Los Urrutias

22.02.26 — Murcia

Los Urrutias

22.02.26 — Murcia

As I lay in bed on the first night in my university halls, I was treated to a cacophony of unfamiliar noises. There were police sirens, the hum of distant traffic, and muffled voices of unknown people in the rooms above, below, and on either side of me. This new soundscape was claustrophobic when compared to that of my village, where the nighttime silence is broken only by the occasional bout of birdcall or impassioned mooing.

When I eventually swapped Leeds for Madrid, things only got louder. I was suddenly exposed to midnight rubbish collections, late night parties, and flatmates who didn’t exactly speak in whispers. At the time, I saw it all as one big adventure, but I am now quite glad to be living in an apartment that’s well isolated from the constant din.

I say all this as I’ve come to realise that noise is a consistent and unwavering reminder of where I am. Once the day is over, I lie in bed, turn off the lights, and close my eyes to be alone with my thoughts. Yet the distinctive sounds of my surroundings remain inescapable. While the rest of my senses slowly shut down, I can still hear the city. The city is always there. I never did learn to shut it out.

You see, despite the odd dramatic bird or cow, I miss the stillness of those village nights. Over a decade after I left my hometown, I realise that I’m still drawn to rural life. The Spanish say that ‘the goat always heads for the mountains’. I think I’m no different.

It’s baffling that I didn’t come to this conclusion sooner, really, as the clues have been staring me in the face for years. After moving to Madrid, my regular refuge became Asturias, where I found myself right at home in its small towns between rolling hills. I then discovered Vermont, a US state whose name meaning ‘green mountain’ requires no further explanation.

Whilst walking around Los Urrutias, I felt this familiarity once again. Despite a lack of greenery, I was at ease amongst the quiet streets of this little Murcian town. It didn’t feel like home, but it definitely felt more comfortable than the big city.

I’ve no idea where the future may take me, and neither am I in any rush to make any big changes. But, despite the noise of the city, I now sleep easier in the knowledge that I understand what I want.

Christmas & Tenerife

15.01.26 — Burnley

Christmas & Tenerife

15.01.26 — Burnley

With the impossible challenge of coordinating modern life’s many calendars: work, social, and general life admin, Christmas is the one time of year that my family and I are guaranteed some time together. Last year marked an exception to the rule, with extraordinary circumstances meaning I’d to stay in Madrid. Although I did enjoy my Spanish Christmas, this year I was very keen to make up for lost time with my family.

Celebrations actually began early, as my parents flew over to mine for a quick visit to both Madrid and Alcalá de Henares. We grabbed some churros, perused the Christmas markets, and tried some complimentary roscón de reyes at a carol concert that we stumbled across.

A few days after they left, it was time for me to swap the dry winter air of Madrid for the sodden and frosty fields just outside Burnley. We had a lovely family Christmas together, ensuring that none of the essentials were missing: a huge roast, film nights, and the annual Briggs Christmas Quiz courtesy of yours truly.

Once the festivities were over, I grabbed a train to Leeds to visit Em, Lincoln, and Charlie, where we went for walks and had a very necessary catchup over tea in the park. I then saw in the new year closer to home, making the short journey up the road to the Smiths’ farm to celebrate both Jemma’s 30th and the arrival of 2026. It was a delight to spend time with people that, for various reasons, I’d not seen for quite some time.

Shortly after returning to Madrid, I was back on a plane once more. I landed in Tenerife, where I spent a few days with Cami and family. In between cocktails by the sea and drives around the island, they organised a barbecue and karaoke night to celebrate my return to Tenerife after quite a few years. As me and Cami sang a rowdy rendition of Hopelessly Devoted to You, I reflected on the joy that is time spent with loved ones.

From England to Tenerife via Madrid, I had a wonderful few weeks. Thanks to all those mentioned and everyone else — you know who you are.

Segovia to Murcia

05.12.25 — Murcia

Segovia to Murcia

05.12.25 — Murcia

Remember the pandemic? Me neither. The human brain’s ability to forget the bad and remember the good has always fascinated me. It’s a phenomenon I first noticed after our family holidays to Orlando, which were fabulously fun but also involved frustrating hours of queuing in the torrid Florida heat and humidity. Once back in England, though, I’d only ever recall the thrill of the rides, the magic of the parades, and the hilarity of us discovering that American chocolate tastes like cheese.

I digress, however. I bring up the pandemic as I’ve been thinking about walking. Walking is something I’ve grown to thoroughly enjoy and appreciate, and I didn’t want to bore you all by linking it with my accident and spending yet another post wittering on about breaking my leg.

So we’re back to the pandemic. I spent a good few months holed up in my little flat here in Madrid where, despite my dad’s best efforts at getting me to pace around the tiny place, I anxiously awaited the day we’d be let out for even the shortest of walks. This relief eventually came in our state-sanctioned daily walk: an hour to stretch our legs and fill our lungs with fresh, virus-free air. The most basic of human exercises became a luxury, and I’ve held my walks as sacred ever since.

