My journey started on Saturday evening with me taking the night train (plus sleeper) to Paris. Then I spent Sunday revisiting the places I used to frequent when I was there as an art student. It was astonishing how the atmosphere of Paris came rushing back, to immerse me in nostalgia. I associate it with an undisciplined freedom for self-expression. I suppose I feel this to some degree whenever I obtain distance from home, but never more than in Paris. Apart from just walking round the place, all I had time for was to visit a few exhibitions, and to pick up a sum of money (exchanged on the black market) from one of David S’s business friends, which will be sufficient to see me through these travels.

I caught the night train to Barcelona - but no sleeper this time.... I find that I am travelling far too heavy, with far more baggage than might be sensible. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring all my painting equipment with me....

On arriving here at 15.00 hrs on Monday, I had no idea where I should go. But there were men standing outside the station eager to persuade people such as myself to let them take them to some pension or other - earning both a tip from the tourist and a commission from the pension, I suppose. This method of selecting a pension turned out to be quite suitable for my purposes - and especially interesting to me in that the man took me to one on the fringe of Barcelona’s red light district.

My room is facing on the street, and it’s very quiet during the day. But it becomes difficult to sleep at night because of all the row that goes on below until about six in the morning. It’s a bit grim in some ways. High buildings with narrow lanes between them. I could almost spit across the street at my neighbours - an elderly couple who sit indoors the whole time, reading a newspaper or knitting. If I sit here for much longer watching them, I shall have to start a painting of their open window with its little iron balustrade.

But I don’t really have the time at the moment, for I’ve been working hard over these first few days on learning some Spanish vocabulary and the essential grammar. I have brought along with me one of those books from the "Teach Yourself" series. It’s the first time I’ve ever tried learning a language this way, so I’m eager to see if I make any progress. It’s all pretty tedious and repetitive for the moment. And it doesn’t leave me with much time to do anything else.

I’m suffering from the gippy tummy that was predicted for me from a surfeit of all the oily salads that they dish up in this pension. I’m also wondering if there are bugs in the bed, because something is biting me.

Contrary to my expectations, it seems to have been raining quite a lot - although it’s a warm rain, and not at all like England.... I’ve also eaten my first ever snails and a squid, which tasted rubbery....

On Wednesday evening I went out exploring the night-spots. It’s really the streets which lead off the one where my pension is situated which have all the bars and brothels. But the men go stampeding up my street, and then dribbling off into the ones on the side so that there’s no one left at all by the time you reach the top - rather like a river gushing into the desert.

The brothels looked repulsive - even more sordid than Cobblers’ Alley in Brunswick. Fat old bags standing round in a half naked condition, with a crowd of men watching them from the entrance as if they were looking at pigs in a sty. In one of them there must have been a fight between two of the whores just before I arrived, in that their blouses were all ripped, and they were still screaming at one another from opposite sides of the room....

There was a cafe where there was some flamenco dancing. Then various of the customers stood up and sang songs in the Spanish style - with lots of warbling notes. But I noted how, as soon as the two wealthy tourists had paid their bill and departed, all such contributions ceased. It became a cafe like any other. And I observed the owner go up to the ones who had been singing and pay them for their efforts. I wondered how much else of the atmosphere in other places was bogus.

I’m astonished at the quantity of beggars, many of whom would appear to be blind - unless that too is an act. But the cripples can’t be faked. I suppose it’s the legacy of their civil war. They stand at all the street corners selling lottery tickets. A whole lot of women too, with their ragged children in tow. It would be stupid to give something to all of them, so I had to make a policy of hardening my heart from the very start - while blaming the society which produces all this squalor.

I’ve now been to a bull-fight, but found it a miserable business. Besides it was pouring with rain, and I got utterly soaked. It was not without its moments of excitement however, when the matador tripped up and fell under the bull - although he wasn’t actually gored.

A young woman has arrived at the pension who looks both pretty and sexy. But it’s as if she comes from another planet. I simply don’t know what I should say to her, to start a conversation - especially in that we have no language in common. Although I would have liked to chat with her, even to date her, I simply didn’t dare try.

I completed that painting, and am well pleased with it in that it has atmosphere. And it’s good to find that I haven’t lost my former touch. It was almost a year since I last painted a picture.

I never really got to know the sexy girl, although in her own way, she may have been giving me some encouragement. So I did get opportunities to talk to her - without actually being able to say anything because of the minimal Spanish vocabulary which I possess.

There was one evening when we were all sitting round the dining-room in the pension, they started a sing-song, and soon a request was made for me to sing them an English song. Such a request never gets made in Britain - or not within such a context. I was smitten with self-consciousness and couldn’t perform, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Eventually one of the other pensioners came to my assistance and started singing `Tipperary’, urging me to join in with him - which I did. But there was a Spaniard who had been just listening to us all, without participating. So the pressure was now put on him to show us what he could do. He stood up and promptly gave a performance which was almost operatic in its warbling professionalism. It made our rendering of `Tipperary’ appear ridiculous by comparison.

There is a young Norwegian who has arrived at the Pension Royal, and he started by sharing a table with me. He claims that he can speak nine languages - which shames me somewhat. He was also at pains to tell me how fervent a Catholic he is, and how he has emigrated to Spain because he cannot stand the Protestant disposition which prevails in Norway. He became almost insufferable when he got going upon the oddity of the situation in finding him (a Catholic) sharing this table with me (a Protestant). I felt an urge to shock him, so I told him that I wasn’t a Protestant, but an atheist. (In point of fact I fall into neither of those categories, but his smugness needed a jolt.) He retorted aggressively "I pity you!" But pity is only genuine if it remains a discreet feeling within the heart, and verbally unstated. His brand of pity was just an arrogant claim to one-upmanship. We now sit at different tables!

The most memorable touristic aspect of Barcelona was the panoramic view after taking the funicular railway to the summit of the Tibaldo mountain. Also that superbly grotesque new cathedral that is being built, with lizards and other beasts sculpted into the architectural design.

I went for another stroll round the nightlife of Barcelona, which gave rise to one faintly embarrassing experience. I sat down in a cafe and found myself getting pestered by a couple of deaf and dumb women, who were probably in their thirties and not at all attractive. But I couldn’t very well turn my back on them in that they were being so overtly friendly - communicating with a lot of squeaky sounds and much sign language. But they were soon becoming too intimate - stroking my cheek and appearing to question me on how many times it was in a day that I shaved. I indicated with a single finger that it was once. But they must have been enquiring how many years it was that I had been shaving, for they went into cackles of hissing laughter. I quickly reached the conclusion that it would be safest for me to depart.

