Seville. The dance of the night.

I’ve booked a beautiful hotel in Sevilla. A huge room awaits me complete with a bottle of wine and two wine glasses. I’m slightly sad that I won’t be sharing this with another but I embrace the space that is for me only. The place is beautiful, full of different courtyards, the sound of fountains, colourful tiles, orange trees, the scents of mock orange. It’s so hot. I walk until I find a great place for lunch. On the way I see carriages with horses bejewelled and girls and men dressed for the Feriale, the celebration of the Flamenco. At La Bodega, I have tiny whole prawns in crisp pancakes and the usual spinach and chickpea dish and wine.

Then I’m ready to find the Plaza de Espana. It’s a long walk and I’m just about to give up when I realise I’m there! Tiles, water, bridges of tiles and porcelain. Exhausted and hot, I become alive again with the beauty of it all. I sit on the seats, I watch the women in their flamenco costumes, as they wander through the square, talking on their phones. If it weren’t for that piece of modern equipment, it could be a world back in the 1920’s. I climb to the top of the building and my hands hover over the incredible gemstone colours of the tiles, malachite, lapis, citrine. I look out over the curve of the water course intersected by bridges that are made of ceramics and women and men in their flamboyant colourful fabrics are walking and I am stunned.

I decide to follow them to Los Remedios where they will go to eat, drink and dance to dawn. The heat is palpable, I don’t know how they are walking through the hot air in their long sleeved dresses, their bare shoulders draped with the beautiful tasselled scarves; the men in their suits and hats. But finally we all make it there.

The soil is the colour of saffron! There are supposedly 1000 tents, decorated with chandeliers, ceilings of lace and draped vibrantly coloured materials, painted seats and tables, filled with people. Laughter, music, ochre coloured dust unsettled by thousands of shoes. I try to find somewhere to sit and eat but the tables are pre-booked and full to overflowing. I wander and photograph the outfits and long to be Spanish in this moment in time. I want big earrings, fringed shawl, red lipstick and flowers in my hair. I want to dance till dawn. But I am wilting and hungry and I start to walk back but realise I can’t do it. A couple get out of a taxi and I get into it.

I’m taken back into my neighbourhood where I find a restaurant and have a stack of eggplant and goats cheese rounds, surrounded by a hot dark chocolate sauce with nuts , pumpkin seeds and sultanas, it’s an incredible mix of flavours that somehow works and I end with a dessert of chocolate chestnut cream. When I finally get home, the hotel says I must try a traditional drink that they serve for the Feriale. It’s strong and strange, Rebujito, a sherry. My day is complete.

The next day, I find a beautiful 1920's cafe that serves my breakfast in little jars with red and white checked lids; thick, creamy yoghurt and fruit The cafe is ochre with deep, dark wooden beams and furniture, chandeliers dripping crystals, the past moved into the present with ease. The old fashioned me fits in here and I breakfast slowly. Then I’m off across the Isabella bridge to the Tiana markets and ceramic shops. Everywhere I go, there are painted tiles; inside doorways, courtyards of tiled fountains, walls and staircases are tiled. I’m in heaven. I have lunch in another old fashioned bar, perched high at little round tables, small light crepes filled with mushrooms, ones with ham and cheese, then a bowl of the spinach and chickpeas but this one served with a crunchy sweet biscuit.

In the afternoon I walk to the Metropol Parasol, a structure out of this world; an architectural marvel that begs to be photographed fro every angle. I go to the top of this elongated structure of mushroom- like shapes and stare out over the city's rooftops. With the ticket, comes a free drink. I have a light beer and watch the people, still dressed in their outfits; maybe they are just now on their way home. I look at the shapes of the women’s gorgeous curves hugged by the fabrics and I know what inspired the Metropol Parasol.

That night, I decide to do a bar crawl. The first bar I go to is the oldest bar in Seville, 1670; El Rinconcillo. They write your order on the bar in chalk and calculate the cost. No modern tallies here. The waiters are dressed in white shirts, black pants, the walls are filled with ornate delicate wooden white fretwork shelves filled with bottles of wine. I have a lovely sweet wine with white Iberian chorizo, standing amongst the Spaniards at the tall round tables. After that I go to Las Teresas for big, plump prawns glistening with oil and garlic, a tapas of mushrooms in similar dressing and another drink. Hopefully I can find my way back h

That night, looking at the two wine glasses and a bottle of red which my partner would have enjoyed, I feel a pang of regret and an uneasiness at being on my own. If he had been here we might have danced the night away with the Spaniards. I’m alone and palely loitering in beautiful locations.

Granada. Of hookah bars and dress ups.

