Just for the record I’m at home and perfectly ok this evening. I thought I’d better dash off a quick blog entry, in case you assumed I had done something stupid and ended up in hospital for the second Saturday running. Instead, today was a nice, quiet day trundling up to Stratford and then heading into central london on the Elisabeth Line. I was curious to see how easy it was to get from the Olympic Park into town, and while I needed to ask for a ramp to get onto the train at Stratford, the journey took less than ten minutes. When you remember that Stratford was once such a remote, neglected area of the city, it really is staggering. The same can be said for Woolwich. The metropolis really is shrinking as the incredible labyrinth of tunnels beneath it grows. Not only that, but even it’s most downtrodden corners are undergoing massive regeneration projects. To be honest, it makes me worry that other parts of the country outside the capital aren’t getting the same investment.

I’m starting to really like The Barbican. I’ve been up there two or three times recently, mainly to watch films. Thanks to the Elizabeth Line, getting there is now easier than ever, and only takes a few minutes. I never realised what a fascinating area of London that was, near Liverpool Street Station. It’s full of cinemas, galleries and theatres, so much so that it reminds me of my old university campus. John and I went there again today to see Smoke Sauna Sisterhood, but now I want to go there under my own steam sometime, just for a trundle. I’m still amazed at how much of central London I have yet to explore. More to the point, it would be awesome if I could get involved in something artistic or creative there.

Now that I come to think about it, I don’t think my head was in quite the right place yesterday afternoon. When my friends and I went to the cinema, I was expecting to watch a film, albeit a lengthy one. That is, I thought we were going to see a fairly standard piece of cinema, more or less conforming to the conventions of post-classical Hollywood entertainment. What we actually watched (although ‘witnessed’ might be a more apt term) was closer to a spectacle. As many others are pointing out, Killers Of The Flower Moon is not a film or movie in the conventional sense, but ought better to be seen as a work of art: It is a long, reflexive treatise on a horrific episode of American history – one which most people probably know very little about, but which it was essential to bring to light.

Thinking about it out on my trundle just now, to try to tell such a story in a standard two hour Hollywood text would not have done it justice. Martin Scorsese clearly wanted to create something more, something substantial, because that is what the subject deserved. After all, Killers Of The Flower Moon tells of the systematic murder of an entire group of indigenous American people: to try to confine such genocides to mere pieces of entertainment, at the end of which viewers can go home and forget about it as they would any other piece of mainstream franchise drivel, would have been utterly disrespectful. This needed to be something more than a film, and I think that is what we got.

To be honest, when I wrote my short, sketchy review yesterday, we had just got back to my flat and I was eager to get something online. Chicken was frying and beers were being opened. Yet, thinking about it, writing that review missed the point. Scorsese did not film Killers Of The Flower Moon so it could be reacted to or even dismissed in the usual sense; he wants us to think about what he showed us, and look deeper into the history. The film is a shocking revelation of the inhumanities of American capitalism – one which must not be forgotten about like we often forget other films. The director obviously wants us to become involved in what we are being shown; he wants us to go on and do our own research, to look more deeply into the episode. Scorsese could have shown such discrimination to us in much simpler, conventional ways; yet he illustrates the murders of the Osage People slowly and methodically in order to emphasise the inhumanity and horror of what happened.

Killers Of The Flower Moon is a clear departure from standard hollywood fare. It requires a substantial effort to watch, not simply because of it’s length but because it is a sprawling account of the oppression of the Osage Nation over many, many years. I must admit that this break away from conventional storytelling made the plot rather difficult for me to follow, which probably gave rise to my negativity yesterday. Nonetheless, we as viewers cannot allow ourselves to dismiss this text because we cannot dismiss the history it informs us of.

To a certain extent, it reminds me of Peter Jackson’s three volume adaptation of Lord Of The Rings: that too was a lengthy story which you might argue could have been cut down into one standard two hour film. Yet to do so would have missed the point because the books the film was based on demanded too much respect. The result is a ten hour epic which stands very much apart from other mainstream films. In the case of Killers Of The Flower Moon too we see a story far too weighty to be adapted as we would any other, the difference being the events it tells us of are very, very real. I now realise I was far too dismissive yesterday. I expected to be entertained, but instead was informed. I think a second viewing is certainly in order, as well as a bit more research. After all, the attempted annihilation of an entire community for the sake of the oil on their land is nothing to take lightly.

