The day is like every other – empty, refracted with broken glass, a smog of dust and desolation. Alfi sits low on the pavement, heavy with six months of collected books, a new and necessary beach umbrella, a cooler, yet-to-be-used rolls of canvas, 4 litres of emergency burst-hose water, 4 litres of motor oil, a spare can of gas, and for some reason, though we plan to camp for the next several weeks, we can’t seem to leave behind our electric fan. It’s straight to the Algarve, if we can get everything into her. Saying goodbye to the conservatory is bittersweet – it’s dreamlike, summoning up our awe, our anticipation when we first arrived here. The patio’s marble’s about to melt. Seville sleeps in this summer heat, its residents splashing and browning themselves on the Atlantic coast in immaculate white condominiums, its tourists drying up for a day, passing through its magnificent cathedral and then hitting the highway for the Costa del Sol. All that’s left are those who can’t see beyond the discomfort – the grubby bearded fellow sitting in a pool of his own thick urine, elated, sipping from a tetra-pack of three-dollar wine, and many versions of Jesus, kneeling, long-haired, heads to the grotty cobblestone, with hands outstretched. Packing up – pulling the conservatory’s huge mahogany door behind us, and pulling Alfi’s doors – today it seems the inland city, once queen of ports, sole proprietor of the New World, the place of Kings and Sultans and artists, is now the last stop for a handful of junkies, before perhaps an even hotter place. Alfi coughs and hums, with a clean bill of health except for a new squeak we’re attributing to a few hundred pounds of new stuff, and pulling away from No. 21 Calle Conde de Barajas, Seville, a woman, thin, dry, brown and matted, approaches through the dust, a needle in her back pocket, with clean English, professional in her inspection of us and our load. "Do you want to help me?" She’s holding a small cup and eyes our water like we’re in the middle of a desert. We share the life-juice, and then follow the highway out of town towards the Portuguese border.

Seville