As soon as the world reopened after lockdown, I knew where I was heading. The time for sourdough and Zoom quizzes was over. It was time for something tangible – to see my mother. She lives in Spain, and it had been two years since we’d seen each other.
She moved there eight years ago, swapping England’s grey skies for Bedar, a tiny, sun-drenched pueblo in the arid southeast that barely registers on a map. It’s all winding streets, whitewashed villas and the occasional waft of frying garlic from a kitchen window. I arrived at Almería airport, emotionally spent from isolation, and there she was, arms outstretched.