John, Mitchell and I went to watch Killers Of The Flower Moon this afternoon. After watching Mark Kermode’s review a few days ago, I was eager to see it. Now that I have, I’m struggling to remember watching a more drawn out, laboured film. The story it tells about the persecution and systematic murder of Native Americans in the 1920s is certainly one that needs telling; but it is told so slowly and is so drawn out that I found it hard to pay attention. It’s 180 minutes could easily have been cut down into 120 or even 90. While there were some great performances – it was one of the best roles I’ve seen from Leonardo DeCaprio – I’m afraid that, by the end, the film had lost my attention and interest. I can’t help suspecting that the story may have been better as a TV series, after all.

After writing my entry earlier I was really in the mood for a good long trundle, so I decided to take one of my favourite routes along the Jubilee Greenway towards Stratford. This is a lovely path through east London. However, I noticed something which I think is worth noting here: there seems to have been a surge in political, pro Palestinian graffiti. I kept seeing things like “Free Palestine” and “Free Gaza” daubed everywhere. Of course, I’m not sure how significant this is, and it could just be the work of some local youths trying to stir up trouble; yet it could equally be a sign that animosity towards Israel, and in turn antisemitism, is rising. If so, then things may be heading in a very worrying direction.

Over the years I’ve recorded many awesome things here on my blog: truly incredible events, from concerts to graduations, which I never want to forget. From time to time though, I do things which I’m far less proud of. I suppose such events nonetheless need recording here if I intend to use my blog to give an account of my life as a disabled man living independently in East London.

On Saturday afternoon I went for a walk towards Woolwich. It started to rain heavily, so I popped into a pub. I didn’t intend to drink at first as it was only just turning midday, but one thing lead to another, and I eventually had four or five Leffes. At about four pm I was getting tired, so I asked for a lift home. The staff in the pub thought this meant I needed an ambulance, so they called one. Instead of home, the ambulance took me to hospital. I couldn’t argue due to the beer: using my communication aid had become rather difficult. I was put in a bed, and after a check up and a short rest spent the next six hours begging to be taken home. My powerchair was left in the pub; I went back and collected it on Sunday with the help of my neighbours.

Needless to say I feel very very embarrassed about this entire episode. I didn’t get home until 2am, by then utterly drained. It should never have happened, and to a certain extent puts my ability to live independently at risk. On the other hand, the fact remains that I eventually got home, demonstrating that I can handle such situations to a certain extent. I just wish that I had communicated more clearly, kept my head, and made sure that I was taken home. Above all, I must make sure something like this never happens again.

Needless to say I’m looking forward to a quiet night in this evening. Tonight sees the great Sir David Attenborough return to our screens to present Planet Earth Three. As I wrote here a few weeks ago, I find it utterly phenomenal that he hasn’t retired, and is still presenting programs after seventy years. Not only that, but the programs Sir David brings us are some of the greatest on television, opening our eyes to the beauty and wonder of the natural world. He must surely be the greatest broadcaster ever, not just for Britain but across the world. I daresay pretty much the entire country will be tuned in this evening to watch the latest gift from a man we all grew up with, and who has done far more than anyone to educate us about nature.

When John and I went to see Twenty Days in Mariupol a few days ago, one of the trailers preceding it was for Killers Of The Flower Moon, and I instantly decided it would be next on my ‘to watch’ list. It looked like an intriguing film about the treatment of Native Americans at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. Having just watched Mark Kermode’s review of it, I’m now certain that I need to see it soon. I don’t want to paraphrase Dr. K, but the film seems to have a lot to say about contemporary America, and the place of indigenous communities within it. The review also touches upon current debates around theatrical releases vs. streaming, which is another reason I wanted to link to it: the film will be released simultaneously in cinemas and on Paramount’s streaming service. At four hours long, you can see why some may prefer to watch this film at home. Yet that brings up questions about the role of cinema. Can Cinephilia survive? And are films now being made with streaming rather than the cinema in mind?

I realise that Owen Jones might not be everyone’s cup of tea. I also realise that a few days ago I said I would try to avoid the subject of what is currently happening in Israel. But if you want to hear a frank, quite shocking analysis of what is going on, I would highly recommend watching this. Jones clearly knows far more about current events in the Middle East than I do, and I find a lot of what he reveals quite horrifying. Of course, I’m sure some will accuse him of being biased against Israel, and of exaggerating the extent to which the Israelis are culpable. Yet, to be honest, the vast majority of what he says seems legitimate and backed up with evidence. He makes the effort to dig through the spin we usually see to get to what is really happening, which is why I think he’s worth listening to.

