Más que la belleza

A woman gets to a certain age – say just shy of forty – where she becomes more than just beautiful.  She begins to take on a patina that reflects her life and from this point you see not only the external beauty but also the beauty on the inside.  Younger girls, for all their prettiness, don’t seem to have this.  A woman reaching the point in her life where she begins to contemplate loss of youth really has nothing to fear – for the beauty she has can only deepen.

 

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Last night, after work, Miguel and I hit town.  The air was cooling but seasoned with the promise of spring and the spice of a Friday evening out.  The worst of the wind and rain had passed and a low sun blinded our view of the massage parlours and hard-drinking bars of Old Market.  We headed on to The Apple, an ex-barge moored alongside Welsh Back, our thirst intensified by the building conversation.

 

The bar is down in the hold where once was carried everything from grain to coal to paper bales and, just maybe, apples.  Once inside, the smell of cider and a slight list to starboard induce a feeling of intoxication and a wandering gait before the counter is reached.  Energy and volume were building as we placed our glasses on the table and soon topics were flying around and bouncing off the walls like renegade squash balls.  The subject of work was quickly dispensed with in favour of more pressing matters, such as Bristol’s contrasting and conflicting architectural styles.

 

Glasses were quickly re-filled and time became a vague notion as the talk turned to family, friendships, death and life – always back to life.  Old Bristolian has a deceptive sweetness and charm.  It’s one of those ciders sold only by the half-pint – a gimmick, perhaps, but there’s no doubting its heart-warming and tongue-loosening qualities. 

 

Unexpectedly, a colleague and a man we assumed to be her partner came and sat a few feet along from us.  Brief pleasantries were passed but no encroachment made by either party upon the other.  In the space of a drink or two they’d left to pursue their evening elsewhere. 

 

We mutually arrived at the entry point of the “one last drink” discussion.  While Miguel was at the bar, I took myself off to the cramped and sociable unisex heads to run off the fruit of the orchard in anticipation of a meander to a restaurant or the next watering-hole. The conversation then continued as the cider flowed within those ancient steel walls and their innumerable coats of paint.  Soon we were out into the gregarious air of the Port of Bristol.

 

“Where next?” 

 

“Food?”

 

A quick check on the time.  Just before eight. 

 

Aiming for the last train is dangerous.  I’ve come too close in the past.  The penultimate service leaves just after ten and I’ve missed it a couple of times already.  But we needed to eat – both to stave off hunger and because the evening demanded it.  It ought not to be hard to find food in this part of town with its army of affluent students and business types, but it always is.  We looked at the seafood chain across the cobbled road. 

 

“That should do it.” 

 

Seconds later we were walking back out of the door.  Neither of us having the stomach for a twenty minute wait. 

 

“Baldwin Street – can’t go wrong.”

 

There was a decent Turkish restaurant on Baldwin Street.  I couldn’t find it the last time I looked but we wove off in its general direction in the hope that I had simply mislaid it.  We took a hopeful promenade past various eateries, serving Japanese food, pizzas and pub fayre.  There was no sign of the Turkish restaurant and neither of us fancied the other offerings. 

 

A previous outing landed us in a trendy spot along the waterside where we managed to run up a hundred pounds bill on food and booze.  The memory of that stymied me outside a harmless enough looking Italian chain.  I watched Miguel’s reaction carefully.  He is a discerning diner.

 

Presently, we pushed our way through the door, falling ever-so-slightly over each other. 

 

“Table for two?” 

 

“Yes please.  By the window.” 

 

It seemed wrong not to order a bottle. 

 

“Red?” enquired Miguel.

 

“Why not?” I replied. 

 

Our waitress was a rather bonny girl who seemed authentic to the cuisine.  I asked where she was from.  She replied that she came from just outside Budapest. 

 

We poured the wine – the variety escapes me – and settled down with the menu while chatting with the waitress.

 

I still have a strong urge to try to speak to waiters in Spanish, having just returned from a short visit to Madrid.  But, in my best English, I engaged the girl with a boring old tale about motorcycling around Europe down to Greece.  

 

During the trip, I’d ridden through Hungary but didn’t even pull off the road to look at Budapest, being rather hung-over from a very sociable evening in Sankt Polten. Instead, I carried on south to a campsite close to the city of Szeged.  The waitress chatted amiably about Budapest in between servicing the other tables.

 

We were eventually served a very pleasant beef stew.