On Wednesday I made the journey by train to Valencia. I am travelling on a comprehensive ticket which will permit me to go everywhere that I need to visit in Spain - although I am still required to pay supplementary sums if I want to use the faster trains, which I shall do after now experiencing the tedium of a slow train. I was pleased on the journey to find that I was already managing to hold very simple conversations in Spanish with some people in the same compartment as myself - giving answers to simple questions, after getting them to repeat what they were saying until I had understood.

That evening I went to a fiesta of Spanish song, along with a French boy who is staying at the same pension. With regard to the singing, I must confess to finding the whole experience monotonous and boring. My ear cannot be attuned to their manner of song. But there was some flamenco dancing too, and that I thoroughly enjoyed. A pity there was so little of it.

On Thursday I went for my first bathe - along with the French boy, who is called Jean-Francois. We went by bus to a beach near Valencia, and it was glorious - the sea almost warm, and wonderful sunshine so that we could bake ourselves on the sand.

Reports about the strictness over their regulations upon swim wear appear to be exaggerated. I’d been given to understand that even men were supposed to have their chests covered, but it doesn’t seem to be as bad as that. Jean-Francois however has apparently been told that his "slip" was too brief. He was still wearing it, and it didn’t surprise me that objections could have been raised. I think that it would have given rise to some curious glances even on an English beach. He told me that he had to be careful about what he wore if it was in the vicinity of a town, but that it didn’t seem to matter further afield.

The pension here seems to be full of English people, which isn’t really what I want. I found myself having to swap tables to get away from continual conversations with an old lady who looked like a toad - probably a governess. I’m now sharing a table with a Belgian professor, who tries to be enormously helpful with regard to my tourism.

I have been to a Spanish film, and couldn’t follow it in any way at all. But I am still making some progress with the language - learning a new list of words each day.

Sunday was a day of wide scale festivity throughout Spain - something to do with their celebration of the Franco regime. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen an acoustic firework display starting at midday - a fanfare of explosions going off in successive chains round all the streets of the town, followed by huge rockets being fired off within the principal squares. It was strangely exciting - despite my dislike for all that Franco stands for - as if a battle was raging all round us.

I caught a glimpse of an army parade, which was far less impressive - looking more like a performance by the Eton College Cadet Corps. It was as if they were all playing some military game, and that’s more or less how the spectators treated it too.

It was late evening before the real celebrations began. I watched an impressive display of folk dancing, and there was also a big fair. But the climax took the form of another firework display when it was approaching midnight. I have no hesitation in saying that these were the best I’ve ever seen. A whole avenue had been illuminated for them, and the sky was literally filled with rockets, triggering hidden switches in the sky so that the air was laden with bursting domes of coloured light. But what an expense it must all have cost - and with so many beggars roaming the streets uncared for!

It was a boring tail end to my stay in Valencia. A lot of bathing, although I managed to get stung by a jelly-fish for the first time in my life. And I completed a painting of a bull-fight, which pleases me. And I’ve managed to get a touch of the sun, which amounts to a feeling that I have flu - worsened by another bout of tummy-trouble. My landlady insisted that I take one of her special remedies, which didn’t seem to help. But I feel rather better now that I’ve taken some aspirin.

A weird old Spanish lady with dyed red hair came up to me in the street to ask if I was English. We then had a conversation about how I was enjoying Spain. When she asked me which part of Britain I came from, and I said the West Country. She replied: "That must account for your Somerset accent!" She kept talking about "Us", as if we were both English - although it was clear to me that she wasn’t.

I’m never quite clear how odd my own appearance might be considered by others. I have a way of striding along looking straight ahead of me - due to my self-consciousness perhaps. Nobody especially picks up on it when I am in Britain, but here in Spain it seems to cause much merriment with children, who burst out in the chorus of some song which begins: "Alo loco!" - meaning "Hello madman!" Some of them go on to ask if I’m English too - which doesn’t say much for our national reputation.

After Jean-Francois had departed, another French boy arrived - this one called Jean-Pierre, and he was even younger than the last. At sixteen, he was swaggering around as if he knew all of life’s rules. He hadn’t the slightest hesitation in coming up to introduce himself, and he was promptly demanding that I furnish him with a list of English swear-words. I find it astonishing to think that he’s just Valentine’s contemporary. There would seem to be a huge difference in the relative rate at which boys mature, in England and in France. I felt absurd in accepting this boy as someone of my own age, but that is what I did.

I find that the clothes I brought with me are too hot for this climate, so I ventured to buy myself something more in the Spanish style - in that the suits are all so cheap out here. But there was a problem in that they had nothing off the peg to fit my size. For someone of my height, the suits were all too big on the shoulders. But the tailor declared that he could alter one in the time available to him. And he did so. But now that I have collected it, I find that all he has done is to stuff out the shoulders with padding, so that I look ridiculous in it.

I took the train (or rather an auto-motor) on to Granada, and it managed to break down on the way. So I now have some personal experience of what their railway system can be like! It just stopped in the middle of nowhere, and the passengers were told to get out and wait beside the track, until a replacement auto-car arrived (one and a half hours later) to take us to our destination. Nobody seemed to know precisely what had happened, but I was told that such breakdowns are no rarity.

Even after we’d got started, it was by no means a smooth ride, being as rough as a sea-crossing can be - to an extent that I began to feel train-sick. Not having been given a corner-seat, I couldn’t hope to get any sleep. And the luggage kept falling down on my head. The whole journey took fifteen hours!

The people sitting near me were all most friendly, but they wouldn’t leave me in peace. When they saw me trying to read, they seemed to think that I required entertainment. They kept on talking to me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Their accent seemed so different to what I have encountered previously. But it worries me that I might not be making sufficient progress with my Spanish. I had thought that I was beginning to get the hang of it, but I’m no longer quite so sure. If I don’t do better than this, Dad’s predictions with regard to my linguistic abilities will be proven correct.

But as a result of this journey, I now feel that I am in the real Spain. The countryside around Granada is all so utterly different, and so much more like what I’d been expecting. And the heat is delightful. I find that I can tolerate it quite easily.

On Sunday evening I joined up with a party of other tourists who were being taken up to the Sacremonte gypsy quarter, to see the zambra dancing. I daresay that it is all laid on falsely for the sake of us tourists, without any spark of the original spontaneity, but it was none the less exciting for that. It is sufficient that it’s the sort of sight that wouldn’t come my way in Britain, so I can readily forgive the circus element. I found it wild, fierce, proud and graceful, and I intend to start my next painting on that subject - just to capture a savour of the spirit that they put into their dancing.