Sometimes, blogging isn’t as straightforward as you might think: from time to time, you come across obvious subjects for blog entries, things you’re itching to write about, but you have no idea what to say about them. This morning on breakfast TV, I saw an item on this fascinating new stage production. The great Danny Boyle has directed a musical adaptation of The Matrix for the inauguration of a new theatre and cultural venue in Manchester. Called Free Your Mind, “The Matrix has been reimagined as a live show directed by Danny Boyle to officially open the UK’s biggest new cultural venue for years…This adaptation is the official launch show for the £240m Aviva Studios.”

Thus this story unites so much which interests me: one of my personal heroes; one of the greatest, most cerebral films of recent times; new arts venues; and the regeneration and cultural enrichment of North-West England. I’m obviously very keen to find out more, as well as to write about it here. The problem is, as enthusiastic as I am, there isn’t much I can say about it at this point. For instance, I find it intriguing that such a philosophical, thought provoking film, as well as one so reliant on CGI, could be adapted into a stage musical: How will it work, and how would it look? I’m also interested in the fact that Boyle, who is principally known as a film director, is now branching out into stage production. Of course he directed the London 2012 opening ceremony, but first and foremost he is synonymous with hard and heavy films like Trainspotting and Slumdog Millionaire. Thus this seems a complete change of direction for him.

However, at this point I don’t think I can comment much. I only got wind of this new production earlier today. As intrigued as I am, without having seen it, there isn’t much I feel I can say. Hence I think my next step must be to find out a bit more, as well as of course to try to get tickets to see it.

I wrote the entry before this one on the tube up to Stratford. These days, I often find it useful to write blog entries on my Ipad when I’m out and about, and then upload them either when I next get a wifi connection or when I get home. On my way back from my trundle though, I saw something which triggered quite a few memories: one of my wheelchair-using neighbours was being dropped off home, probably from school. The minivan she was wheeling out of the back of looked almost exactly like the vans I used to be driven to and from school in. Every day, my fellow students and I were driven twice a day across Cheshire in vehicles like that, so the sight earlier took me right back to my school days. It’s hard to believe that they are now over twenty years ago, but sights like that trigger so many memories, particularly when happened upon all of a sudden. It was a sight I once saw regularly, so after not seeing it for such a long time, it gave me a strange, warm, nostalgic feeling.

I just have a short note to put here today- even shorter than usual. You might remember that, a few weeks ago , I resolved that I had to get a freedom pass to get onto public transport. Well, I did, but I’d just like to note that, since then, it has been resting in my bumbag: I haven’t needed to get it out, use it or show it to anyone once. I have just been let into tube stations and onto busses as usual, including at Woolwich DLR station. It is fast proving to be, as my dad put it, as useful as a complete chocolate teapot.

John and I went up to The Barbican yesterday to watch Twenty Days In Mariupol. To be honest I hadn’t heard of it, but John seemed keen to watch it, and thought that I would get something out of it. Having seen it now, I really think it was the toughest viewing experience I have had in a long, long time: it’s a nonfiction film about Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. It mostly uses raw, often very graphic footage to reveal the appalling things russia is doing there, juxtaposed with the cut down, edited images we see on news bulletins. We as viewers thus get a sense of the context of what we see most of the time, as well as the sheer brutality of what Russia is doing in Ukraine.

In fact at points it was so horrific that I seriously considered asking to leave the screening. I’m glad I didn’t act on that urge though: films like Twenty Days in Mariupol need to be watched, just as they need to be made. The world must see what Russia, under Vladimir Putin, is doing in Ukraine, as well as the amount of audacious bull it tries to spin in the media to try to justify it’s essentially criminal actions. The Russians would have us believe that it had no choice and invading Ukraine was an act of self defence; the film John and I saw yesterday was testimony to precisely the opposite. Thus, as horrific as it was, I would call Twenty Days In Mariupol essential viewing for anyone who wants to be aware of what is currently going on in the world. Above all, you leave the screening aghast that things like the horrors you just saw can still be allowed to happen.

Just to put my James Bond fan hat on, I just came across this article arguing that the next actor to play 007 could be black, or even a woman. Of course, there has been a lot of speculation about who could next play Bond, but the argument goes that the films would be more reflective of contemporary intelligence work if someone other than a white man could step into the famous suit. While I think they have a point, I feel Bond is a manifestly male character and should be played by a man: he is, after all, a cold, brutal government assassin and a disgusting misogynist. As I wrote here some time ago, I have no issue with a black man playing 007 – I can think of plenty of black male actors who would make fantastic Bonds – yet, as a character created by Ian Fleming, Bond is fundamentally male. Changing his gender would spoil the entire dynamic.

