Julia & Javier

02.05.26 — Madrid

Julia & Javier

02.05.26 — Madrid

40 degrees. Flashbacks from the pandemic, when 40 degrees was the cutoff body temperature, any higher than which we were told to ring for an ambulance. I stared at the large four-zero on the thermometer whilst the backlight flashed red to signal the obvious: 40 degrees is too high. I wasn’t exactly shocked as I lay splayed out on my bed in my underwear, sweating profusely into my already sodden sheets: it didn’t take a genius to work out that I had a fever.

On any other day, I’d have taken it as my body’s way of telling me to slow down. I’d have drunk some rehydration solution, taken a cool shower, and wheeled my television into my bedroom to create the perfect brain rot delivery system. It would have been a welcome rest.

But not today, for I had things to do. I had plans, and not just a drink in the bar with some friends. It was one of those plans with a dress code, one to which you have to RSVP months in advance. It wasn’t just any Saturday: Julia was getting married. And 40 degrees said that I wasn’t going to be there.

As I wallowed in my self-pity, María’s voice came in from the living room, asking me how I was feeling. She’d come all the way down from Bilbao to join the celebrations, so the pressure to make it to the church felt even more acute. With the fever dulling my ability to soften my response, I answered pretty bluntly: like shit, thank you.

This kind of unfiltered honesty that María and I share is refreshing. More than a great impromptu nurse, she is also someone I can talk to about anything. On a normal day, I can walk myself through my thoughts, and she’ll help me put them in order. Today, her duties involved doling out paracetamol and putting up with my incoherent feverish babbling. I guess there’s nothing like a complete physical meltdown to further strengthen the bonds of friendship.

As the hours ticked by, though, something miraculous happened. My mood improved, the sweating ceased, and my fever lifted. I managed to get up, showered, and into a taxi. My body had found a hidden reserve of energy, reminding me of the surge of happy chemicals that flooded my brain after I broke my leg. I didn’t know I had this reserve supply of endorphins hidden away, but I certainly was glad I did. It would be nice if my brain would dole some out during everyday life, though…

Anyway, I made it to the church on time for a lovely service, and then even managed to catch the bus to the beautiful reception venue. Before I knew it, the last calls for the first of the buses back to Madrid were being made, but I was having way too much of a good time to leave. The party then went on until 4am, when I was still on my feet and dancing along — just about.

More than a medical miracle, this is a testament to how fabulous Julia and Javier’s wedding was. There was great company, great music, great food, and a great atmosphere. I loved every second of it, and was so happy that my body had pulled out all the stops to make sure I could be there. I’m pretty sure it beat watching conspiracy theories on YouTube.

Alas, nothing in this life comes for free: the next day I felt even worse than before. My body was shot and my brain was fried, but no amount of sweat and bile could detract from the marvellous memories from the night before.

40 degrees? Rookie numbers. Long live Julia and Javier.

Tarragona

12.04.26 — Tarragona

Tarragona

12.04.26 — Tarragona

Sometimes I can get pretty irritable. Then I struggle to work out why I’m so irate, which frustrates me. This frustration, in turn, makes me even more insufferable to be around. Those who know me are aware of how much of a pain in the arse I can be when I’m in the doldrums like this.

I guess sometimes the root of all this can be burnout: I might just be in need of a rest. But other times, it might be more complicated. I might need some time out to figure out what’s going on. And ‘time out’ sounds suspiciously similar to ‘a rest’. So, let’s be honest, what I always need is a good old bit of respite.

This realisation came to me just before Easter, and so I resolved to do something that I’d been toying with for years and check myself into a five-star spa hotel. I wasn’t bothered where I went, I just wanted the most pressing issues of my days to be the ratio of sweet to savoury at the breakfast buffet and whether I preferred warm or temperate water in my jacuzzi bath.

I realise as I write that I sound pretty insufferable. “Corporate worker takes luxury break due to burnout” isn’t the most original or relatable story, and I can certainly hear the voice of my past self scoffing at the idea: first world problems, check your privilege, etcetera, etcetera. But it is what it is. I’m getting old and I’m beginning to understand why my parents always insisted on a fortnight spent splayed out on a sandy beach or a poolside deckchair. Adult life is tiring.

In this worn-out state, then, I somehow had to organise a trip. Travelling used to be all about the excitement of planning, the thrill of catching a plane or train, and “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey”. Now, it’s just a chore I endure to get where I need to be. So, despite all my reservations about cognitive offloading, I fired up ChatGPT. My brain was already fried and so I surmised that no further harm could be done.

That’s how I ended up in Tarragona. I stepped off the train at a station that the AI overlords had confidently told me was a quick taxi away from my accommodation. I arrived 45 minutes and 55 euros later at the hotel lobby, a healthy dose of karma after the hours I’ve spent tirelessly preaching to others about the need to cross-reference and double-check everything AI spits out.

In checking into my room, I checked out of life for a few days. I threw my phone into the safe and swapped my trainers for some white slippers. I divvied up my time between the spa, the pool, and the beach. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time in a bathrobe in my entire life. And just when I was beginning to tire of all this relaxation and solitude, I found someone to spend some time with… but that’s a whole other story.

Despite my physical inactivity, which I am an expert at, my brain took longer to slow down. At the beginning, these fancy surroundings were a mere backdrop for my thoughts. I pondered many things, but front and centre was the need to know why I felt compelled to take a break like this. The conclusion I eventually came to was pretty simple and rather anticlimactic: I just needed a fucking rest.

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.