WANDERLUST
An unquenchable desire to travel
Illustration by Addyson Brough
AN IBERIAN WINDOW
Written by Richard Taylor (Foundation Humanities)
The Boeing 727 tilted as it dropped slowly in a downward arch towards the medieval city of Alicante allowing me to enjoy the detail of the Spanish coastline through my cabin window. After the Moors invaded Alicante in the eighth century the city became synonymous with a snake; it refers to the winding, serpentine steps leading up to a Moorish castle that looks down over the terracotta roofs of a city set in a turquoise, dappled sea. Other Latin cities have the statue of a smiling, open-armed Christ looking down on them, Alicante has The Snake.
From my lofty viewpoint, the luxurious glamour of the sea contrasted with the arid Iberian landscape, its spindly roads separating the shabby uniformity of the olive farms. Great swathes of the south facing landscape were hidden under sheets of plastic leaving me to wonder what was sweltering beneath. The difference between the view before me and the horizontal, rain swept fields of my homeland was total.
Suddenly, we touched down on the shimmering tarmac. There was laughter, and sighs of relief. An infant filled its lungs, and then our capsule, with its dislike for the situation.
I will never get used to the initial heat that hits me when I exit a plane in Southern Spain. I brace myself for it, but it still surprises me, it’s like walking in front of a giant hairdryer filled with wild rosemary, parched grass, and smouldering olive wood. Everything here is thirsty, including me.
I was relieved to see my brother, Gary, still waiting for me, even though we were over an hour late due to French air traffic control problems. Our eyes met as I trudged towards the waiting, sun-bronzed crowds. They were held back by stainless steel corralling and a pair of heavily armed Guardia Civil, dressed in army fatigues.
When we had passed through into the arrival area, my older brother smiled as he walked towards me pointing at his wristwatch. We embraced sombrely, as only the English male can, but I thought he was maybe a little too happy. Gary had probably used the hour to quench his thirst at the airport bar. He helped me with my bags which furthered my suspicions.
We had a two-hour drive through the searing heat of the afternoon to my brother’s tiny home, hidden on the edge of a small village in the province of Almeria. The motorway was virtually empty due to the Spanish enjoying their siesta, the song ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’ came to mind.
We made excellent time in a senile Fiat Panda held together with string, Gaffa Tape, and a tiny statue of Jesus glued unceremoniously to the dashboard. As we passed through the province of Mercia we enjoyed a rich conversation filled with colour, characters, and exaggeration. I had forgotten that my brother was also my best friend.
His village appeared deserted on our arrival, its narrow, winding streets, and out of white-walled houses looked as if the arrival of Herod was imminent, but this of course would change soon. As the sun declined in the west, and Venus appeared in its place, the village would spring into life.
On the far side of the village, a dirt road brought us at last to my brother’s cortijo, the Spanish name for a rural home. The house had thick, white walls to keep the heat out in summer, and in during the winter. It was set in the middle of a hundred olive trees, their branches bent over heavy with fruit. A small dog of dubious lineage braved the heat to greet my brother, but with his duty done, he quickly returned to a patch of shade under a garden table. A katabatic wind from the high ground behind the cortijo brought some relief and chilled the sweat on our faces. Two birds of prey circled high above us oblivious to us and the heat.
We entered my brother’s small, cool home and into the bustle of his kitchen. The smells of garlic and chicken flavoured the air. His ample wife, Maria Jose, was working at her stove, her raven hair hanging past her shoulder, a bright apron wrapped around her. As she turned a broad welcoming smile burst across her pretty face. Maria ran past her husband and hugged me with warm Latin intensity. Her hand in mine she walked me through her kitchen.
‘Look,’ she said, her face filled with pride. ‘Look what I have prepared for you.’
There, spread before me, was a huge, bubbling paella that covered her cooker top. The aromas, with herbs freshly picked from her kitchen garden rose from the huge dish and made me swallow in anticipation; my tongue involuntarily licked my upper lip. Set before me was a feast that filled my senses, brightly coloured sweet peppers, rounds of huge tomatoes, lemons sliced into wedges, a garlic bulb simply cut into two, bright green parsley, they all nestled in a cushion of plump, yellow saffron rice. The colours of Iberia smiled up at me.
A POSTCARD
Written by Saffron Good (MA English and Creative Writing)
You sent me a picture postcard once, 
telling me of a beautiful land far away.
Where the water runs honey sweet  
and people dance throughout the day. 
 
Where the round moon glows like gold dust  
and a thousand stars shine a sliver light 
on all the souls gently sleeping,
watching over them every night. 
 
There are treasures there I’ve never seen, 
but you claimed to know them all.
Telling me of grand adventures 
writing in your messy scrawl. 
 
You climbed up mountains high, 
and swam in lakes so cold.  
You waded through thick forests, 
all to prove you were bold. 
 
You mentioned coming home soon, 
but deep down I knew the truth. 
You wanted to stay in that wonderful place, 
claiming it reminded you of your youth.  
 