On the other hand, there is also talk of spin-offs from the James Bond franchise which could be about different, female characters. That would obviously be less problematic, although whether such spin off films ever get off the ground, or are any good if they do, remains very much to be seen.

As both a cricket fan and someone interested in things to do with the olympics, perhaps the coolest thing I can flag up today is this news that the IOC has now confirmed that cricket will be played at the 2028 LA Games. “Cricket’s return to the Olympics for the Los Angeles 2028 Games has been approved by the International Olympic Committee executive board. Flag football, a non-contact version of American football, squash, lacrosse and baseball/softball are also in.” Of course, they will be playing Twenty-Twenty, and it will be the first time cricket has been played at the olympics since 1900.

I think that is fantastic news. Cricket is still slightly niche as a sport, so it will be fascinating to see it being played at such a level by so many countries were it isn’t usually played. More to the point, I can’t wait to see Americans playing cricket – I suspect that will be quite a spectacle.

I have just come across something very interesting indeed. I didn’t watch much TV last night, but this morning I found a reference to a program which aired last night on BBC Three which had my old friend/associate Kate Caryer in it. Of course I decided to check it out, and what I found was actually rather stunning. Kirkmoore is a short, twenty minute comedy set in a college for disabled young people. It’s about four or five kids with disabilities, going around their town getting into various situations. While I wouldn’t call it unfunny, the humour can get a bit stretched at times, and too reliant on bodily fluids. On the other hand, it’s great to see a program like this on television: it was unafraid to present disabled young people as young people, with their ambitions, desires and rivalries. Indeed, I think I recognised a few traits in people I actually know reflected in the characters. I thought it was very encouraging to see disability and the lives of disabled people being addressed so openly with such humour, after being hidden for so long.

My only gripe is that it was just a short, stand alone program: by the end, I felt the need for more and wondering whether there were any more episodes. I could see this developing into a full, serialised sitcom, and certainly hope it does. Although her review in the Guardian was slightly negative and critical – it’s the Guardian, after all – Lucy Webster writes “It’s a pity that the half-hour episode is a one-off. The characters are well-drawn and likable, and with a little more space to breathe their stories could really have brought young disabled people’s experiences to life.” As for Katie, her part was more or less a cameo, but it was nonetheless great to see her, as a communication aid user, onscreen.

I have written here before about how much I dislike religion. I see it as a manifestly oppressive form of social control which I try to distance myself from, however I can. That means I seek to keep it out of my life wherever possible. However, a small problem cropped up this afternoon. I was having lunch with Dominick when he suddenly sneezed. Of course, social convention dating from the plague dictates that we answer any sneeze with the words “Bless you”, which I did out of both curtesy and habit. Yet it immediately occurred to me how wrong it was for me, a strident atheist, to use such a religious phrase. To be honest it’s something which has been troubling me for a while. The solution quickly hit me though: from now on, whenever I hear anyone sneeze, I will use the Klingon expression “Qa’pla!” Literally meaning “Success! “ it acts like a war cry or good luck cheer. This way I can mark a sneeze but reference Star Trek instead of religion.

I have decided to avoid writing about what is currently happening in Israel here. It’s not that I don’t care about what is going on there, or that I’m not extremely disturbed by it. I just feel that it is a very complex thorny issue, which can provoke a lot of  very intense debate and argument. Of course, me being me, I have some quite strong opinions on the subject; yet I know the issue is delicate enough to keep them to myself. It’s probably best if I stick to just rambling about things I know about here, and like the rest of us watch what is happening in the Middle East with increasing concern.

I went on one of my longer trundles today. The Regents canal runs from the Olympic park in Stratford to the Regent’s Park and central London. I don’t take that route very often because it’s so long and takes most of an afternoon, but it’s a very pleasant, peaceful roll. As I was making my way this afternoon , it struck me how quiet it was: I was nearing the centre of a metropolis of eight million people, yet the loudest thing I could hear was birdsong. People walked along the towpaths as passively as the horses which once pulled barges along them. I can’t help remembering how a week or so ago I was in cities full of noise and hubbub. In places like Casablanca the sound of traffic is fairly constant, especially in the medina. Of course they are very different places, and I know there will be far noisier areas of the capital, but it now seems very odd indeed that London can be so silent.

