Any writer would want to describe what we saw last night. Any wordsmith worth their salt would feel an urgent need to try to convey in prose what John and I were witness to: the mournful lament of the woman singing; the swish of the girl’s skirt as she strutted across the stage; the sheer power and emotion of the male dancer, dressed in black, as he rounded off the evening’s performance. Yet I doubt that any writer could recapture what we saw, at least not in a short blog entry. 

I honestly think the flamenco performance John and I went to last night, in a small venue off one of Malaga’s beautiful squares, was one of the powerful and emotive pieces of art I have ever been witness to. Knowing very little Spanish, of course, I couldn’t tell what the songs being sung were about. Yet the tone of voice and rhythm of the dancing were enough for everyone in the audience to tell that a great loss was being expressed; and that someone or something was being mourned to a degree more tragic, profound and devastating  than I had ever come across. It was as heart rending as it was stunning: raw, visceral emotion expressed through dance. Above all it was mesmerisingly beautiful, and I will never forget it.

Such wonderful spectacles are surely what journeys like this are for.