Books read and enjoyed 2024/5

 

These are books I've read over the past year or so, each one an experience. More below.

Long Island by Colm Toibin is a much lauded 2024 novel,  and the follow up to his award winning Brooklyn from 2009 - he's written others in the interim eg. The Testament of Mary which was shortlisted for the Booker Prize, his third shortlist.  

Sebastian Barry, like Colm Toibin, is now an elder statesman for Irish literature, both poets and playwrights as well as novelists, both appointed as Laureates for Irish Fiction by the Irish Arts Council.  Old God's Time, like Long Island, is beautifully written and also an emotional journey.

Normal People is the second novel by Irish author Sally Rooney, published in 2018 when she was 27.  It has garnered a swag of awards and plaudits. Like her debut, Conversations With Friends, it explores modern relationships, self awareness, being articulate yet completely dumb, with a backdrop of feminism and social divide. I read it in a couple of days, was smitten. 

Booker Prize winner Prophet Song by Paul Lynch is yet another dystopian novel this month, the other being Juice by Tim Winton. Juice was about the results of climate change not being addressed. Prophet Song has been compared to George Orwell's 1984 and like that book it is about life within a fascist state - secret police, imprisonment, torture and control, in Ireland of all places, and the effects on a normal suburban family.  Eilish Stack is the wife of a teacher Larry, who is also the trade union representative. Following a visit from the GNSB, Larry disappears. The book is about Eilish's fight to keep her family together. It's not an easy read, being stark with long paragraphs and no quotation marks, but it is your nightmare, gripping and harrowing, there's no denying it, and you are compelled to find out what happens. 

All or Nothing is the title of a Small Faces hit from 1966. The lead singer and songwriter, with Ronnie Lane, was Steve Marriott. Led Zep frontman Robert Plant 'wanted to be Steve Marriott'. David Bowie rated him as 'the best vocalist this country has produced'. He auditioned for The Stones tp replace Mick Taylor, but Mick and possibly Keith too felt threatened (also Marriott who was known for his motor mouth just wouldn't shut up - the band realised he couldn't possibly be contained). Dylan described him as 'an amazing talent'. The book is authorised by his family, yet it comes warts and all. A fascinating read if you are a Small Faces and Humble Pie fan. It takes the form of quotes from associates and family, with editorial inserts. In the end, an irrepressible personality and exceptional talent burned through rock 'n roll excesses. 

Tim Winton's Juice is a far more sobering read. It describes a world of the future which has resulted from little action on climate change, in order to keep the fossil barons happy. It's a compulsive read, a love story with tragedy and drama, a Nemesis group hunting the descendants of those responsible, hunters becoming hunted, it's a story of hope shining through desolation, and it may be our story. 

Killing Commendatore by Haruki Murakami was released in 2018, in the English translation. He's since released another. Murakami employs magical realism, nothing is as it seems, the scenery changes, metaphors and symbolisms arise, there may be a well, a cat, a bird, a jazz cafe, 60's music, adolescence, all are props in Murakami's world. His style is relaxed and beguiles the reader. This book seems to have varied reviews. I enjoyed it very much but his best for me so far are IQ84, The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, and Kafka On The Shore. That said, you will be absorbed by any Murakami book - except for me, Norwegian Wood. Why? I was underwhelmed. I don't know, maybe I was expecting more, many liked it and it made his popularity in the West. 

Nora by Brenda Maddox is the biography of Nora Barnacle, who became the wife of James Joyce, 'just another Dublin jackeen chatting up a country girl', as she said. Nora Barnacle? Love that name. She had been dismissed by the literati, the academics as a Galway hick, unworthy of Joyce's genius. Maddox, through much investigation portrays Nora as a strong, articulate wife/partner, Joyce's 'piece of Ireland', his muse and source for dialogue/language in Ulysses and Finnegan's Wake. 'She was amusing, passionate, courageous, spontaneous and articulate: she talked and talked. Joyce listened and listened, and put her voice into all his major female characters'. Maddox states that she began the book liking Nora, and finished it in awe of her.     

