A rebel without a clue.

Part One. Coming up out of Leeds in the mist. Up Through Horsforth towards the flight to Reus. My final pilgrimage of 2025 as the season changes into Autumn. A spectacular Saturday afternoon gestating Leeds at its insidious worst. The entrails of Sunday discharged like afterbirth along Albion Street and Boar Lane. Part of me wants to follow L'Ebro to the Delta and the other me wants to walk with pilgrims westward towards Logroño. *** LBA. Minus the human carnage, it's stunning up here overlooking the runway at Leeds Bradford Airport. Out of the mist and into the azure beyond where my feet keep on keeping on: where I am not being forced into a smaller and smaller box by circumstances: mother, mental health, Lola's aging or Wetherby's hostile pressure. In Leeds Bradford Airport there is a new departure lounge. It's still an airport cluster-fuck, but it's a vast improvement on the restrictive space after Duty Free; it's a meditative space if you can survive the...

ACT I – A Pincho Too Far. Setting: Casa Alberto, Tudela. A dim, narrow bar smelling faintly of bleach, Rioja, and fried cartilage. The counter is cluttered with half-drained glasses, pinchos under glass domes, and a small handwritten sign: “Menú del Día — Oreja de Cerdo.” The lighting flickers slightly, unsure whether to flatter or expose. Characters: DANIEL (The Peregrine): worn, wry, a pilgrim of mixed conviction. Sandals dusty, eyes alert to absurdity. ALBERTO: the barman. Mid-forties, dead behind the eyes but efficient. Moves like someone who stopped listening years ago. THE SHADOW: a gaunt man in cheap sportswear, glassy-eyed, perpetually hovering — left, right, forward, back. His presence is an itch that won’t scratch. THE PIG’S EAR: glistening, stubborn, and silent. --- [Lights rise. The hum of the fridge. A muted TV showing a bullfight rerun.] ALBERTO (flat): Oreja de cerdo? DANIEL (hesitant): Sí… why not? ALBERTO (shrugs, disappears into the kitchen). [THE SHADOW appears, circ...