Day turned to night, and night to day, 
as I dreamed of that place so far away.
Artwork by Tam Moyo (Third Year Film and Television Production)
GERALDINE
Written by Danae Tsirka (First Year English)
Woodland, moorland, rivers, and lakes. The places I have adventured through alter and warp as time goes on, and their colours shift as the seasons change. This natural ability to completely transform a place touches my very being. Trudging through the damp grass of the winding path ahead of us, my boyfriend and I chatted absentmindedly. The sun hit the water in small intervals, revealing murky weeds and tiny roach. Unfortunately, they never stayed long. The stomp of our heavy walking boots sent them darting away with a splash. The deer I had only seen on occasion; usually in the early morning when most had not yet walked the path, and the birds’ songs were distant and melodic. This was why the crying that filled the path shocked us to our very core.
‘Can you hear that?’ my boyfriend asked.
The answer was obvious, the distressed cry was grating. Cringing, we spotted something causing the surface of the leat to churn.
‘Ew, it looks like a frog!’ I had never been a fan of frogs. I felt their bulbous eyes were one ribbit away from popping.
‘I think it’s a duckling,’ my boyfriend said.
Immediately, I was overcome with distress. The poor thing was thrashing about in the water; it had managed to get entangled with an overhanging bramble.
‘Its mum must have left him. We can’t just leave it here.’ My boyfriend had voiced my own thoughts.
Instinctively, I started untying my laces.
‘What are you doing?’ My boyfriend was confused, although I felt my intention was rather obvious. By this point, I had kicked off my boots, and stripped to my t-shirt and pants in a bid to become the Superwoman of our adventure (although I probably resembled Captain Underpants more closely now I think about it).
My hands were small: perfect for untangling. With a nod from my boyfriend, I peered down at the leat, then took the plunge. Feeling the sharp embrace of thorns, I eased my fingers around the duckling’s dainty frame, and managed to release it from its trap.
‘We should search for its mother,’ my boyfriend suggested as he hoisted me from the water.
According to the RSPCA, a mother will usually return within two hours. But after a long time of scouring both ends of the leat, we gave up our search. Traipsing back, I found that (admittedly after some googling) as the duckling was still fluffy it meant it was under two weeks old. Ducklings usually stay with their mothers for two months until they can fly and be independent. This struck a resonate chord within me. A tiny being, all alone in the unknown, without a mother to guide it – someone I had relied upon heavily as a child.
It didn’t hit me until I was back in the comfort of my home, that there was a duck along the leat. In my 14 years of walking there, I had not once seen a duck. This baffled me. Ducks need deep, flowing water, plenty of weeds, and insects to nurture them, all which the leat provided a bountiful supply of. Why, after all these years, had they only just arrived?
Once we got home, we examined the duckling for any injuries and found lacerations on its webbed feet. After talking to my neighbour, who was as prone to saving animals as I was, we found that their feet have no nerves or blood vessels. Despite this, a duck’s webbed feet enable it to swim efficiently, hence the not-so graceful waddling on land. We had a disadvantaged duckling on our hands.
‘What are we going to do with it?’ my boyfriend asked.
I had been so enamoured with saving the duckling that this thought had not crossed my mind. In denial, I suggested choosing a name for the all too real living thing that was now my responsibility.
‘We should probably go for a neutral name… Geraldine?’ my boyfriend suggested.
I wasn’t completely sure how ‘Geraldine’ was neutral, but it seemed to suit the fluffy duck in my hands, and so Geraldine it was.
After phoning the local vets, we found they had a sanctuary and were happy to take Geraldine into their team (a term I found is used regarding a group of ducks). As we drove Geraldine to her new home, I was rewarded with the stench of duck poop, rising from the cardboard box in which Geraldine was snuggled in, safe, but stinking.
On our way back from the delivery, sad to have lost our new-found friend, I came to the realisation as to why ducks had never settled on the leat. It’s such a lonely place. The silence stretches on, and the occasional creak or whistle can set your nerves ablaze. No social animal would want to rest among the light-footed deer, whose presence was fleeting, or disrupt the harmony of the birds. Even walking alone, your thoughts are amplified. Stepping on a tree root and snap. It echoes around you and, in reply, the forest whispers, ‘How dare you disturb our peace?’
MIDNIGHT HIRAETH
Written by Aimee Whittle (First Year English and Creative Writing)
I dream of a place,
in the Valley of Green,
where the summers are long,
and the dewy leaves gleam.
I lay by a bush,
in the shade of the trees,
where a small bluebird sits
on a rose petal seat.
I gaze at the house,
where the ivy roams free,
whilst the trees whisper words
in the soft summer breeze.
The lake shimmers gold
with the sun’s Midas rays,
where the cool water laps,
and the mild willow sways.
I hear the bees hum
with their rich working tune.
The bright flowers wait
in their bold summer bloom.
I sense the sweet wisps
of a time, long since passed,
and I feel the faint rumble
of memories trapped in glass.
So, I dream of a place,
in the Valley of Green,
and I long to go back,
although I’ve never been.