When we arrived at the right address, we were ushered into a small room with a tiled floor - ourselves seated at one end, and at the other all the gypsies. I was sitting on the borderline between the two groups, next to one who was quite pretty. So when I saw her looking at me with an unblinking stare, I smiled (albeit shyly). I have never received such a haughty rebuff. She whipped out her fan and fluttered it vigorously between her face and mine - deliberately making a big noise about it, which served to draw everyone’s attention to what she was doing. I found that I was blushing crimson.

But there was another young gypsy girl who was even more attractive, and she certainly gave me the impression of being friendly. She even grasped my hand in the pretence that she was reading my fortune, so that a photograph could be taken of us in that pose. But my self-confidence had now been undermined, so that I did not dare to respond to any of her slinky glances. And in any case, those glances may well have been a product of my imagination!

I was out of luck in that I was wandering round the town when the young gypsy girl called in at my pension, to deliver the photo which had been taken. The owner of the pension had taken it and paid her for it. But he was clucking away with warnings to myself about these being bad people - almost as if he sensed that I would dearly have liked to see more of her.

Indeed, it left me wondering. Might it have been her intention to let me take her out somewhere that evening? Do they cultivate such flirtation with tourists? And did the man at the pension know just how dangerous such flirtation can be? She might have been acting as a decoy to get me robbed - and perhaps castrated into the bargain!

I had a busy day Tuesday. In the morning I went up to the Alhambra to paint the scene which includes the entrance. [X] had asked me to paint her a Spanish landscape, and I think this might be a suitable choice - something that wouldn’t offend her parents’ conventional taste. I was most restrained in holding back from any distortions with which artists such as Van Gogh, Soutine, and myself too, might have preferred to inflict the subject.

On my way home, I ran into Jean-Pierre, the sixteen year-old French boy who had been at the same pension as me in Valencia. This was faintly embarrassing, in that he had given me the name of the pension that he was going on to, but I had chosen to find my own address separately. This may have offended him, but I noted how he was far nicer this time, so I may take him up on the address he has now suggested for me in Seville.

Late in the afternoon, I decided to take the trip up into the snow-peaked Sierra Nevada, to get an eyeful of the panoramic views that everyone talks about. It was a fifteen kilometre journey by tram through some of the loveliest country that I have ever seen. Also one of the most frightening of journeys, passing over narrow bridges with vertical chasms on either side. I was sweating at the palms, but no one else seemed perturbed.

When I reached the end of the ride however, I discovered that the peak was still another few hours walk further on. And since this was the last tram to be going back that evening, it was a difficult decision. But there was a young Spaniard going to trek on up to the Seminary near the summit, and he assured me that they would happily put me up overnight if I were to accompany him. So I did.

It turned out to be a pleasant adventure. We arrived at the Seminary in time for their evening meal, and I found myself the complete focus of attention at the table where they seated me. There was a calm assumption that they were speaking to a fellow Christian, and their concern was to fill me with their own appreciation that all other denominations of the Christian faith were but faded reflections of their inspirational Catholicism. I felt it diplomatic not to stress the true extent of the divide between us.

The young seminarists were firing questions at me with a delighted curiosity, and I was really on my metal to furnish them the answers which they demanded. Few of them spoke any English, so it was an excellent opportunity for me to practise my Spanish at an educated level of conversation. I am certainly matching up to the rate of progress that I set for myself. Indeed, they found it difficult to believe that I knew no Spanish at all just three weeks ago.

I was given a guest room which was almost free of charge, and attended their prayer session in the chapel early next morning. The young seminarists indicated that, as a visitor, I’d have to take my place on the small threshold to the chapel, which consisted of flint-stones embedded in concrete. Seldom in my life have I spent a more uncomfortable half hour, since those flint-stones were never designed to be a prayer mat. Or if they were, then it was as a penance for those who had sinned.

I had indeed suspected that there may have been an element of humour when my young friends indicated that I should kneel there - as a kind of character test, to see if I could endure such treatment without complaint. And this suspicion was reinforced by the fact that particular young seminarists appeared to be doing their own short penance on the flint-stones, prior to taking up their regular seats in the chapel. But I was determined to endure it for the full prayer-session, without squirming or budging the position of my knees in any way at all.

Nor did I say a word of complaint to them afterwards. They had been angling so much of their conversation beforehand to the superiority of their Catholic faith, that I was anxious not to slip in their esteem on this issue. They might not suppose that I had the right ideas when it came to religion, but they would at least have to judge that there was a toughness about my own character, which may have been an important part of their own training, but which I suspected they could not match.

After the prayers had ended, there was a delightful interlude before they had their classes to attend. They had their special games - swooping around with their gowns flapping like the wings of a bat. I never quite discerned if there were particular rules of play.

The question then arose whether it was worth my while to trek on even further to the summit itself. But that would have meant five hours to go up, and five to come down. And my trip had already taken me far longer than I had originally intended. So I decided to abandon the idea and return to the upper station where I could pick up the tram.

I have now explored all round Granada on foot, with some impressive sights for the tourist - like the Carthusian monastery. But it’s really the atmosphere of the poorer quarter which impresses - the sight of so many naked children scampering through the streets, or a mother with her breasts dangling free from her dress, sitting on a park bench and suckling her infant. The passers by seemed to treat all that as quite normal.

I took another walk up to the Sacremonte district, and had experience on how the gypsies ensnare the tourists into giving them money. It happened to me on a small enough scale. I was walking down the hill when a woman called out to me from the door of her house, beckoning gleefully as if she had something to show me inside her house. Warily I indicated that I had no money to give her. But she persisted, indicating that she didn’t want my money, but she wished me to take a look at one of these houses from the inside. Incautiously I did take a peak inside - and it was indeed laid out in house-proud fashion, probably for touristic display. I smiled my thanks to her for showing it to me, but a man promptly emerged from the shadows, with a huge scowl on his face, and giving a ludicrous show of being an outraged husband catching me in the act of making advances to his wife. It was too absurd, and we all knew it. But I promptly gave the woman a single peseta - just for appearances sake, and to avoid any conceivable excuse for unpleasantness. The scowl remained on his face however, and I was careful not to turn my back on him while withdrawing from his house.

I have now started a painting of gypsy dancers, which is virtually abstract in its form. I think it shows promise.

On my final day in Granada, someone at the same pension came to knock on my door. He asked if it was true that I was a painter, and then introduced himself as being of the same profession. He was a Frenchman called Boinay (or Boigny?) He was in his thirties I suppose, and the photographs he showed me of his work looked impressive - something between the styles of Marquet and Rouault. And he had press-cuttings to show that critics appreciate his work.