I posted a poem about the tragedy of 'Jim' and Nora's daughter Lucia Joyce in November 2023. Explanatory notes follow the poem.

https://barrymcgloin.blogspot.com/2023/11/lucia-joyce-was-daughter-of-nora.html

The Love Object - Selected Stories by Edna O'Brien

This lady could really write - sadly she passed last year at 93 -, and despite much resistance in her early career from the Irish church establishment who banned and burned her books, and her husband who claimed that he had written them, she persisted and won through, became famous and renowned as a great writer, beloved in many countries but especially honoured in Ireland, a land of great writers. A poke in the eye to those hidebound puritan detractors, hah, imagine how they might feel with Sally Rooney's books?  Yes, Edna was a trailblazer.

She was brave, steadfast, a line through from James Joyce whose biography she wrote.  A line that was needed to cut through the false piety of religious dogma, the patriarchal 'thou shalt not' of those black and white sinful identifiers, and the seemingly inevitable eternal damnation of a woman's being. It was a ruthless, gruesome and cruel myth. 

I also read her 2015 book The Little Red Chairs which was a stunner, described by Philip Roth as 'her masterpiece', this when she was 84! 

 https://barrymcgloin.blogspot.com/2024/07/

Hamnet by Maggie O'Farrell

This is the most enjoyable novel I have read recently.

A fictional story based upon the actual son of William Shakespeare, who was named Hamnet, who died in his youth, and the relationship between him and his parents, and the grief that came from his death. Wonderful historical fiction in beautiful poetic prose, better than any of her previous writings. 

I loved it so much that I bought her follow up, also an historical novel called The Marriage Portrait, and enjoyed it almost as much. She's a lovely writer. 

Author David Mitchell called it "A thing of shimmering wonder."

Klara and The Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro

I'm interested in AI, particularly in its future use as robot humans in fact I've written a couple of short stories on the subject.  Time: The Act explores exploitation of robot humans, it also explores the question of reciprocal feelings, emotions and the responsibilities of humane management. 

https://barrymcgloin.blogspot.com/2024/11/time-act.html

The Japanese/English Nobel and Booker prize winning author Kazuo Ishiguro is noted for his quiet understated style, each word in its place, but there's always more beneath.  A beautifully written book, a quick read with depth and emotion, and thought for the future. 

The Map and The Clock by Carol Ann Duffy and Gillian Clarke

I do love poetry anthologies. I have some of the best - the two collections from Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney, The Rattle Bag and The School Bag, Sean O'Brien's The Firebox (Poetry in Britain and Ireland since 1945), Staying Alive and Being Human edited by Neil Astley.  Paul Kelly's selection Love Is Strong is also a fine collection, The Making of a Poem by Mark Strand and Eavan Boland, and lately Poetry Unbound by Padraig 'O Tuama, which is 50 modern poems all unpacked with commentary by Padraig.

Carol Ann Duffy is my current favourite poet. Previously the Poet Laureate, and Gillian Clarke is the National Poet of Wales. Together they have edited this fine and lively collection of British and Irish poems which starts with the earliest known written poem Caedmon's Hymn from around 600AD, translated by Paul Durcan, through numerous Anons to 'the emerging Zaffar Kunial', with living poets having one poem apiece. It is a major piece of work, up there with Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney who are both well represented here.  You will be pleasantly surprised by many selections. Praise is superfluous.  

Lastly, one of my favourite authors passed on in 2024, C.J. Sansome who wrote the Shardlake series about a hunch backed lawyer who solves mysterious crimes in medieval days. Sansome himself was a lawyer prior to becoming a writer and his insight adds to his writing skills. The research is meticulous and medieval days are smelt and felt in etched realism, mud and dung, smoke and clamour, incense and hymns, with a background of violence and brutality, pious priests and lopped heads and swords scraping on bone. The almighty power of Church and State. Oh, there's a few balancing romances in there too.