 

As Miguel and I chatted energetically, I looked at my watch.  The station is about 15 minutes away at a brisk walk but I was coming down with a heavy cold and carrying a laptop in my rucksack.  I weighed the options. 

 

“Any chance of a bed for the night at your place?”  I asked. 

 

“Of course.”  Miguel replied, brightly, pouring the last of the bottle.

 

With N away for the year, there’s a certain amount of latitude with these things. 

 

That left us free to order a postre and coffee.

 

Life teaches us that one ought not to mix drinks and so far we’d grazed our way through several pints of local cider –  Old Bristolian and Heck’s Kingston Black – and a fairly reasonable bottle of Italian red.  A few nights before, I’d seen off nearly half a bottle of frozen vodka on arriving home from Madrid.  A necessary palliative at the time, but no doubt largely to blame for the cold I now had.  I’d intended to abstain for the rest of the week in order to cleanse my system.  Best laid plans…

 

At some point before eleven p.m. we decided to head in the general direction of Miguel’s flat, off Gloucester Road.  As we passed the pubs, bars and cafes of urban-guerrilla Stokes Croft and gentrifying Gloucester Road, Friday night was in full swing.  But nothing really appealed and so we called into the local supermarket for provisions, where we picked up a bottle of Rioja and a tube of Pringles.  We paused for a chat with a pretty girl at the check-out.  She had an Irish accent and I asked where she was from.  Tyrone. 

 

My mother’s side of the family are from Ireland (here I go…). 

 

“My mother’s side of the family are from Ireland.” 

 

She smiled, feigning interest – whose family doesn’t have a Potato Famine connection?

 

“Where from?” she asked.

 

“Sligo and Co. Mayo.  My great-great granddad drove the stage-coach between them.”

 

This week, my mam’s local newspaper carried the story of her uncles, all ten of whom served in the First World War.   I suppose it’s to mark the centenary of that ruinous affair. 

 

I was about to regale the girl with this wonderful news when my attention was drawn to the queue forming behind me.  I smiled an apology and we wandered off harmlessly into the street with the Rioja and Pringles.  Did I mention that Miguel was a discerning diner?

 

We arrived at Bishopston heading uphill towards my lodgings for the night.  Miguel’s place is a basement or “garden” flat and this one actually has a garden – huge considering its urban location – where we stood for a moment and admired the stars shining brightly in the cool night. 

 

The interior of the flat oozes creativity and is filled with the busy clutter of an active mind.  There’s something sterile about a home without clutter.  Glasses filled again, the conversation continued from the kitchen into the living-room pausing at photographs, paintings and various fascinating books – I recognised my uncle’s family history still sitting in the “pending” pile after nearly two years.  The TLS was folded on a table awaiting a quiet moment.

 

It’s odd what one picks up on.  Miguel’s was the second flat I’d visited in a week where the washing machine was squeezed into the bathroom – I expect it works as well in Bishopston as it does in Madrid. 

 

The wearying effect of the alcohol caught up with us sometime around two, and I crashed in the shirt I’d worn for a project-management “health-check” interview that morning.  There’s still something satisfying about sleeping with one’s cuff-links still attached.  

I woke around six-thirty needing the toilet.  Outside, the sun was shining again.  Splendid!  Inside, the scene wasn’t so attractive.  There’s no point in hanging around the morning after.  I suggested that we do breakfast on Gloucester Road. 

 

We took a turn around the garden on the way out.  I admired the early spring flowers and view of the BRI hospital chimney, wondering if it was used purely for heating or whether the smoke might contain wisps of carbonised human limbs and discarded kidneys.

 

After breakfast, Miguel and I wandered a little way in the sun before bringing the evening’s conversation to a gentle close with a smile and a hand-shake.  

The walk from Gloucester Road to Temple Meads was one of the longest of my life – not helped by sickness, the warmth of the sun and the weight of the laptop bag on my shoulders.  I’d decided to shower once back in Weston and was feeling unclean – God knows how I smelled.

 

As ever, I reached the station as my train was leaving.  Just to make sure, the 10:53 had been delayed to 10:58.  The station clock was showing 10:58 as I made the platform.  Gracias!

 

It’s not so bad spending half an hour on a Saturday morning sitting on a bench in the sun.  I was soon on my way, watching the Somerset Levels through the window and listening to The Charlatans.

 

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A woman standing by the door caught my eye.  She wasn’t young, but she was striking.  I looked at her face.  There was something about her features.  They told a story – something of the woman inside – something beyond beauty.

 

A smile is like an opened window.