Anyway I felt pleased with his words of praise for my own paintings. He told me that he was unaccustomed to flatter young painters, and had often discouraged them from continuing with their efforts - particularly women, whom he often felt were wasting their time. But he said that I definitely possess both talent and character, so that I ought to persist in my endeavours. It’s sad how Dad would never believe me if I told him that such a verdict had been given on my art!

Or it could be that Dad would be justified in declaring that the man was obviously homosexual, and just trying to seduce me. His disregard for women painters might indeed have been indicative of that. There had been a tone in the way he said it that might have been interpreted as a macho offer to me that I should join the club - which is to say the superior sex, and the homosexual clan within it who recognize that superiority for what it is. But it could be that I’m slandering the man. Perhaps I’ll never know. Although he left me his address in Paris, with an invitation that I should look him up whenever I’m next there, so that he can introduce me to "the right people", I have my doubts that I’ll take him up on it.

When I got to my new pension in Seville, (after the train journey), I met up with Jean-Pierre Strauss as we had planned. And I find that I am beginning to like him, despite all his precocity. His faults are on the side of a tactless determination to behave however he pleases, but there is a warming desire to be friendly (with me in any case) beneath it all.

Jean-Pierre has a facility to make friends which I am totally lacking myself. He had already found acceptance within a group of young Spaniards, and he took me bathing with them at a spot a little way out of town, in the river Guadalquiver - which astonished me for being so clear and clean for such a big river. And it was the warmest outdoor bathe that I’ve ever experienced.

The bathing site which consists of nothing more than a raised diving platform, serves as the meeting place for this group of Spaniards. We were the only foreigners present, and virtually the only ones who saw fit to wear any bathing pants. Although there were no girls within the group itself, there were quite a number of gypsy women in the vicinity, washing their clothes in the river, or perhaps even offering themselves in prostitution, since they were often looking our way - and I was told that they could be had for a very few pesetas. But this group of young men were just ignoring them for the most part - with an occasional ribald jest for good measure. There seems no end to the squalor that goes with all this poverty in Spain.

I had an interesting discussion with one of the group, whose name was Jose-Antonio Serrano. I think he said he was a teacher, but in any case he was young, intelligent and educated. His views were alarmingly left wing however - perhaps even Communist. Far different from what I’d been expecting to hear voiced in Franco’s Spain. And his line of talk was that there was only one possible future for Spain - which was revolution. Spaniards didn’t understand any other methods for political evolution. Blood would have to flow, like it did the last time. But on this occasion it would be the leftists who won.

What worried me in particular was the way in which he was talking about executing all the aristocrats. So I told him that I myself was an aristocrat - the son and heir to the Marquess of Bath. And I showed him one of the small Longleat match-boxes, which display a photograph of the house. This took him aback somewhat, and he wasn’t quite sure how he should read me. He ventured to suggest that the British aristocracy might have behaved rather differently to their own Spanish equivalent. And we left it at that.

He painted a very different picture about the state of religion in Spain, to the one I’ve gleaned elsewhere. He dismisses what we all see as sheer hypocrisy. People attend church so that they will be seen going to church. It’s important for their careers. Jose-Antonio himself goes to church. But he can scoff at the whole subject when he is with friends. He declared that most of this particular group were atheistic, and vigorously opposed to the power of the priesthood. It speaks of a greater unrest in Spain than I might otherwise have appreciated.

The other side to Spanish religiosity was in evidence during a clash between Jean-Pierre and a man who was sharing our table at the pension - a man in his late thirties I should guess. He had said something to indicate that he would be going to church, and Jean-Pierre tactlessly hooted with laughter, calling him an idiot. The discussion became ever more heated, and I couldn’t follow it in places. But when Jean-Pierre said that it was all hypocrisy, and that even the Communists go to church just to be seen going there, the man jumped up (leaving a half-finished plate of food) and declared that he wouldn’t eat with us. Or rather he did return to finish it, after a break of a few minutes, but refused to discuss anything further with Jean-Pierre - who appeared nonplussed as to why anyone should take offence at what he had been saying. I did my best to explain human nature to him.

At dinner on Monday, I shared a table with three French priests, who were reminiscent of Chaucer’s monks - hearty, benevolent, and both gourmand and gourmet - with a touch of smugness thrown in too. I loved the manner in which they offered me some wine, and then remarked on how I would now have pleasant memories of French people in Seville.

Today Tuesday, I took a look round the Cathedral and Bell-tower - such wonderfully solemn places.

While I was walking in the street, I saw a pretty girl approaching - in her late twenties perhaps. I had to pause to make room for her, because the road was narrow and a car was passing. Suddenly the girl tapped me on my shoulder with her fan and said: "Alo!" I was so taken aback that I thought I must know her and have forgotten where we met. I muttered something in English, but she just gave a light laugh and walked on. Only then did it begin to occur to me that Spanish ladies may be a lot faster than I had ever imagined. But if she was indeed making me an overture, then I’m simply not cut out to avail myself of such opportunities. I felt utterly bewildered, and unable to follow it up in any manner whatsoever.

There is an Israeli at our pension who came to share the table with Jean-Pierre and myself. He chatted easily enough with Jean-Pierre, but when he said that (as a boy) he’d been a member of the Stern Gang, I felt a considerable reserve welling up inside me. I mean for all I knew, I was sharing a table with someone who had actually killed British soldiers, and I couldn’t adjust myself to such an idea. Apparently he commented to Jean-Pierre later, that he sensed I was anti-Semitic - which I denied. I explained the reasons behind my reserve. But I noted how this evening, the Israeli has decided to sit at a different table.

Jean-Pierre has just told me that he writes poetry - in fact masses of it. He showed me some, and I was impressed with his bold use of metaphor. Not surprisingly, they were full of discontent with life, but I daresay with time he’ll be offering a more positive message.

I have received a letter from [X] to say that Jimmy Skinner may be heading this way in my TR 2. (I have lent it to him in return for him paying me the cost of my fine, and on the condition that he gets it properly insured for him driving it.) It will be wonderful if we can arrange to meet up to continue these travels together. Or perhaps he is intending to bring Joy, or someone, in the passenger seat.

About your plans for touring Spain, we have met a really terribly nice Spanish boy called Jaime Parlade. He is 24 and has two younger brothers. His parents have a large house near Marbella, which is not far from Malaga, and he has lots of young cousins - both male and female. He says there are always rooms to spare, as there are about 12 bedrooms. It is a country house, but they also have a gay time in Malaga, and bathing from the various beaches in that area....