I read the final Shardlake book recently called Tombland. It's a door stopper. I'd read some Amazon reviews which suggested that it wasn't up with his best - total codswallop, some like to critisise because it strokes their perceived superiority. It must be sad. Fear not, Tombland will have you enthralled through its 860 or so pages of novel, followed by a 50 page essay and bibliography of his sources. 

  

 

Blackbirds

 

Blackbirds

There is a lull this evening when the world

holds its breath, the rain has stopped and the sun's

warm rays embrace all then slowly slip away

and colours in the garden become richer, deeper

and that's when our blackbird sings, five notes

five notes again, then seven then five,

piercing and startling the air

in clear brightening joy.

I recall a village in the Cotswolds

where we slept in a sandstone cottage,

golden in the late afternoon sun,

and the back garden with its rock wall looked

onto a field where rabbits hopped and a blackbird's

song shimmered the air into the evening. We ate

at a table flush with prosciutto and local cheeses

and toasted our travels with fine Merlot.

Now, I just read about those Russian missile

and drone attacks on a children's hospital in Kyiv.

One young lass with her hand blown off, another a leg.

Deformed for life. How brave you warriors

must feel... A crow caws to the falling night.

Merlot – French - the little blackbird

Time: the Act

 

This short story was written in late July 2023 following the first birthday of our grandson Lenny, and the death of Sinead O'Connor, Irish singer/songwriter and author of her autobiography Rememberings. The story explores what could well happen with the development of AI. 

                                                            Time: The Act

Our grandson turned one years old on 26 July 2023 and we were to visit Melbourne for his birthday and look after him for 4 days. Prior to going there my son Jamie, his dad, had sent some images using an AI software which projected what he may look like in two or three years. He had input 30 images to generate this. The images were fabulous but we found them somewhat unsettling, ‘creepy’ said my wife, ‘scary’ said I. It was as if time had been manipulated.

On the plane down I was reading a C.J.Sansom novel set in the sixteenth century. I was totally engrossed and yet here I was in a 21st century jet, 35,000 feet above sea level.

In the year of M21, ‘M’ being Murdoch, ‘Anno Domini’ having been superceded by the UN with much opposition from the poorer countries, Lenny Mac was asked by his advertising company to find an ‘office girl’ in Robotics. Inc. These were actual robots as opposed to those purveyed through DNA True Humans. Inc which were far more expensive. There were mid priced hybrids but the DNA ‘human’ parts had objected to the instant robotic solution and the robotic bits had complained that the human bits were too slow, and consequently the hybrids were inclined to occasional internal combustion. To look at, each was identical, human like in every respect. So Lenny purchased a pure robot of Sinead O’Connor for a huge sum paid by his London advertising company.

In the office unveiling ceremony Lenny had unscrewed the top from the metal casket and pressed ‘start’ on the remote button. Sinead sat up. She was fully clothed and seemingly breathing.

Exclamations of “Oh wow” “Holy shit” “I don’t believe it” etc. came from the onlookers, four men and three women.

Sinead looked at each one. “Well Sinead where have you landed yourself this time?” she asked herself in her Dublin accent.

“Sinead,” said a tall smooth looking casually dressed dude. “My name is Robert Brookes and I’m the CEO of Brooke’s Beats which is a well subscribed advertising agency in central London. You’re in good company and I expect you’ll enjoy your time with us, a bit of office work, composing jingles, that sort of thing, nothing too strenuous. Lenny here will be your mentor. If you have any issues, please don’t hesitate… My door is open.”

“Well there’s an issue here for a start, your worship. I am no two bit jingle singer Sonny Jim. I’m a fooking world class Irish artist…”

“Lenny, sort it” replied Brookes exiting.

Later, after Lenny had presented Sinead her employment duties in the best possible terms, some acting, some singing, no stress, she was still thinking of doing the bolt but she had taken a liking to him. Martin, his offsider and a bit of a lad had other ideas.

“So Lenny, do we pop Sinead back in her casket tonight?”

“I’m not going back in there auld son. Do ye think I’m a fookin’ corpse or wha? I’m sure Lenny has a spare couch... or something. I’m aching for a wee bit of comfort if you get my drift.”