This morning finds me extremely ratty and irritable. You might remember, back in May, I had a bit of trouble at a Wetherspoons pub in Lewisham: they refused to serve me because I did not have a personal assistant with me, despite the fact I had been going there for months. Things became a bit heated, I grew very angry, and basically I had to stop going there. I had barely been there for months, apart from once a few weeks ago to meet Dom. I had no trouble then. However, Dominik invited me to meet him there for a drink late yesterday afternoon, so of course I made the short bus ride to Lewisham. As soon as I entered the pub, though, I was told I once again could not be served – no reason given, just that they wouldn’t serve me, and I was clearly unwelcome there.

Of course I instantly found this hugely frustrating; I wanted to speak to the manager. Ten minutes or so later, Dom arrived and I explained the issue. Clearly thinking everything would be fine, he found us a table and made an order on his phone. It came quickly, only for the manager to then approach us and tell us we needed to leave – I had been barred for causing trouble. I felt furious, embarrassed and humiliated, but obviously not wanting any trouble Dom suggested we find another pub.

A short bus ride later, we were at the Wetherspoons in Brockley. I still felt very hurt though: how could anyone be so obstinate? This is a clear case of discrimination against a disabled person – after all, would they refuse to serve a black or gay person if they were unaccompanied? I now plan to take this issue further, possibly with my friends in the disabled people’s Direct Action Network. I cannot allow myself or anyone else to be treated like this.

I find it astonishing to think that, just a week or so ago, I was in Casablanca. I have, of course, returned to taking my daily trundles around east London, but the problem is these streets now seem far too wide, quiet and frankly dull in comparison to the enchanting chaos that I encountered on holiday. London is a well maintained, modern city, but the problem with that is, it’s regulated normalcy means it lacks the character other cities have.

I was thinking about this out on my trundle today over in Canary Wharf. The Isle of Dogs feels more like Manhattan every year, it’s forest of skyscrapers becoming denser and denser. There is clearly a hell of a lot of money in that area. Only it now seems too sanitised and uninspiring.

On my walk, then, I decided that what London needs is a medina. Forget about any more ornate shopping malls, huge entertainment arenas or ultra expensive tube lines; what London needs to build itself next is a warren of capitalist chaos like the one I encountered in Morocco. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if London had such a space: small yet full of life, crammed with hundreds of tiny shops and stalls, along countless labyrinthine paths, up and down which guys on mopeds zoom, avoiding customers within a hair’s breadth? Perhaps creating such an area would help London revive the feelings of passion, spice and zest which seem to have been slowly ebbing away from it for decades. Under all the modern concrete, steel and glass, London now seems sterile and, frankly, dull; what it needs is a peppering of the exotic to bring the city back to life.

Now, I know that medinas aren’t usually planned or created, but have often evolved within a city over many years; I’m also aware of the dangers of cultural appropriation. Yet I can’t help feeling amused by the idea that London could, perhaps, create such a space. Of course, I have no idea where it might be built – Woolwich, perhaps? – or how it would function within the wider metropolitan economy; yet the thought of one day going in my powerchair from my flat, and heading into somewhere so exotic and thriving with life is too intriguing to dismiss.

I must admit that I didn’t actually watch Rishi Sunak’s speech yesterday – the headlines were enough for me to go on. I knew that if I stayed in and watched it, it would just enflame me, and I’d probably end up shouting at my screen. Thus it wasn’t until I watched the late evening news that I caught up with anything else he spouted, and it immediately made my blood boil with rage. How that scumbag has the gall to stand there and spout discriminatory, transphobic bile is beyond me. Of course, he was obviously trying to appeal to the Mail and Express reading halfwits who are the only way he’ll ever get reelected; but they are too dim and narrow-minded to understand the modern world. In 2023, any educated person understands that humanity is a diverse rich tapestry, in which former gender boundaries can be overcome and anyone is free to identify as any gender they feel closest to. It now seems we are being governed by a vile, anachronistic group of charlatans which refuses to understand that, and which demands that everyone else conforms to their narrow-minded values. Surely we, as a community, are better than this; surely we deserve leaders with more foresight and understanding, not a group of intolerant bigots totally out of touch with contemporary society.

Long term readers will know how much I love London. The metropolis fascinates me: I adore exploring the city, going to events, finding out more about it’s history. It is far from perfect, of course, but part of the reason why I like London so much is because I can get around it. As a powerchair user, I can get on and off busses with ease; the tube network, though not without flaws, is fast, reliable, and is gradually becoming more and more accessible. As far as I’m concerned, London is one of the greatest cities in the world.

