other, and that no matter how far the distance is between them, their two souls will always continue to know each other. Like this, I will hold onto Kevin – no matter the fact that we do not know when we will see each other again. (A touch romantic, I think on my part – but hey, why not?)

Now, returning home, I am levitated above my previous moods, and I am looking forwards to my coming ventures in those plains of France. I have to adjust myself, prepare for things to come. I have been preparing for a long while as I have said, but the coming weeks will be perhaps the most important. There is a lot to do: I have my book to consider, its front cover and the final edit; my equipment and their parts; my visa; my courage to maintain myself steady and clear-headed for the first steps to come; and all the work which I must do for my parents’ business.

I am uneasy as a general is before a battle, and no preparation can dispel my nerves towards the voyage to come. Only the battle itself can dispel the nerves which are felt by a warrior beforehand – and I am arriving at my battle. It is a battle of my choosing, and as a good reader of Sun Tzu, I have chosen the field where it shall be fought and I am making my best preparation. But the actual realities of the fight are veiled by the indeterminable future. The indeterminable future is not something I can readily change when I have already made up my mind on the course leading up to it. Only the best preparation is the best course to quiet the worse of inquietudes.

So I polish my boots, I adjust my straps, I lighten my load… and I am going forward. Rhona, there is little else I can do but go down this path of mine. I have entrenched myself here on this battlefield, and it will be here where it will be decided. The spell in Sevilla gave me comfort and joy, but now I am to have ascetic hardship and long days of open hours. I hope to do many things on this journey. I hope to write, draw, read, observe and learn. But most of all, I cannot wait to feel that rare inhalation of true freedom that the open road brings, which releases the soul as much as it gives life to the body.

With enduring love,

From your lost and yet found,

Dominic de Bonhomie

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