In case your father gets it into his head that I am introducing you to riff-raff, the family is a very grand one, and his uncle is the Spanish Ambassador in England....

Even if you have arranged anything else, I would strongly advise you to get out of it.

It was on Thursday that I took the train to Malaga - a more comfortable journey than most have been. I went to the address that I had been given in Malaga, to be told that Don Jaime would be coming that evening to collect me. He did - arriving with his second son, called Tote - just marginally older than myself. They both speak English quite adequately, and do not seem to expect us to converse in Spanish - which is all right by me. I was left alone with Tote while the father went off on some other business. But as soon as his father had disappeared, a delicate family situation was revealed - which amounts to this.

Tote and his father are barely on speaking terms. It has something to do with Don Jaime opposing the relationship that Tote has started with a married woman. Tote had recently won a fair sum of money from the Spanish lottery, which had made him financially independent for a while. So he had left home in order to spend the money with this lady he admired, although he had eventually been persuaded to return home by the pleas of his mother. But the mother was now living in Madrid - partially separated if I understand the situation correctly. So Tote was planning another bunk. Recently Don Jaime had been refusing to give Tote lifts into Malaga, which gave rise to the present coldness between the two of them. So here he was, (in Malaga, on the pretext of coming to meet me,) but he told me how he wouldn’t be accompanying us back home. I gathered that he was confiding all this to me, before he had even informed his father of this intention. So I realized how I was alighting into a family feud of some proportion.

Tote did in fact disappear over the course of the evening, without any fuss. Nor did Don Jaime appear to be concerned about this. He had taken us to a party in Malaga, which I cannot claim to have enjoyed. I felt out of place in it - largely because there were no girls there of my own age. In fact Don Jaime intimated that it isn’t the custom in Spanish society, for women to attend such gatherings until they are safely married. He did bring up one young woman, called Maribel, who was only a little older than myself, and she was certainly making a good effort to converse with me. But she couldn’t transform a boring party into something that I might have enjoyed.

The third son, Paquo, joined us during the party and seemed thoroughly at ease - which puts me to shame seeing that he is only eighteen. And during the drive home he was necking with a twenty-seven year old woman in the back seat of the car, driven by Don Jaime who (in my judgement) was in no fit state to be at the wheel. We were swerving from side to side of the road. Fortunately he had the opportunity to sober up before we reached the last part of the forty mile drive to their house (which goes by the name of Alcuzcuz), in that the road was twisting round hairpin bends with precipitous drops on one side. None of the other passengers however, appeared in the least concerned.

I have been given a comfortable little room in the annex to the main house. We are perched up in the mountains, with splendidly scenic views in various directions. But the nicest part is that having my own room does furnish me with the opportunity to snatch whatever moments of privacy that I might wish - to write this journal, or whatever. I am not at all clear for just how long they are expecting me to stay with them. But I must admit to a feeling that they are all marginally bewildered by my arrival. It is evident that Jaimito (the son) had said nothing at all about his invitation to me, via my mother. It was just that they assumed that I must have received one for me to be ringing them up like that. And with hospitality being at such a premium in Spain, they automatically regarded it as their duty to make me welcome. But Don Jaime was enquiring next morning as to how I came to know his son, and was clearly surprised that I hadn’t even met him. So they may now be feeling that their invitation was extended too hastily.

On Friday we all went down to the Club Marbella, where I got chatting to a woman I rather fancied. She told me she dances the rhumba in a Madrid theatre - whatever that entails. But I didn’t feel at liberty to appear amorous, in that she made it plain that she was married. I also noted that she is a devout Catholic, if one can judge from the fact that she carries a picture of the Virgin Mary round her neck, and crosses herself before swimming out to sea. I rather think that I must seek any amorous adventures elsewhere.

But even when I am in Britain, I feel it inappropriate for me to be chatting up women who are older than myself. As [X] says, I start behaving like a puppy. In any case I just feel ridiculous, and that’s no way to embark upon any flirtation. But I am still managing to impress everyone on the extent to which I can converse in Spanish after only a single month in this country.

On Saturday what started as a cocktail party at Alcuzcuz developed into something which went on until 03.00 hrs. The atmosphere was about as mad as Mum had been predicting that I would find here. After a quiet enough start, the tempo increased until they were letting off fireworks inside the house, jiving to loud music, and with many of the company wearing nothing more than towels. But I felt myself omitted from the general spirit of festivity. There was a young French girl present, called Aline. I found her quite attractive, but she didn’t give me any encouragement at all. In this particular company, I feature very low on the list of eligibility. I don’t fit anywhere at all, and they can see that for themselves. I sneaked off to bed at 01.00 hrs hoping that my departure would be unobserved. But I found next morning that they had all taken note of it, and concluded no doubt that I am lacking the appropriate festive spirit.

Not surprisingly, I was the first up - to find downstairs that the room was strewn with sleeping bodies on every available sofa, and the debris of the party all round them. Over the next half hour, it seemed that I was encountering naked men wandering all over the place. There was even one there, when I tried to go to the lavatory. So I returned to seek refuge in my room, only to find that, during my brief absence, another had climbed into my bed and was asleep. So I gave up and went off to start a painting of the mountains behind the house. And I should have time over the next few days to do a painting of the panorama down towards the coast. Then on returning, I found that the others had driven off to the beach. So once again, it may have been felt that I was neglecting to join in with the communal activity of the group.

I should have mentioned that one of the guests at the party was a lady who had a bit of a reputation as a fortune-teller - reading our palms. She had a go at mine, and I was left feeling quite impressed. But then I ask myself if I really should have been. Perhaps she was just venturing comments intuitively, and following them up in the light of my reaction to them. But it’s all part of the Spanish scene, as I imagine, that guests should make a contribution within a party.

It worries me that Paquo, who is four years my junior, finds himself so much at ease in this adult world. But that married lady whom he was kissing in the back of the car the other night, viewed myself in a totally different light. From the way that she looked at me, I knew that she regarded me as being far too young and immature for her. But Paquo has been saddling up his horse and riding off to visit her - meeting with something more than mere encouragement, it seems. I find it difficult to imagine just how he plays his hand in this game. Ringing her doorbell, and just stating what he wants from her? Or by what subtle stages does he bring this game to its fulfilment?

All I know is that when he arrived back home, he was looking nice and pleased with himself. And he intimated to me with a smile: "She was very good to me!"