It’s this perspective that’s recently had me jumping at the chance to visit new places. I gladly accepted Fer’s invitation to Segovia and my auntie’s to a town in Murica, keen to pop on my comfy shoes (I’m 30 now, remember) and discover what the streets of these two destinations would have in store.

Looking back over the photos I took, I see that what struck me about both places was the beauty that is to be found in the old, be it well maintained or not. Segovia’s old houses and Roman aqueduct have an inescapable gravitas, but the rusty and forgotten corners of this random town on the Murcian coast captivated me just the same… perhaps even more.

What do I take away from this reflection? I’ve no idea. It’s not yet 8am and I’m sat in Madrid Barajas Airport, rubbing my eyes and finishing my coffee. As I prepare to spend two hours with zero room to move my legs, though, I eagerly await my arrival in Milan and the hours on hours of walking that await me. I guess that’s it, really. This is just a love letter to walking.

Fer in England

17.11.25 — Burnley

Fer in England

17.11.25 — Burnley

“I love travelling to the most random towns when I visit a country”, said Fer, most probably over an all-you-can-eat buffet.

“You should come to my hometown,” said I. “It doesn’t get much more random than the village I grew up in.”

And so it was that Fernando and I wound up arriving in Manchester Airport, where he immediately proceeded to book a taxi to the wrong hotel. Once back on track, we ordered drink on Canal Street and a late night McDonalds to begin his British cultural immersion.

As I carefully ran a line of ketchup down one of my chips, I pondered ideas for the next few days. I’ve noticed that Spanish tourists to England rarely venture further north than Nottingham, so the pressure was on for me to show him the best, or at least the grittiest, parts of the north.

In the end, I decided that we’d do whatever I’d usually do. We had lunch with my sister, a coffee in Northern Quarter, and some impromptu cocktails before taking the X43 over to Burnley. There, we walked around my village, hosted a bonfire, had afternoon tea on a barge, and ate a pizza with Jemma and Lucy that seemingly poisoned poor Fer, who spent the next day bedridden.

The highlight of the trip was definitely our day out in Blackpool. I treated Fer to the thrills of the Pleasure Beach, the decadence of the pier, and the cheap kicks of the two-penny slot machines at Coral Island. We ate fish and chips by the sea and then oysters at one of Blackpool’s remaining few oyster bars. The train back home was full of empty cider cans and spat us out onto a rail replacement bus. All in all, it was a proper northern experience, one which could have easily been ripped from the pages of my childhood.

Once Fer had recovered from his pizza-bourne disease, we headed back to Manchester Airport for one of my beloved Ryanair flights to Madrid. There, amongst screaming babies and unruly school trips, I thanked Fernando for joining me for a trip back home. It’s always nice to visit my hometown, but sharing the experience with someone completely new made me appreciate the place even more.

Long live the north.

Tren de la Fresa

26.10.25 — Madrid

Tren de la Fresa

26.10.25 — Madrid

While I laid in bed, leg broken and immobile, I had a lot of time to think of what I would do once I was on my feet again. The first thing on the list was to ‘live new experiences with friends’, with new dutifully underlined for emphasis. I thus knew exactly what I had to do when I saw an advertisement for the Tren de la Fresa, an heritage railway running daily excursions in October: I convinced Sara and Fernando to tag along for the day.

The three of us met up at Madrid’s train museum early on a Sunday morning, tired and weary, only to be greeted by the shouts of a guy in a period train conductor’s uniform. To my horror, I realised that I’d dragged my friends into an interactive experience designed for children, actors and all.

Once we and the masses of young families aboard were seated, the train began its journey towards Aranjuez, a historic city on the outskirts of Madrid. We chatted away and everything seemed pretty normal, that was until two actors showed up with suitcases and began shouting at each other. I didn’t really follow the storyline, but the three of us giggled along at the goofy spectacle.

Little did we know that the best was yet to come. After the impromptu performance, music began to blare over the speakers and the actors cajoled the whole wagon into signing along to the theme tune of the Tren de la Fresa. This pushed us over the edge and we wound up in stitches, laughing ourselves silly as we arrived in Aranjuez.

We then swapped the wooden bench seating for the back row of the chiquitren, a trackless road train which was exactly like the ones I remember zipping around the Spanish tourist towns of my childhood. This was followed by a river cruise and then lunch, which included my first taste of frogs legs. I’d say they tasted like chicken, but really they tasted like the garlic in which they’d been cooked.

The train journey back had us singing the Tren de la Fresa song once more, this time with a little bowl of strawberries in hand. Those of you who’ve been doing your Duolingo will know that Tren de la Fresa translates to ‘Strawberry Train’, named after the train’s prior use for bringing Aranjuez’s strawberry harvest into Madrid.

It was then, singing along to “tren de la fresa, tren de la fresa, baila sin parar y mueve la cabeza”, that I realised that even the silliest of plans are made great by the company of good friends. Whether it be munching on fresh strawberries, singing a cheesy song, or jumping across the jittery platforms between old train wagons, we’ve to take life —and health and safety— a little bit less seriously.