It's Flamenco time in Spain! What timing! I check in and then check out the city. I walk up a steep narrow hillside street, past the hookah bars, the Moroccan style restaurants, interesting shops, lanterns, glass, perfumes, exquisite bottles, and brightly coloured fabrics. This time, I’ve done a bit of Pinterest research. I’m heading up to the Mirador de San Nicolas for an Instagram view. It’s a steep climb but as I turn a corner, I suddenly see a woman, in traditional Flamenco dress. She looks like some exotic sea creature, her black dress, spotted with various ochre coloured circles, is frilled and edged with white. As she flounces down the street with hair on high and a garland of flowers on her head, her dress undulates as if she’s floating in water. I follow behind her, taking photos as she walks. Somewhere someone is playing guitar.

The whole scene is magical, the heat in the sun, the guitarist; I shoot a photo of her as she passes a building of white stucco, the bottom half turquoise, graffiti on the walls. I want to be her! I want to be able to dance the Flamenco, to wear a tight dress with frills and a crown of flowers on my head. I read a book before I came here about a woman who was working in a dress shop, who dreamed of living in Spain and learning to dance. It was a real story and I can understand her need to pack everything up and arrive with hardly any savings, to get herself a job and live and breathe dancing. I have a bit of back healing to do before I can start to dance again but I put it on my mental to do list.

I make it to the top. More music drifts on a gentle zephyr- like breeze that is activated up here. I look across and see the famed Alhambra palace across the valley, and beyond that, the snow capped mountains. This is why I came here, another place that I had studied at school. I find a bar on the hilltop, have a mint tea and stare across at the palace. I’ve booked a tour of it for tomorrow. The pine trees punctuate the scene in front of me, and they’re swaying slightly in the breeze. I take a video and instagram it with music. It’s a first for me and I’m quite proud of myself.

On the way back down, I stop and buy a tiny round bottle of the famed orange oil from the many orange trees I see everywhere. The man who sold it to me says he’s from Pakistan and was once a cricketer. Everyone has a story.

I walk back down the steep cobbled streets and choose a restaurant called Kasbah Temer where I watch people smoking the hookah and I have a three course feast for ten euros. Amazingly tasty hummus flavoured with cumin and fresh bread, a fish tagine spiced with coriander and tomato and pistachio baklava and rose wine. As I continue to walk back to the hotel there are women and children everywhere with the wonderful figure hugging dresses, frilled from just below the top of their thighs, the back cut low in a V shape, everyone with gorgeous fabric flowers in the hair and fabulous earrings. I wish I was Spanish. Imagine growing up as a child and being apart of these incredible traditions. The men and boys are also dressed in suits, with boleros and hats, the sound of shoes clicking in the street makes me smile. I walk between groups of these exotic creatures until exhausted.

It’s as I’m having breakfast in the lovely open courtyard of the hotel, with plates and bougainvillea covering the walls, that I realise I have tailored my life to accommodate my anxious nature. I make sure, in most circumstances, that I have nothing happening that will create tension. I have booked too much today. A Hamman for the experience, The Alhambra palace and a Flamenco performance. I couldn't sleep worried about getting enough sleep to get through the day. How ridiculous! But how overwhelmingly true it is for me and has been, I realise, for most of my life. Funny how unconsciously you set up these safety methods to get you through.

Hamman al Andulus is beautiful. I’m shown into a maze of different spaces. I undress and put my swimmers on and then am shown into a labyrinth of pools, all different temperatures. Mosaics everywhere, little alcoves with candles, star cutouts in the ceilings with gentle half light and pure silence. You dip yourself into the pools and drink mint tea in between. I do the rounds about five times and then find myself bored and wondering when they will come to get me for my rose oil massage. I’m not good at relaxing. That’s something I know about myself. They finally come for me and I am gently massaged and then made to sit on a circular marble bench that has been heated. I sit quietly, do some deep breathing and then make my way back, relaxation is hard work!

I walk back and grab a quick lunch and as I leave, I run into the perfume oil seller, who asks me to join him but I have another appointment to rush off to. The Alhambra. Even the name conjures up secrets - harems and shoes that turn up at the toes. I decide to walk to it, it’s up hill after hill but through an exquisite forest of the most delicate, translucent leafed trees with candelabras of creamy and rosy hued flowers. The scent of pine, of freshened air after days of being in cities, is gentle on my skin, nose and mind. I wander up and up and come out an hour too early for the tour. This time I ask a lot of people about where to meet the operator and we connect and it's in English.

We start with the gardens. Glimpses of paradise were important in the muslim culture. Roses perfume the air, they climb bowers, there are lillies, an endless assortment of cottage flowers and scents, pungent in the hot air as we walk through different gardens and mazes, all with superb views across to the other section of the Alhambra that was half destroyed by Napoleon’s troops when they were defeated and driven out of Granada.

The Sultan's palace is mind blowing. We have a glimpse at the baths for the women from a balcony where musicians played for them but were blinded so as not to see women bathing. The fretwork and mosaics are beyond belief. It's a 13th century extravaganza of beauty. We pass beautiful perfumed Mock Orange trees, the guide tells us she ate mock orange blossoms when she was young as they were sweet and free.