A hell of a lot of money goes into London and it’s infrastructure, obviously. Just a year or so ago, it opened a brand new, multi-billion pound tube line. Despite being obscenely late and over budget, we got Crossrail eventually, and the Elisabeth Line is now up and running. That’s why I can’t help feeling indignant that the rest of the country is not getting the same sort of treatment. I may now live in London, but I come from cheshire, and I’m becoming more and more acutely aware of the imbalance between London and the rest of the country, especially the north.

The announcement of the cancellation of the northern part of HS2 today will surely only widen that imbalance; it will also widen the social division and animosity which is opening up between north and south. How can anyone see it as anything other than grossly unfair that London gets so much investment and all the swanky new tube lines, but when it comes to updating the connections between the rest of the country, it is suddenly deemed too expensive? If I still lived in cheshire, or if I were to one day move to Manchester or Liverpool, I would expect to see the same standard of infrastructure I’m now used to here in London. But I know I wouldn’t find it: to my knowledge, public transport up in cheshire is in the same dilapidated, creaking state as it was fifteen years ago, manual bus ramps and all.

Perhaps I’m biassed, but I think I’m very lucky to live where I do, with the ability to trundle around this city with increasing ease. London is an outward looking, forward thinking world city which recognises how vital it is to invest in infrastructure which benefits all its citizens, from accessible tube lines to automatic bus ramps. If I was living anywhere else, life probably wouldn’t be so easy, largely thanks to the Tories and their reluctance to invest in anything which might make life better for anyone other than themselves and their rich friends. For all their talk of ‘alternative projects’, at the end of the day, the Tories don’t care who suffers or goes without as long as they can reduce tax for their rich friends: After all they don’t live in the North-West so why should they care what they cancel? Surely that has to stop; surely the notion of ‘Levelling Up’ has to be given some substance, and not allowed to remain the sickening joke it was turned into this morning.

This just about mirrors my feelings towards the gathering of spoiled scumbags up in Manchester exactly.

Slightly embarrassingly perhaps for someone who ought to keep on top of such things, but today I gathered that October is International Augmentative and Alternative Communication (AAC) awareness month. It’s a month to celebrate and raise the profile of those of us who use communication aids. Of course I think this is a great idea. I use a communication aid pretty much daily, mostly when I’m out and about, and you would be surprised how many people still don’t really know how to interact with someone like me. However, perhaps the best thing I can do here today is to point out how vital my communication aid was on the incredible trip I just got back from. As often happens, John became used to how I speak and the strange patterns of my natural voice; yet I nonetheless needed to use the communication app on my iPad quite regularly, from suggesting where I thought we should head to, to selecting what I wanted to eat. In fact, I would go as far as to say that trips like the one I just had, and indeed my whole life as a man living independently in London, would not be possible if I didn’t have my communication aid. I think that is very much worth highlighting and celebrating, and I really hope documenting my travels here might encourage people in similar positions to me to try similar things.

A couple of days ago I witnessed one of the most stunningly beautiful things I think I’ll ever see. John and I were heading home through Tangier. It had been a long day: we had taken the train up from Casablanca, and were aiming to get the ferry back to Spain that evening. John had already pushed me from the train station, and we were heading along the seafront. Evening was falling, and there was a warm, brilliant glow in the sky. Nearing the end of our walk, John suddenly pointed out the moon to me, and my jaw dropped. It was a stunning sight: the moon seemed bigger and brighter than usual, and appeared to be rising faster in the sky. I’m not sure whether it was because of where we were geographically, or the time of year, but the moon was getting higher and higher in the sky as we watched. I had never seen anything like it; it was phenomenal. John looked it up using his phone and said it could be a supermoon, but whatever it’s cause it was a sight I will never forget.

We flew back into London late last night. It had been a long, tiring day: from Tangier we got the ferry up to Tarrifa, the southernmost point of continental Europe. After a night there, it was a long, fairly slow bus ride to Seville. A couple of hours’ there yesterday gave me and John the chance to walk around the beautiful city in the stifling heat, and we determined that we would return there soon for a proper visit. Then it was a bus to the airport, and a flight, delayed by an hour, back to the UK.

How can I sum up a trip like the one we just had? How can I write any kind of conclusion or ending to such an incredible two weeks, so full of culture, variety and contrasts. I don’t think I can, but I’m sure my memories of our trip to Spain and Morocco will last far longer than the suntan it gave me.

It always makes me feel sad to leave somewhere. We are currently on the train heading north back to Tangier. A single day was hardly enough time to get to know a city like Casablanca. I have never been anywhere so beguiling and full of contrast. Nor did I ever think I would have a chance to visit such a wonderful, historic place so different to anywhere I’m used to. But then, I somehow doubt this will be my last taste of North Africa.