On Monday evening, we all went out to another cocktail party where I spent a long while conversing with an intelligent girl who was engaged to a diplomat - also present. It seems that I’m always getting myself into precisely the same conversation, about what the English think of the Spanish, and vice versa. I suppose we regard them as being proud, haughty, old-fashioned and undemocratic. But it doesn’t sound as if they have any higher regard for the British, whom they deem unemotional and unromantic. She may have been pulling my leg, but she avowed that her own fiancé would serenade her beneath her window with his guitar. And I couldn’t claim that many Englishmen would behave like that.

But they were giving too much of an impression that the Spanish are quite happy under Franco’s regime. So I began telling them of the way those young people in Seville had been talking - how there would soon be rivers of blood once again, and how the aristocracy would all be executed. And they didn’t like it when I explained how I didn’t personally regard myself as a Christian. They held that people take a man’s Christianity for granted in Spain. They were polite, but I could see how I had now raised a barrier between us. It was taboo for me to talk in that fashion, and I soon found that I was left on my own.

Later, some of us went on to a restaurant together. And I was glad that they took me, in that it enabled me to feel included within their group. But they kept saying that I ought to make more of an effort to talk with them. But the truth of the matter is that I’m still finding it very difficult to follow what is being said - unless a conversation is directed at me more personally. I can’t risk contributing a remark when I’m liable to find that the subject has now moved on to something else.

On the drive back up to Alcuzcuz, I sat at the back of the car seated next to a man called Rafaelito, who had Paquo on the other side of him. He is quite evidently homosexual and not in the least inhibited about making passes at anyone. He was getting to work on myself, with an arm round my neck and down inside my shirt. But when he started to fiddle with my nipple, I thought it best to wriggle free. And Paquo started to remonstrate with him gently on my behalf - whereupon the amorous attentions were transferred to him instead. Not that anyone seemed to regard such antics to be reprehensible.

Next morning Rafaelito was making a big thing of admiring the landscape that I’m painting. Then he suggested that we ought to cooperate on painting one together. I tried to explain tactfully that it’s not the sort of task that one can easily share, and that it’s the solo efforts which produce the best results. I left him to think up a different tactic for seduction!

On Tuesday afternoon, we all drove down to Malaga to see a bullfight. I don’t suppose that I’ll ever see one that was more exciting. And that was the general verdict - that it was probably the best one Spain had seen over the past few years - picadors unseated, toreros tossed into the air and one matador actually gored, and carried off on a stretcher. My heart was in my mouth the whole time, and I do now understand how bull-fighting is such an emotional experience - despite all its evident cruelty. Having seen this one, I feel that my recent painting on the subject was far too tame.

That evening I went with Paquo and another man to find two girls to take with us to the Malaga `feria’. But they were unable to come, so it looked as if we were at a loose end. We were just chatting with some of his friends when I espied one of the most lovely girls I have ever seen coming up to join the group - small, with fine delicate features and golden-brown hair - and I promptly asked her if she’d like to come along with us to the feria. Her name is Anna-Maria. She said yes, and another pretty girl called Roseo agreed to come too. But we were still three men against the two of them. So I didn’t really suppose that I might have much of a chance.

It seemed over dinner however, that she was paying some attention to me. I played the card of showing her the Longleat match-box in indication of my home, and I could see that she was suitably impressed. (Anyway, I noted how she surreptitiously picked up the empty match-box, later in the evening when I had discarded it.) She wasn’t someone who participated very much within the general conversation, but that suited me fine. It delighted me that she was hanging on my arm tenaciously, whenever I gave it to her. And her demeanour was far more apathetic on the occasions when it was another man’s arm that had been offered to her. It did seem to me that she was choosing to be close to me whenever such an opportunity arose. And then on the way back home from the feria, when we were all sitting in the `fiacre’, I noted that she was responding well to the presence of my arm around her. And finally, when we said good night, she gave my arm what I regarded as a meaningful squeeze.

But the terrible things is that I have no means of making further contact with her. It seems that Paquo hasn’t the slightest idea where she lives. And he may have been piqued that she hadn’t seen fit to flirt more with himself. He was quite dismissive about her, saying he thought she was a bit "fresh". Even if that be so, she was definitely my sort of girl, and I’m bitterly regretting that I missed out on the chance of taking her telephone number.

It’s sad in a way to find that I only seem to have what might be called match-box charm, within this milieu. I mean it’s not for myself, it’s because they see the aura of Longleat looming up behind me. And this was particularly notable when a batch of mail arrived to me at this address. Don Jaime was quick to question me on the reason for there being `Viscount’ before my name. It seems that he had no idea that this was the case. And it turns out that he is enormously impressed by such detail. I had to go into the whole story of my lineal heritage - the date of Longleat, the date of the marquisate, the achievements of ancestors and everything else. His questions were unceasing. And since receiving all this information, it does seem that he is regarding me in an entirely different light - which is amusing in a way, but it leaves me worrying as to my own worth as a person. His regard for me is so dependent upon the title which (through no credit to myself) I happen to hold. Previously I’d felt that I might have to move on all too quickly, because I’d intruded upon their hospitality. But I now find myself pushed forwards for introduction, as an advertisement for the smartness of their home.

On Wednesday we were down in Malaga again, to attend another bull-fight. Another good one, with the same list of matadors. Don Antonio was as good as ever. And there was another who was tossed three times, but insisted on carrying on to the very finish. Perhaps the best of all however, was a Venezuelan who practically committed suicide several times over with his daring exploits. At the end the crowd went frantic, crying out that he should be given the foot of the bull - instead of just the ears and the tail. When the president declined to take notice of their demand, he was booed by the crowd until half way through the next fight. It certainly made interesting entertainment. And I’ve managed to set in abeyance my conviction that it’s a cruel sport which has no place in the Europe of this century.

Paquo confided to me some details of his own romantic life. Although still no more than eighteen, he tells me that he has lived a fairly wild life with the mistresses of `vieux messieurs’ while he was living in Tangier. He says that he prefers married women to those unmarried, because they need less persuasion to have an affair. He tells me that it may be difficult in Spain, to kiss an unmarried girl, but that the wives are very often unfaithful.

A Polish couple, Count Emile and Vedka Bavaroski, have come over on a visit from Tangier. I felt sorry for Emile who is full of sad dignity - someone whom I was told possessed a vast estate and much wealth back in Poland, but is now reduced to a modest way of life. He talks very little, but sits there with a distant look in his eye as if reflecting upon past glories, long-suffering and uncomplaining.

When he is called upon to say something, it is as if he is waking up from a reverie. He then nods his head meaningfully and exclaims: "C’est idéal, mon cher" - then goes on nodding, and reverts to reverie. All his conversation appears to be in French, but with a strong Polish accent. Or another characteristic utterance is "Pan! Pan!" - after levelling an imaginary gun to his shoulder, to fire at some passing bird. I’m not at all sure just how much of what is going on around him he perceives as an integral part of today’s world.