“Lenny, what say we grab a couple of six packs and head back to your place with the casket?” said Martin.

“Marty there are times I despair of you. You do realise Sinead is covered by the Act, the Robotic Ethics Act?”

Yes indeed. The Act had come about when the UK government in a misguided attempt to top up Treasury had commissioned DNA True Humans Inc. with producing a live Queen Elizabeth 1. It had cost them over 3 billion Pounds Sterling which they hoped to recoup, double in fact, with tourism and a zoomed Fox News special segment at half time NBL. The DNA had been ‘harvested’ not from the well dead clacking remains thank Murdoch (May He Always be With Us), but from hair in a jeweled box at Hampton Court. The government had opted for DNA rather than an AI robotic approximation in order to hear and see exactly how Her Majesty had spoken, thought and walked. However, the age of the resultant ‘Being’ was determined by the age of the DNA and in this case a 14 year old Princess Elizabeth was delivered. Cost blowout max. They’d come this far and had to give it another shot.

A somewhat grumpy Princess Elizabeth was given her old room at Hampton Court and visitors lined up for weeks, eventually being ‘enchanted’ by a quick glimpse of the 16th Century Queen to be. Meanwhile a second attempt produced the goods, a 58 year old live Queen Elizabeth 1, replete with red hair, white face and black teeth. She too was not happy to be alive again and rained shrill curses upon ‘whomever has wrenched me from the arms of Morpheus.’ She was eased into her old rooms at Richmond Castle, and a new mattress, top of the range at Sleep City, the Rip Van Winkle (Version 4), was installed. Alas and alack, it was not to her taste “Would you have me drown in down, dolts?”

Her Majesty had to be persuaded by the Prime Minister to participate in the Fox News interview which would ‘be short and assist accounts enormously.’ The interviewer, Dade DeSantis Jnr 111, was renowned for his ‘no bullshit cut the crap’ style and the Brits had some misgivings but the purse strings pulled louder. The remnants of the Windsors - Buckingham Palace was now a museum - tut tutted a bit but Queen Elizabeth 1 was a Tudor and no relation anyway according to Fox News. All went swimmingly for the first minute or so, then:

“Since you died there has been speculation that you were no way the Virgin Queen and in fact had a beau, Sir Robert Diddley, sorry... Dudley, and that you may have been implicated in the death of his wife who was launched down some stairs. Whadya say to that Majesty?”

The old Monarch’s eye twitched, her head shook. She was silent for 30 seconds (‘Dead Air’ in media terms) then replied, “I apologise to Humanity for encouraging Drake and Raleigh to explore the Americas. Had I known this to be the result I would have washed my hands of it.”

“DID YOU Sleep With Him? YES or no?”

“I will say this: a clear and innocent conscience has nothing to fear. Dudley was a dear friend for many years. I was blessed with a handful of friends but he was the sweetest and dearest. I still mourn his passing. I loved him greatly. You would besmirch his memory with filthy accusations. If you are a prime example of humanity in the Americas, then God help it and all who reside in it. You disgust me.” And with that, she walked from the room.

Social media in the UK went ballistic, so much so that the press took the initiative ‘Our Blessed Monarch Insulted by USA’ and ‘Our Betty Lectures USA on Morals’ etc. and the populace became so incensed that, had the USA not been the UK’s biggest and best military ally with a mountain of weaponry, war undoubtedly would have been declared. This led to Parliament passing the Robotics Ethics Act which provided robots, DNA, AI and hybrids with their own disabling mechanism should they feel ethically compromised. It also put the onus on owners to be mindful of the robot’s sensibilities, or the Act would be applied. This, Lenny reminded Marty was law and effectively recognised that robots had feelings like humans. It was landmark legislation.

Lenny did indeed have a couch and took Sinead home rather than ‘pop her back in the casket’. 

“So Lenny why did you choose me? You find me attractive?”

“I’ve enjoyed your recordings from an early age Sinead, my parents and grand parents loved your stuff. My granddad had a DVD of two of your gigs which I watched so many times… Apart from that I thought you courageous, inspiring, your protests were brave.”

