I was around 8 years old sat in a shoddy Nandos down in Bexleyheath, where I semi-grew up, when I tasted my first ever Pastel de Nata.
It is 9:30 am on a Barceloneta Autumn morning. My boyfriend left the apartment for work over three hours ago, leaving me to awaken slowly while he stumbles around in the half-light of the morning. The curtains are opened slightly giving me a quarter view of the rose golden sunrise over the balcony and onto the Port Vell.
When on a trip, wherever you are, you will always come across the same belly dropping sadness that comes when you zip up your suitcase and give the room a last glance.
I wake up and it’s dark. Not because of the weather, but because I had managed to cover my entire head with the giant duvet we have been blessed with.
It’s 5am on a dark January morning and I am awoken by a familiar sound.