On Thursday Don Jaime took us to see the marble quarry which he owns - impressive, and rather like Cheddar Gorge. There were white eagles wheeling high above us. Then we went for a swim in the sulphurated pools, which were apparently used as medicinal waters by the Romans.

I am beginning to feel some grave doubts concerning Don Jaime’s general attitude to life. He was telling me at one point how the Spanish tend to look down upon the Portuguese, because "they have tainted blood". And he made a grimace when explaining how, when they colonized Brazil, they had children by their black slaves; and how those children were integrated into their society, often returning to live in Portugal. He was concerned to get me to appreciate that the Spanish had refrained from such a debasement of their hereditary stock. And he appeared to think it obvious that I must sympathize with him on such an issue!

Then there was another topic which I found awkward to handle - raised while we were in the car. Don Jaime was talking to Vedka, and had broached the subject of Gibraltar - telling her how the British position was so unreasonable, and that they’d got to learn that they couldn’t keep a garrison on the rock indefinitely. They were all waiting for me to say something on the issue, and I felt truly awkward.

The reality of the case is that Britain might well countenance a return of Gibraltar to the Spanish, if it wasn’t for the idea that we’d be turning them over to the rule of a fascist dictator. And it is the Gibraltarians themselves who persistently declare that they do not want such a fate to be imposed upon them against their will. But of course Don Jaime is a fervent supporter of Franco, so there was no easy way of telling him how I felt.

Don Jaime does sense the reserve in my position, and resents it too. When we were back at Alcuzcuz, he was talking about the recent war, and how (in his view) the Germans would undoubtedly have conquered the British if Spain hadn’t remained neutral. (Gibraltar would have fallen, so that there could be no oil supplies coming through the straits, and the convoys round the Cape would have been that much more vulnerable to the German U-boats.) He clearly feels that we owe something to Franco, in return for their neutrality.

He was also quite clearly an admirer of the Germans, and for their whole approach to life. He went as far as to say that it’s absurd to blame them for all these "so called" atrocities. His theme was that what you do in the heat of battle cannot be judged in the same way as ordinary life. He himself had shot people in cold blood. After they had fought their way into some village, to discover that the villagers had crucified all "the good, decent people" who’d been living there - the mayor, the priest and men of that "respectable" calibre - he’d gone wild. He just wanted to kill as many of them as he could.

Don Jaime was watching me for a reaction, and I felt a chill of uncertainty as to how I should behave. I mean, suppose this had been a German who was describing to me similar atrocities which he’d committed against the British, how then should I have reacted to what he said? And it was almost as if he was proud of the barbarism that he could unleash upon men who had fallen into his power.

That evening we went to another party, but it was nothing special - apart from a sensational performance of flamenco dancing by the eight year old daughter of the hostess. I cannot think that you’d ever be likely to see an equivalent performance (in no matter what kind of dancing) from any young English girl!

My match-box charm was still operating. After Don Jaime had been saying words in her ear, one mother came rushing up to introduce her daughter to me. I found her likeable.

Later in the evening, I had an embarrassing exchange with some middle-aged lady, who was introduced to me as the Duchess of something. Did they say Alba? Anyway she had the romantic name of Carmen, and Don Jaime declared that in days gone by, she had been one of the most beautiful women in Spain. But she was now behaving drunkenly, and was certainly no great sight for the eyes.

While making drunken conversation with me, she attacked the English - saying that our leaders are "nit-wits", and that the British could never learn a lesson. Someone heard how she was going on at me and signalled Don Jaime, who came rushing up to say that it was time we all left for home.

He himself had been in fine (but corny) form, thinking himself enormously funny when telling people that I should be calling myself "El Conde della Duche" - which I suppose means Lord Showerbath.

On the way home, Perullo (who is one of Paquo’s friends) was sick in the car.

This morning Friday, I completed another painting, which is of Don Jaime’s house. I shall be giving it to him when I leave.

On Saturday the Bavaroskis took me with them on a sight-seeing trip to Ronda. It’s a wonderful road, winding in and out of the mountain folds - really beautiful Andalucian scenery. But Ronda itself I found a bit of an anti-climax. Perhaps my expectations had been raised too high.

The two Bavaroski children are sweet - both girls. Isabella, an eight year old, says that she wants to marry me, while her four year old sister, Sandra, declares that she’ll marry her mother. But she’s one of the most flirtatious little girls I’ve ever seen, making eyes at every adult who comes her way.

That evening we went to a party which ended up at a hotel, where we were all required to pay for our own drinks. I had a chance meeting with people that I know back in London - friends of Caroline’s, really - Johnny Manners and his sister Isabel, Mary Moore, the Warrenders and a few others. They are holidaying down here. The Spanish were urging the British group to demonstrate our dancing skills, as they themselves had done, with our own rendering of flamenco dancing. I admired Johnny for making any attempt at all, but of course it looked absurdly stilted - as indeed they expected of us.

Both Jaime and Emile were becoming stinking drunk by the end of the party, mounting a donkey and riding it round, inside the hotel. It was Don Jaime really, but Vedka was growing angry that her husband should also be making a fool of himself. So she was bidding me to get them to leave. But it may have been an error that I did as she requested - taking Jaime gently by the shoulder and telling him that we had to be going home. He looked uncertain for a moment, but did finally come along with us. But the Bavaroskis were tiffing all the way home.

On Sunday morning, I went along with the rest of them to the Catholic mass in the church at Marbella. Vastly different from anything that I’ve attended in Britain. The church was full to overflowing, and the service itself seemed given over to ornate ritual. It was impressive. I wonder how it compares with a Catholic service in Britain.

We spent much of the morning watching a Swedish woman sculpting a bust of Jaime. He is so proud of the fact that she tells him he has a typically Spanish face.

We made a trip up into the mountain, to see another house that Jaime is building. And once again the scenery was sensational.

On Monday evening I was invited by Mary Moore to come and have dinner with all the English crowd. And the Hohenlohes were holding some party there as well - Austrian Princes I believe. Also present was Aline, the attractive French girl, who was at last showing some response to my attentions. (Another example of the match-box charm, I fear!) I mentioned something early on in the evening about the way I always fall madly in love with girls who have long hair. At the time Aline had her hair done up in some kind of a bun, so I was delighted to note that she soon found some pretext to let the hair cascade around her face. I like to think that it was done for my benefit, but it was coming too late, since she was leaving for home the very next day!