John and I initially planned this trip to be a visit to Morocco and North Africa. After our trip to India four years ago, it seemed to me that the Sahara would be next on the list. Then, of course, the pandemic got in the way of our plans so it wasn’t until this year that John and I began to think about going anywhere again.

A few weeks ago our plans were taking shape. When an earthquake hit Morocco, however, our plans had to change once again and we decided to visit southern Spain instead. Yet North Africa was still so near and so tempting.

Thus yesterday afternoon saw John and I on a ferry crossing the straits of Gibraltar. To be honest it was a really long day, one which started in Europe and ended in Africa. We landed in tangier, before catching a train to Casablanca. Here I have a confession to make: I was probably clinging to an outdated stereotype, but part of me was expecting to board a train made of wood and pulled by a diesel or even steam engine. Instead, as night fell I found myself hurtling south at over two hundred kph by a perfectly modern, comfortable bullet train.

Today I woke with a completely new city and continent to explore. It soon became very apparent that we were not in London any more: everything seemed so different, so much more exotic, and to be honest so dangerous. For one, walking out to explore the city, nobody appeared to be obeying the traffic laws. Truth be told I was soon quite glad I was in my manual wheelchair being pushed by John, as there was no way I could ever navigate this maelstrom of maniacs on my own. 

That being said, as we explored Casablanca this afternoon I fell deeper and deeper into a fascination like no other. Here two utterly different worlds, European and Arabic, collide like tectonic plates. Being pushed through the medina by John a couple of hours ago felt like I had been transported to another time or even another world. Tiny, timeless streets full of people, with Moroccans selling things from the hundreds of small shops as they have done far countless centuries. Meanwhile men on mopeds and small motorbikes zoomed between the shoppers in a way that made me wonder how the place was not lined with corpses.

My astonishment was redoubled, however, when we left the medina to find a huge modern shopping centre just outside of it. The contrast between the two areas was almost unsettling; it frankly felt like a sort of geographical and cultural jump cut, as though we had leaped suddenly and unexpectedly from the past back into the ultra modern twenty first century.

Yet that is what you find in places like Casablanca. Cities like this straddle two or more worlds. Ancient Arabic medinas are surrounded by the metallic and neon structures of modern capitalism; tourists are taken there from their hotels on a tram system worthy of any European city. I think such clashes are only to become more common as fascinating, timeless places like this rise into modernity.

Gibraltar. Behold the dying embers of a long faded, defunct empire trying to cling desperately to past glories. An anachronistic overpriced tax haven, insisting  that the flag it still so passionately waves does not now belong to an irrelevant laughing stock. Red phone boxes which nobody use still line the streets as if in a deliberate attempt to make the place look more British, even though the buildings around them are irrefutably Spanish and even Moorish. Poorly maintained, barely accessible for wheelchair users, after touring the small town yesterday I must admit that I found the place as vile as it is comic. I doubt we’ll be going there again.

This entry finds me again sitting on the balcony of yet another hotel room, just outside Gibraltar. This one is slightly higher and wider, and instead of a narrow Spanish street I’m looking out over a large marina with the straits of Gibraltar beyond. Further beyond that I can see the majestic mountains of North Africa. The sun is beating down and wind shakes the palm trees in the street three floors below me. When he returns from doing our laundry, John and I will head out to explore the landscape now stretched out before me. It’s a wonderful scene to behold, but once again I find myself wondering how on earth I can be so lucky.

Having returned to Malaga yesterday evening, this morning we visited the Picasso museum. Five minutes walk from the hostel where John and I stayed last night, I must say I found the museum very interesting indeed. I knew a little about Picasso from Writers Contexts at university, but I really think today helped put some meat on those bones. I really got an idea of who Pablo Picasso was and what his art is about. He was making comments about the world around him, just as I do on my blog. What I was struck by the most, though, was how his use of different perspectives could be perceived as a comment on the essential subjectivity of the world: After all, we all see things from slightly different angles.

Moreover the exhibition itself is housed in an extraordinary building built over ancient Roman and Phonecian ruins, beautifully preserved in the basement. If you ever visit Malaga, I would thoroughly recommend a visit to the Picasso museum.

I think I mentioned yesterday how narrow the streets are here in Spain. Back in the UK I’m used to fairly wide urban streets with room for cars going both ways and reasonably wide pavements. Here, however, the streets are far narrower, particularly in older parts of cities like Granada. They are barely wide enough for cars to go down, and are usually just used by pedestrians.

