I've chosen to go to Toledo, I can't remember why. Vague memories of Don Quixote, from a novel by Cervantes maybe, long ago read but residing somewhere in my brain. It's the town of steel, famous for it's sword making back in medieval days.
I alight from the train to an amazing station. Ir's very Moroccan, intricate brickwork, fretwork, ironwork. I look at the ticket desk and I am yet again transported to the twenties.
I get a taxi and we circle upwards to the top of the hill, stunning views of soft ochre and salmon coloured roofs and a river snaking beyond. My hotel is close to the old town and I walk up through the 35 degree heat, the medieval alleyways, hot and treeless. I knew El Greco, the Greek artist lived and painted here and as ever on the art trail, I find his one painting here. I'd forgotten how dark and tortured his paintings were, his people elongated portraits of saddened humanity.
I struggle to get through to the magical Spanish hour of eight when restaurants suddenly come to life, although it's much too early for Spaniards to eat. I am the tourist alone, eating at the ungodly hour of eight on the dot.
I wonder back home in the European endless twilight, swallows are crying out and diving low against a background of paling pinky gold. The night is warm and milky with moonlight. Another bed, another town and always the same thought - I've booked one night too many here. If I had company, it would be different, we could drink our way through the tapas bars, talking and discussing life. On my own is a different story and I wonder if I did the right thing travelling alone but my anxiety still hovers around me, and it's easier not to have to stress about someone other than myself.
The next day, I wander throughout the small centre of old Toledo. It's a town of mosques juxtaposed with Catholic churches and Synagogues, sword shops, marzipan cakes and figurines; and many shops of jamon, Spanish ham that is treated with a great deal of respect.
I find an outdoor restaurant where I eat chorizo sausages and roasted peppers. I walk across the medieval bridge to a castle and that night I find a restaurant open at 7.30! The tapas is amazing! Big mushrooms filled with chicken, manchego cheese and cream; fried green tomatoes; goats cheese with homemade fig marmalade. On the way home, I stop and buy some of the marzipan that this town is so famous for and eat it sitting on the cities old wall, looking out over the fields, in the company of the playful swallows. I am not entirely alone.
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