“Ruined my career unfortunately, for some time. I got the establishment offside. And all those boos. Frank Sinatra and Danny DeVito threatened to punch my lights out. Word was disseminated that she was loopy, a lunatic.”

“But time proved you right, the Church hid pedophiles.”

“Yes Ratzinger himself, the Pope was involved, moving offenders in Germany to other parishes. But I ask you again, why me?”

“I should mention. You died on my first birthday, 26 July 2023.”

“You are kidding? Wha? We are cosmically connected my Lenny.”

“Sinead the main reason I used to convince boss dude Robert was that you would epitomise our vision. Courageous and brave, with empathy, a moral imperative, putting a human face on our advertising company with all of those qualities plus artistry and defiance if needed.”

“Lenny, I’ve never heard such a load of crap.”

“See! You have that ability to suss the bullshit…”

Now, they both rolled around on the carpet in mirth.

Is this when Lenny tells Sinead about his girlfriend Maddy?

Does Maddy find them in a compromising situation? Would the writer be so gauche?

Will Sinead ever write a jingle? Can’t see it really but who knows?

What happened to the two Elizabeths?

Does the writer have a surprise ending?

I’ll let you know. Perhaps.

Seasons Late Winter 2024

 

The late Winter flowers are starting to emerge.

Creamy white jonquils stand tall beneath the peach trees.

Purple and white hellebores with downcast faces

look to their earth mother in dismay.., come closer!

Purple buds of daphne set to explode

with their intense sweet citrus perfume

Lemon and lime glow in yellow orbs

a gift of tang to our kitchen creations.

Yesterday two hawks screeched in mid air combat

I hope it's no bad omen. One flew directly

at my head. Perhaps they were courting.

A hungry fox noses around the middle dam

sniffing for a delight of duck, or turtle

or any good luck. Meanwhile close by, two roos

jump across the trail, the larger one also

jumps the paddock fence. The joey slowly

skirts alongside the road searching for

some way through, and finds her access

of deliverance. The mother is now nowhere in sight.

The fox I spot down in the valley,

it trots nonchalantly biding its time.

The joey I can see among the high grass

she stands there gazing at me. We wait.

The world moves in constant flux. Seasons delight

and dismay. Will the Lord of Fire afflict

us again? Gina and her minions

Dutton and Barnaby, the LNP

those careless hawkers of fossil fuel

continue to stoke climate change disasters

in this fragile world. Crimes against humanity?

History should not be kind. Lest we forget.

Now Trump may return. I can't believe folk

will vote him in. But they have a different sort

of people over there, many who believe his spin

his snake oil spruiking tout of faith. The Lord

saved him from the bullet. Praise The Lord.

Believe in Sanctified Destiny!

Raise your fists for deliverance.

I am your saviour, your retribution!

Another rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem.

Putin believes in a Holy War. The seat of Russian

orthodoxy lies in Kiev. Ukraine is Russian territory.

The Patriarch Kirill has told him so. Putin is

a 'gift from god'. We shape our gods.

And clothe them in garments stitched

to suit the narrative. It has always been so.

Netanyahu seeks to obliterate the enemy

in the name of 'god', quoting from the Book

of Samuel. 'Blot out the memory of Amalek

from under Heaven. Do not spare them'

said God to Samuel. 'Put to death men

and women, children and infants, cattle

and sheep, camels and donkeys.' Near forty

thousand Palestinians have been slaughtered

so far in this almighty retribution.

The renowned Jewish rabbi Hillel had this

saying 'Do not do unto others what

you would not have done to yourself.' Israel

has seemingly forgotten what the Nazi did.

A majority support Netanyahu's slaughter.

Holy Land? Your god has abandoned you.

In fact you blew Him to bits last Tuesday

He was part of that Aid convoy in Gaza.

Put your shekels away, you are beyond

Absolution.

.

Now the wind blasts fiercely chasing the tail

of Winter.

Such are the changing Seasons.

Trump, Putin and Netanyahu will have theirs.