I’m exhausted as I walk back down and tonight I have the Flamenco booked. I go back to my favourite restaurants, young people are gathered and smoking the hookah. A stunning girl who knows she is beautiful, flings her head back and laughs and every male’s eyes follow her. Oh, to have had that sort of confidence at that age. What I could have done with that but I was the shy one, the wallflower, the introverted poetess that didn’t see the light in men’s eyes, who sat at home alone. Waiting.

The Flamenco dancers are so intense, their faces contorted with concentration, with the passion within the dance. I take away the echoes of their tapping, the hard lines of their movements, the twists and turns, the sweat, the dedication, the wild soulful sounds of the singers, the tortured look on the man’s face and the woman’s hips undulating, separate in their dance.

Cordoba - Sangria inebriation.

Getting to Cordoba was tricky. I hadn't realised it was a public holiday here, May Day and there's not many buses. I have to get a train and then a taxi to the bus station and on the way, the taxi breaks down with a very short time for the connection. The driver stands out in the traffic and flags me down another taxi and I arrive just in time for the bus.

I arrive in Cordoba after the three hour bus trip to 30 degree heat and a Moroccan styled hotel with an inner courtyard and a myriad of wonderful colours: ochres and lapis blue predominant. My room has wonderful old Moroccan style tables and a corner cupboard with wooden fretwork, all the gorgeous rich colours of the room find their motherload in the deep plum brocade quilt. I am surrounded by colours, textures and warmth. I open my carved shutters onto the street. People are out and about to celebrate May Day.

I walk out to a square surrounded by orange porticoes, passing by a cross made of flowers, with flower pots, gorgeous colourful tiles and baskets of fruit outside a church. Wonderful Spanish music is belting out and scarves with fringes are draped across balconies. What a culture shock from stoned and treeless Toledo. The square is full. It houses a variety of wine bars and cafes all slightly worn looking and tacky but made wonderful by the human presence.

I choose a bar where I can sit obscured slightly by a column, and where another single woman is sitting at the other column so I don't feel so out of place. I order a Sangria which seems to have no alcohol in it until I decide to leave and then realise I’m going to have to stay seated at the bar stool for a while longer. I consume all the inebriated fruit in the sangria to try and sober up. I realise I’m not going to so I walk slowly and carefully down to the river, gaze at a softly lit landscape of flowing water and delicate European trees and find a restaurant just across from it where I order a large bottle of water and fried eggplant sticks drizzled in honey and crumbled manchego cheese ! Divine; a popular tapas of the area. I start to sober up. The night is noisy with people, there are tents in the squares serving drinks and playing Spanish music. I'm feeling more at home here than in Toledo.

I awake the next morning to warmth and Cordoba colours and head off for a healthy breakfast of fruit, muesli and yoghurt that comes in a jug, with berry jam on the side. I’ve booked the Alcazar of Cordoba and take my time making my way there via lovely alleyways with white houses, deep azure blue window frames, bougainvillea and geraniums. I have a great cortado coffee and a coconut and custard cake in a lovely little cafe with Arabic ruins under glass, under foot. I walk to find the Alcazar. I show a man at the outside of an enormous complex my ticket and he tells me to go inside the gates. I am looking for someone with an orange umbrella, my tour guide. I wait but there are no orange umbrellas. I ask again and they point elsewhere. Meantime I finally decide to ring the company and they tell me I’m in the wrong location entirely and by the time I walk another ten minutes I’ve missed half the tour and also realise I’ve booked it in Spanish! Such is life.

So I take myself off and wander the Palace of Queen Isabella of Spain who was responsible for the Spanish Inquisition and the funding of Christopher Colombus’s trip to the New World. It’s very spartan but the gardens are stunning. I walk past the pools and beautiful Seville orange trees cut like a solid fringe with the occasional orange peeping out. Flowers everywhere, the wild red poppies and the real floppy, fringed big pink ones. Every now and then a portion of a roman column or capital jut out of the soft grasses sprinkled with daisies, and all around me is the sound of water. I finally make it back into the centre for a lunch of spinach and chickpeas tapas and the fried eggplant strips, this time with a dark molasses sugarcane syrup and the obligatory Sangria because it’s my fruit intake for the day.

I walk back to my Moroccan oasis ( every now and then sneaking into one of the doorways into a verdant courtyard of tiles and plants ), to have a rest and listen to the

the horse and carts clip clopping past my window. I’ve sadly missed out on the famous mosque but I decide to go to the Palacio de Viana not far from me with it’s 12 Arabic courtyards and as I go via the squares, I can hear the music from the wine tents.

The house is stunning, the Spanish know how to live with long, hot summers. Courtyard after courtyard open up, all differently arranged, some with fountains, some without. Beautiful coloured tiles adorn the windows; tubs of trees and geraniums; tall gangly orange trees crown the balconies; lemon trees are draped over doorways, it’s fecund with promise and the smell of mock orange.

After that I visit the Julio Romero de Torres art gallery, stunning Spanish women, half naked with oranges and fruit, wonderful art nouveau advertisement paintings. I dream of somehow creating courtyards with orange trees to my home in Australia but I don't think it's possible.