Bilbao

Mornings, smell of the strong detergent sprayed by the street cleaning machines. Doorsteps liberally splashed over with Don Limpio. Women shaking out rugs from upstairs windows and hanging out washing. Is there even a word in Spanish for tumble dryer?

Caged songbirds on the windowledges and balconies trilling. Scents of dark tobacco, frying, burnt milk. Out of town there was the tang of something industrial in the air, familiar but unplaceable, then I saw, mountains of scrap metal: the odour of rust in the noon sun.

Saturday evening in the Casco Viejo and the kids are everywhere, decanting cheap rum and juice concentrate into empty Fuensanta bottles, vodka into Fanta, whiskey into Coke. Acrid whiff of spirits and perfume and synthetic fruit. I'm in Barnsley!