Then sink to dust

derided and damned by History.

Now the Superb Wren flits among bushes

in blue flashes, past the golden wattle.

His dowdy but charming female trusts her

instinct for provision. The tiny

Silver-Eyes float down in twittering green

flock into the pink blossom of cherry

and prunus. Tulips rise in startling

colours, magnolias toast the garden

in purple and white chalices held aloft.

Here's to rebirth and a renewal of hope.

Cheers.

  

 

                                                                Vale Edna O'Brien

London '69 and I'm at a party talking with Edna O'Brien,

animated, talented and beautiful, whom I have just met.

“Edna, do you read Sean O'Casey?”

“I do indeed. I love the man. His plays, his autobiographies

all six, such spirit, such writing.”

“And you do know that males improve with age?”

“I do indeed. Yeats of course. A sage.”

She was smiling in recalling the poem.

Then she asked in her sweet lilting Irish accent

“And will you always be faithful and true to me, Barry?”

To which I replied “Well of course Edna, one would aim for it,

one would wish fidelity to be a cornerstone of any relationship.

How could it be other? But that said, nothing in this world is certain.”

“Barry, that's a tad equivocal if you don't mind me saying,

in fact wishy washy, it's short of a sure-fire commitment,

'one would aim for it'. Spare me such tosh and balderdash.”

“Edna, tell me you like James Joyce.”

“Barry... Joyce is the mountain, the aspiration, the alpha and omega,

the poetic impulse for the Irish and even some of the Heathen

the Voice of God, I'm humbled to even speak of him.”

“Edna, will you always be faithful and true to me?”

“Baz, if I may be familiar, one would of course

aim for it but I'll be forthright.

If say, Sean Connery, Robert Mitchum, Michael Caine

or Marlon Brando were to hang their hat on my door,

I would let Nature take its course.

Just saying, we Irish do not look a gift horse in the mouth.

But heavens above I would hate to be perceived as a floozy,

a flibbertigibbet, a tart or a strumpet. I'm no bed hopper.

There would need to be love in it...

I've been married Barry, and for me, never again.”

“I take it that's a no Edna?”

“You can bet your sweet sonnets on it Sonny Jim.”

[Edna O' Brien was married to Ernest Gebler, a Dublin native, and they had two children.

It didn't work out. He was about 20 years older, and although a successful author

he became jealous of her success, in fact later claiming he'd written her novels.

I recently bought her collected short stories in Melbourne, The Love Object which I'm reading and enjoying between other books. It lead me to read her initial trilogy, The Country Girls which has been sitting on my bookshelf for some years now, along with her compilation of Irish poetry, Some Irish Loving. The Country Girls is now considered a classic of its time although it was banned in Ireland, denounced from the pulpit and copies were burned. Such was the power of the Irish Catholic Church, now diminished due to numerous sexual abuse scandals. It struck me that much of The Country Girls and some of the short stories were obviously taken from her life, so I bought her autobiography, Country Girl, written in her 80s – she's 91 now. I'm Edna'd out, but it's a good read and she mentions those famous movie stars above.

I remembered a recent dream I had, and there it is. Written in December 2023.]

A Winter Solstice

 

A Winter Solstice.

The wind roars like an unruly sea

on the hill above and below:

the axis of solstice pivots the planet.

The solstice is cast upon the earth

now the spectres are abroad

the druids are chanting and walking in rings

saying longer days to come we'll see

and longer days are to come.

They are renowned for astute prophesy.

She left when she should have stayed.

Sun and ice are stirred with sticks

the solstice spins the winter will.

Now she is gone so what do we do?

We live and we'll live as we must.

She is gone and we live as we must.

The druids are chanting and walking in rings

we live as we must and the days will be long

until she returns until she returns.

The robin turns with his scarlet breast

and roos like sentries gaze with intent

the ends of a rainbow they came and went.

We live by the warmth of the fire within

it glows against the winter chill

it glows, so it glows, upon the hill.

Sun and ice are stirred with sticks

the solstice spins the winter will.

