When I was last here I tucked myself into the bench of the right hand side of the balcony. Or what would considered be the left, if you looked from outside, but you wouldn’t, I think, because of how high up it is. The left side of the bench of the right side, the benches that rock slightly, sitting unevenly. Every morning, I would tuck my mug of black coffee beneath this bench and sit, taking in the first few moments of the morning in to realise 2 hours had passed. I have resumed the same routine with ease and precision, as if it never left my body. 

When I was here last I was fast. I think I am slow now. I’m not sure. Fast was leaving holiday early to go on tour in Asia but fast is also going back to 10 new students and 6 opera shows and yet somehow feels like nothing except is everything, a career, in some senses. I am now on annual leave rather than on a break from studying. My clarinets are tucked away under my desk in England rather than below my window that overlooks the mountains, and yet I know they are there, waiting for me. I have emails to reply to but cannot fathom the idea of opening the Gmail app. I read feverishly, much like I did before, but I find myself sinking my teeth into the pages, rereading and marking quotes with my brown Muji pen and resting within the silence of leaves rustling and ice jostling in glasses and pages turning languidly.

When I was here last I didn’t notice the tree that could be an olive tree that peeks through the square bathroom window, above 3 large seashells, or the small yellow backsplash that cuts through the white tiles in the kitchen, decorated with sketches of villagers and local grocers and bread makers. I did not notice the lace piece on the balcony adorned with two twin birds, softly flying in congruence through the wind. I did not notice the locked away cabinet of decorative mugs and glasses. The goats felt like the main character of our distant sound world but now cows and chickens are calling out to us, some swinging their bells and flapping their ears, crowing softly, angrily. Insects buzz past and sometimes land on us, flies bumble as we intercept soft touches from butterflies. The water by the river is colder than before and I wonder if people actually enjoy cold plunges. I think I could be capable of liking them, I tell myself. I lean into knowing there are 7 heavy, falling steps, inclusive of me swinging myself against the wooden door, to go out into the garden. I forget that the doorway into the pantry with the extra fridge is short, the bump on my head feels swollen but further secures my sunglasses. I boil the kettle and grind my coffee beans and want to put on a Moka pot for when a few more people are up and I try to pick which mountain is my favourite and instead get lost in the insurmountable mass of trees before my eyes.

When I was here last I ate and remember all the meals in vivid detail but somehow the food is fresher, nicer. I can taste each ingredient, the vinegary jus drizzled on top of strips of pork and green salad that tingle through the flesh of my cheekbones between sips of red wine, the floral twist of orange peel in my Espresso tonic. I let the juices of big tomatoes burst in my mouth and my fingers turn magenta from the fleshy plums I grab from the big glass bowl that lives besides our growing collection of liquor. I drink and taste and savour, almost in layers, feeling the space between Campari and Vichy Catalan water, the salt meeting the bubbles and bitterness and sugar. I grab the tub of butter that permanently rests on a ledge in the sun to soften and move my knife with ease across the surface to spread it onto my toast and add dark jam and slices of Manchego, eating my snack gleefully, rubbing the floury dust from the bread onto my pajama shorts.

When I was here last we laughed and played and now we are laughing and playing but we all somehow feel more at peace. It is quiet, just as I remember, but we take over small corners of the castle and come back to one another for coffee and wine breaks, to sing in the church or when someone has opened a new bag of chips. Sometimes we work and most of the time we read and all of the time we drink and put on sunscreen and play cards until the late hours of the night. We eat cheese and play Spoons and try to do Charades of characters and famous people after several glasses of wine, some I don’t even recognise, and suddenly we are all children again, cackling and getting slightly competitive whilst the timers are running out, so much so that it feels electric, hilarious when one of us screams when we forget the rules we made for this round of Irish Snap. We throw balls and Trufa, the big, floppy puppy, excitedly wants to play too and punctures a hole in our volleyball and chews through our Nerf rocket and only escapes our other ball because we’ve accidentally thrown it over the fence and into the mountains. 

When I was here last I wrote that ‘I had never felt a sweetness like this before’ and talked of my love for this place, a castle in the Pyrenees that my friends Joanna and Oscar found for us to stay in for a week last April. I have thought - both about those words and this place - often, thinking of how a life can hold such depth and meaning, the adrenaline of meeting new people and finding yourself within a space, even for a brief period of time. I felt myself fall in love - with those words and the person that was here in the mountains, myself, with a big group of friends, both old and new, staring in awe of the names we’ve given to the shapes of the clouds, a squid, a hermit crab, something kind of like Pac Man mixed with a T-rex, our eyes glazing over the shifts in the sky from shades of melty nectarine to soft plum before going back to the dining room to join our friends for another game.

When I was last here I did not think we would come again. The idea of returning to a place that has held and shaped you is nice and maybe fantastical but now I find myself nearly 18 months later sitting to tell you how I can’t wait for the next time, whenever that may be. I tend to think of my life in chunks like this, connecting points like my graduation or when I was last on vacation to my present, finding the differences and tracking my growth incessantly, but I have come to see the softness in just existing as I am, between barefoot steps along the concrete floors, among my friends in the mountains, in a life that feels as sweet as this.