As enthralling and evocative as such narrow streets are, the only problem crops up when it comes to public transport: There is no way you could get a bus of any size down such roads. Yet cities like Granada are so spread out that not everyone can get around them easily on foot.

The solution the Spanish have found must be one of the coolest pieces of public transport I have been come across. An amazing combination of a train and a bus, it is a vehicle which goes along the roads, but is formed of three short carriages. Two have seats for ten or so passengers, which are pulled along by a kind of van at the front. The entire vehicle can thus snake its way through the streets, bending around the tight corners, climbing the steep slopes. 

The best part though, and the thing which surprised me to be honest, was that it was wheelchair accessible. The last carriage had a wheelchair lift at the back, so I was able to get on and off easily. That instantly impressed me, and as John and I rode the incredible bus train up through Granada, I wondered whether we could ever see anything like it in London.

I suppose London has two or three squares of note: Trafalgar Square, Parliament Square, Leicester Square and of course General Gordon Square in Woolwich. Yet as a city I wouldn’t say squares were an integral part of London’s geography. On the whole I find them large, impersonal public spaces. Here in Spain, on the other hand, town squares seem fair more intimate and full of character. We are currently in Granada, an absolutely fascinating city un in the mountains. Here there are a great many urban squares all separated by ancient streets far too narrow to drive cars down. I find it intriguing and intoxicating: John pushes me along the ancient streets, tall buildings hundreds of years old earth side, for us to suddenly come out onto a majestic square. Most aren’t very big, but they all thrive with local culture: many have cafes where people eat outside, as well as music in the afternoons. It seems to be a defining characteristic of Spanish towns and cities, and one which I already find spellbinding.

We visited Ronda yesterday, a small town a couple of hours outside Malaga. To be honest I had never heard of it, but John was keen to go there. He said he had visited Spain many times, but had never been to Ronda.

Stepping out of my wheelchair and onto the bus, I didn’t know what to expect. We had soon left Malaga and were driving up into the hills and mountains. It was beautiful. It was then that John told me a bit about the place we were heading to: an ancient fortified town once held by the Moores. Of course I was instantly intrigued.

What really caught my attention, though, was when I heard that Ronda was the birthplace of bullfighting. Now, I am not a bullfight aficionado, and like most people these days think that it’s fairly barbaric; but as a fan of Earnest Hemingway that information couldn’t fail to catch my attention. It had been a while since I had looked into much about Hemingway, so I didn’t know whether there were any links, but the possible tie between my two interests made me eager to find out more.

Ronda is a stunning place. It’s steep cobbled streets meant John had a bit of difficulty pushing me around, but we had an amazing afternoon exploring the small town. It’s architecture is an interesting mixture of medieval and moorish; stone bridges swoop elegantly over ravines; promenades look over wide beautiful valleys. We spent the afternoon walking around the town, stopping for drinks and visiting the museums.

It was in one of the cafes that I managed to get online  to finally upload yesterdays blog entry. It was there too that I had chance to tap a couple of words into google, and to my absolute wonder found that Ronda was, in fact, one of Hemingways favourite places. The great American writer spent many summers there watching the bullfighting. It was there too that he met Orson Welles: after a famous fistfight during the creation of one of Welles’ films about the Spanish civil war, the two struck up a firm friendship. I find the fact that two of the greats of twentieth century art had such a close link to the place we visited yesterday absolutely thrilling.

We got back to Malaga fairly late and tired. Days like yesterday give me a buzz which I cannot really describe. Coincidence had once again brought me into the presence of one of my heroes: I had been pushed across the very bull ring where, so many summers ago, Hemingway used to go to watch animals being ritually tortured and killed. Of course that was a different era with totally different values; yet as abhorrent as I might find the custom, I relish discovering such links to histories and people I find so intriguing.

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.

Today began fairly quietly.   John and I got to bed quite late last night, and after a while of tossing and turning I slept pretty well. John woke up just before I did and left the room to investigate breakfast, leaving me to get up a few minutes later and walk over to the window of the small hostel room we currently share.

Stepping onto the small balcony, I looked out over a narrow Spanish street. I was instantly struck by how different it felt: the architecture, the narrow street below, the people walking along it, felt so evocative of something I had never experienced but had only seen in films. It was as if I could feel bulls, matadors and sombreros in the air.

Things had suddenly become far more interesting than my little corner of south London. The thrill of the new and exotic that I already felt, standing on that little balcony this morning was almost overwhelming. This trip is going to rule.