It’s Friday, and I decide that the best use of my time before a leisurely weekend with Darling would be to climb up my favourite thing: Montjuic.
I’m not sure what it is.
Or exactly how many steps there are.
But I am in a love-hate relationship with climbing all the way to the top, cursing my tiny asthmatic lungs all the while.
You would think that the awareness that:
Asthma + Climbing lots of steps = Unable to breathe
Would result in the sensible idea of taking it slow, enjoying the view, a nice, relaxing and gentle climb.
Everytime I end up here, I am like a kid at Christmas, where the only present I have is at the top of the seemingly endless steps.
I rush up eagerly, racing no-one (except myself) and then have to pause, drink some water, disturbingly eat a pastry after all of that intolerable exercise..
This time is no different, apparently.
It isn’t as warm as the first time I climbed up to the top, and the hope that I could lazily (after a new discovery of the chance to skip a large part of walking) take the Metro and then perhaps even a cable car (I know! I Know! Terrible. (And I would have still had a pastry at the top anyway!)) was squashed before it could become a terribly bad habit that I am sure would tempt me far too regularly to be proud of myself for it.
The Metro station was closed for maintence.
As were the cable cars.
And I was as improperly dressed as usual.
And so I rushed my way up, relieved to be surrounded by nature, even if it was so far removed from anything back in Cornwall, or England.
I love the dirt paths, the strange pathways of stairs, and the heroic people you see running- yes, RUNNING, around here, making me yearn to be as physically fit and determined while at the same time still rather fancying just to eat a cream cake.
Plus, the views are something else.
As you go up, you gradually receive a gradual expansion of the view over the city.
Such tiny buildings, all the colours and rooftops