 

Travels With My Camera – April 2024 Spain

I have always wanted to see more of Spain, having visited Barcelona some years ago, and then being informed by a good friend that I 'really should see' three great cities in the south, Granada, Cordoba and Seville. So, as it happened our daughter Cara who lives in Bali was keen on returning to Barcelona and our grand daughter Kaya was planning a trip to Madrid from her base in London, and both wanted to visit the southern cities.

My wife assigned the jobs, itinerary then accommodation, travel and tourist attraction bookings. She's a great organiser. And I was informed that my inclusion on this trip was shaky to say the least; apparently I have been known to delay proceedings by taking photos and getting lost. “What??” I objected. “I get bad press.” A verbal parry. Astonishment. Incredulity. Leads you nowhere. The daughter and grand daughter backed her up. “I'll be good” I promised.

Now, first things first, I asked myself, which camera and lenses to take? Barcelona has a bit of a reputation for appropriation of tourist goods, the other places have a low crime rate. I was reticent to risk my good Olympus or Fuji being stolen, so after much deliberation I decided to take the older, diminutive but capable Olympus Mk10 series 2, with the all purpose excellent 12-40 pro and the 75-300 for surfing shots in Bali on the return trip. I also packed a wee point and shoot Fuji just in case.

It turned out to be a great trip, one of the best. Spaniards have a respect for their art, resplendent in art galleries, cathedrals, churches and museums, their monuments and architecture, many of which are astounding. The use of camera was allowed in all places we visited, apart from the fabulous Prado museum. It's probably just as well, or I'd have still been there, and the ladies would have departed without a backward glance...

Historical buildings such as the magnificent Alhambra fortress in Granada and the Mezquita, a huge mosque/cathedral in Cordoba, just up from the wide Roman bridge which has served the city for 2000 years, show evidence of the conquerors' rule to be well intact. The Romans were there 600 years and the Moors with their Islamic imprint, for almost 800 years.

We found Spaniards to be lively and friendly. Spanish culture is vibrant. It relishes night time interaction, with music, song and dance, oh and the food! We are all foodies and the Spanish tapas

are reasonably priced and amazing, in fact we had more 'wow factors' than any country except perhaps Vietnam. Their seafood is fabulous, chargrilled octopus was delicious and different each time, also the whole baby calamari, cerviche in citrus sauce, yum. Other fare was just as good - the twice stewed oxtail, pork cheeks in semi-sweet sauce, grilled provolone with chimmichurri, and Black Russian tomatoes with anchovies were but a few of the wows! Spanish beer and wine is first rate, and cheap, and wow'd us constantly, well... not constantly... but I could say that seldom an evening was blighted by thirst ha ha.

So for photography, a good low light lens is necessary for evening/night shots in narrow cobbled streets or dusky and atmospheric cathedrals and I found the 2.8 aperture on the 12-40 Pro to be very good with ISO on auto, plus its 5 stop stabilisation. In retrospect I would have added the tiny 45mm f 1.8, but the zoom lens, despite being a little slower, was successful. Also I would have taken images in RAW format instead of JPG to allow for greater post processing latitude but all in all it worked out well.

A couple of photographic stories. I met a tall, spindly black American 'dude', he was 82 and was wearing a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. Apart from an interesting theory about Jimi's demise and a lively discussion on West African music, he was a photographer by trade and was eager to show me his portfolio. Well, it was magnificent. Big Mel had travelled throughout the globe and showed me images from Africa, South America, the Middle East, Asia etc., and most were from film apart from a handful of more recent digital . He now shoots, and is happy with, Sony.

The other story is that daughter Cara and I took images of a person walking towards us in a dark, narrow, lamplit laneway in Seville. Her IPhone image was really dramatic right out of the box. They must have a library of image types to draw from, which AI then applies to the image taken. My rather flat image has been resurrected in post processing, but it made me wonder whether for travelling, an iPhone or good Android might be more efficient and less obvious? Coincidentally, a dodgy looking guy in Barcelona was quite brazen in eyeing off my camera bag...