Sleepy Spanish Sundays

Here where I am in Spain at the moment - Sunday has arrived. It's like a lullaby. A melody. Everyone takes a breather from the marketplace. And well, I love it.

In England we've lost the sacredness of Sundays. All shops are open on Sundays. People rush around neurotically. There is no rest. There is no calm. Well there are pockets of peace if you look for them - in suburban gardens and countryside pubs. But it's like the OFF switch doesn't exist. At least not as it does in Spain.

The relief is palpable. There are fewer cars on the streets and those that are, drive sedately and quietly. You can hear the birds in the trees and rooftops. The sun shines and lights up the sandstone houses into a kind of steady gold that rises into eye-dazzling, sunglasses-lowering yellow as the day progresses.

You walk through the streets of towns and are followed by various wafting smells. Stews, caseroles, frying meats, tomatoes, olive oil it all dissipates through the narrower dimmer streets of town. You peek through windows and see 20 members of family crowded around a table for 4. Dogs are playing with children under the table. There's the ratatat of rythmic peasant Spanish - Andaluz. It's a time out of time. A scene that is the same today as it has repeated itself for decades, centuries even. And even as the rest of the world speeds up, gets ever more technologically advanced, you wonder, will this ever change? This tradition. This sacred ritual of Sundays may be gobbled up by the commercial, industrious future. Hopefully it won't be.

I always feel your soul's close to you on a Sunday. For better or worse. You have smaller, fewer distractions. Fewer things are pulling on your energy and time. And you can live. You can appreciate things for what they are and the joy they bring. Food. Friends. Family. Sunshine. Light. Animals. Children. It's gorgeous and it's lovely. Some people are uncomfortable on Sundays, I guess it also brings in to focus what they are missing during the week. If you're out of alignment or are avoiding something then the quietness forces it into your face. But even that in itself is a gift - to be shown what you should move towards and away from.

The countryside pulls you out of town at some point on a Sunday. You hear the campo calling and there's dust, heat, scrappy scrub plants and olive trees, dramatic scenery, hills in front of foothills, foothills in front of mountains. The open space is so vast and wide. The clouds so few and dreamy among the big blue ocean of the sky. You realise you're just an ant in the anthill, scurrying through and bringing the hive what the hive needs most of the time. It's big. It's perspective. We're nothing really. But by that we're also everything. Our lives, so seemingly important during the week. So self-focused and routine driven all fade into a distant scrapbook memory.

Then you traipse back home over the dusty trails, along the concrete track, back to the main roads and the dwelling that you call home. And you lay your head down for a siesta. And on that note, I'm tired.

Adios.