Dalt Vila

Cobbles always remind me of Alnwick, it’s raining, my shoes don’t grip well, I slip and slide, and carefully hold onto the railings. There’s a baby crying, and a man is cooking in a small dark kitchen. The windows are pretty, luscious plants, cactus and trees in unexpected places. Laundry hangs over treacherous balconies, and bicycles are piled on top of each other in painted lemon doorways. I wander up and down steep narrow alleyways. A tiny sausage dog scurries out of his house, and silently attacks my ankles. I squeal and catch my breath, frightened for a second, there’s no one around, just me and the little dog, I say ‘hello’, and scuttle away down the cobbled path. There’s a warm light coming from inside a church, I peer through the ornate glass and cast iron gates, it’s the electric glow from an organ. The plastic buttons above the keyboard are lit up a fluorescent hazy orange. A nun is playing a hymn and her fellow sisters sing along.

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