I was lonely there. I felt bad. In the greyness of the city everything was closed. The streets were deserted every afternoon. The last few holiday-makers were trying at the end of September to wring some satisfaction from the fading sun.

I took the night train to Barcelona. I found what I was looking for in a phrase book: a coche cama single, for one person, no sharing. We started at seven in the evening and by eleven I felt tired enough to make up my bed and close the curtains on the small lights which the train flew past.

Barcelona. I did not know what to expect. Bigger than San Sebastian certainly and seedier with a different light coming in from the sea. The Mediterranean. The wide streets bright in the morning. The side streets offering shade. I imagined, but I did not know what to expect. Maybe the sound of the word Bar-ce-lo-na, the sense of pleasure which I caught from the sound of the words, maybe it was the sounds which exerted themselves and held me.

The moment I awoke I knew someone was in the compartment. The train was moving fast. It was still dark so I could see nothing. I stayed still and tried to keep breathing as though I were still asleep. There was no question of this being a dream. I knew I was awake; I knew what was happening. This was the night train to Barcelona, some hours before the dawn.

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