We left that “somewhere” early.
The one I didn’t name last time because it didn’t deserve the dignity of being remembered.
It wasn’t awful. It was just… a stop. A car park. A night where the van felt like a job again.
Mary made coffee without speaking much. I did that thing where I pretend I’m not tired, like a man in his sixties can somehow bluff his way through exhaustion.
We’d said inland.
After Cádiz and the wind and all that nonsense, inland felt like the sensible choice. No more waking up convinced the whole camper was about to roll into the sea.
Vejer had been calm. White walls, quiet streets, one of those rare nights where you actually sleep.
But then you drive.
And driving is where it catches up with you.
Seville was the plan, sort of. Not Seville properly. Not us swanning into the centre like we’re on a city break. More like… the edges. The practical bits. The bits where people with vans go because they have no business being anywhere near narrow streets and low traffic zones.
I’d looked at a map.
Mary had looked at a map.
We both agreed, in theory.
In practice, we missed a turning within ten minutes.
Then another.
Then I found myself doing that slightly panicked whisper voice.
“Is this… allowed?”
Mary, very calmly: “Kevin, I don’t think anyone’s allowed in here.”
There are signs everywhere in Spain, I’ve noticed. Signs with rules you don’t understand until you’ve broken them.
We looped around, sweating a bit, both pretending we weren’t.
The van felt enormous. The streets felt personal.
Eventually we found somewhere that made sense. Not beautiful. Not Instagram. Just a place where the wheels stopped and nobody looked at us like we were about to ruin their afternoon.
Mary got out first.
She always does.
Like she’s checking the world is safe before I step into it.
There was a smell straight away.
Oranges.
Not the fruit in a bowl. The actual trees. That sharp, clean, almost sweet smell that makes you feel like you’ve arrived somewhere real.
Seville does that, even from the outskirts. It announces itself.
We walked a bit. Not far. We weren’t in a walking mood. More a stretching-our-legs-so-we-don’t-turn-into-furniture mood.
There were old men outside a bar drinking coffee like it was their full-time job.
Mary said, “Look at them. They’ve mastered it.”
I said, “We could master it.”
She raised an eyebrow.
We had something to eat, nothing fancy. A plate that arrived too big. Bread we didn’t need. Olive oil that tasted like someone’s grandfather.
It wasn’t about the food really.
It was about sitting down and not moving for a moment.
The van, for the first time in days, stopped feeling like effort.
Back inside later, Mary wrote one of her little notes on her phone.
I saw it over her shoulder.
“Not every stop has to be a story. But this one felt like a restart.”
I didn’t say anything.
I just nodded.
Outside, somewhere beyond the edge of the city, you could hear life carrying on.
And for once, we weren’t chasing it.
We were parked.
We were still.
And that was enough.