I am uncertain about Mary’s attitude towards myself. To all appearances she is holidaying down here as the girlfriend of Johnny Manners, but she was asking me about my plans for touring round the rest of Spain - even enquiring if I would like her to join me in these travels. Mary is attractive - a successful model I believe - and I find her easy to talk to. But the truth of the matter is that I couldn’t cope with that kind of relationship with her. She’d expect too much luxury within our travels. And I feel awkward about any potential intrusion upon the affairs of others.

Or am I right in assuming that Johnny is Mary’s lover? I simply don’t know what other people get up to in their private lives. I find it strange that Mary finds herself able to go off on holiday with him, without stirring up any scandal. I mean, I can hardly suppose that [X] would be permitted to accompany me on such holidays, even if we were being chaperoned by Caroline and David - or not prior to marriage that is to say. So how is it that Mary has managed to break free from such restraints?

I found Beatriz Hohenlohe sympathetic enough, but I objected to her brother, who displayed some of the bullying streaks that I much dislike in Germans. (Or are the Austrians that much different?) I had struck my best party form at last and, in consequence, was perhaps talking too much. But it irked me when this Prince bade me shut up - in English. I ignored him, and I noted an unpleasant glint in his eye - as if he was about to have me thrown out from the party. But the crisis passed, with him appreciating perhaps that I hadn’t committed sufficient a misdemeanour to warrant such discipline.

On Tuesday evening, there was a party which was very different from the others - given (as Jaime told me) by the mistress of some important aristocrat. And all the local mistresses had been invited. So I had high expectations for this party. We were told we had to come in Existentialist attire. So Paquo and I painted some figures on the clothes we intended to wear. I did a naked couple on my front, who looked as if they might be fucking when I moved - since the genital area was concealed by some manner of belt. Then on the seat of my trousers I painted a heart - to keep them all guessing. And finally I painted my face to look really ghoulish.

The party itself did not quite match up to my expectations. The atmosphere was novel enough, so I did enjoy it. But it never quite took off. There was one elderly tart, whom I could see had once been a beauty, and at the age of about sixty, was still fantastically skittish in her behaviour. I have never seen someone managing to dance so sexily, writhing like a snake, and then opening the front of her blouse to allow her breasts to hang out as she danced. Such overt lasciviousness is much in contrast to all the prudery in the official Spanish conception of propriety. But finally she was becoming embarrassing. She came up to me and was telling me to kiss her on the mouth. And as I did so, I felt the touch of her tongue. I daresay she was showing off to the elder crowd. And I suspect she had been challenged by them to discover whether my sexual inclinations were towards women.

The old tart finally went a bit too far, however. I wasn’t quite sure what she might be saying to me, and she kept alternating her vocabulary between Spanish and French. But I thought I was finally getting the message when she started jabbing a finger towards her vagina and saying: "Picar chat!" - although I’m still not clear whether she was asking me to do it, or simply whether I liked doing it. I hope she was able to tell the others that my sexuality was woman-oriented, but I felt that I’d had enough of all this, and turned away from her.

Besides, there was one really attractive young woman in the party, and I thought for a while that she was paying interest in me. In any case, she took me out to the bathroom and persuaded me to wash the paint from my face. But she was laughing at me when I attempted to persuade her that I was twenty-two. She said I couldn’t be more than eighteen. And being a friend of Paquo, who somehow looks older than me, certainly didn’t help. But what galled me most of all was when Jaime took it upon himself to explain to her who I was, and to enquire if she wished me to remain the night with her. And I heard her hoot derisively that I was too young. That made me feel really low. But in any case, the party never really looked like fulfilling the expectations that had been raised for it - never felt like developing into an orgy. So we all headed back for Alcuzcuz.

Jaime has been talking about the rigidity of the marital bond in Spain. This is an area where he would prefer the Spanish law to move a lot closer to what we have in Britain. I gather that he and his wife are rarely at the same address for very long together, so he might well hope for greater flexibility on the question of divorce. In fact there are many ways where he stands as an example of the upper class Spaniard who is anxious to get Spain moving so that it can keep pace with the cultural evolution in Europe as a whole. His business ventures tend to be Europe-oriented. It’s just that he would have been happier if it had been Germany, rather than Britain and France, who had been the European victors in the war.

I am surprised to find just how well I am taking to the habit of siestas. It is a most civilized habit - sleeping after lunch, and then dining late with a view to much vivacity into the late hours. I have my doubts that I’ll seek to sustain the practice when back in Britain, but I appreciate the way that it divides the day into two such distinct portions.

On Wednesday, Donna Paloma (Jaime’s wife) arrived - gentle and kindly. It’s a matter for regret to me that she wasn’t here earlier. She has a cosy, intimate way of talking to you, which makes you feel at home. It struck me that she had the same misconception that the others had held - supposing that I was somehow an intimate friend of Jaimito, whom I’ve never actually met. Or that I knew of him through mutual friends whom (I think she assumed) were homosexual. She may have been trying to draw me out with a signal to that effect. But in any case, I get the impression that she is close in spirit to Jaimito, and displays sympathy to all his gay friends.

I am getting the feeling however, that I may be outstaying my welcome, so I have now come up with some firm plans to move on from here before the weekend. I think I could detect relief all round when I stated this. It has been difficult to tread the line between availing myself of this unique opportunity to observe Spain from the inside of a well-to-do family, while not taking too great an advantage of their hospitality.

On Thursday, Jaime invited the group of my English friends up to dinner at Alcuzcuz, as a farewell gesture for me. Or it was just Robert and Isabel Throckmorton, along with Mary Moore. Johnny Manners had declined the invitation, pleading ulcer trouble. Or had he been quarrelling with Mary on the grounds that she had been flirting with myself?

Jaime was questioning me before they arrived on the appropriate seating arrangements. Of course Isabel (as daughter of the Duke of Rutland) had pre-eminence in such etiquette. But his worry was as to how he should rank Mary. I think the issue in his mind was that if she was genuinely Lord Johnny Manners’ fiancé, then perhaps she should be given the status of being a lord’s wife. But if she was just his mistress, then the ranking would be much lower. And he was enquiring quite blatantly what her background might be. And I really didn’t know what to tell him, nor what advice to offer!

In conversation with Mary, I kept well away from the subject of precisely where my travel route might take me. Or perhaps I was just deluding myself on the idea that she might have been thinking of joining up with me. In any case there was now no mention of it.

Isabel worried me slightly in the way she talked loudly to me about Spanish habits, which was really quite rude in its directness, seeing that we were supping at a Spaniard’s table. But I was surprised to see how Jaime warmed to her, evidently regarding her manner as being typical of the British aristocracy. (Far more typical than my own, incidentally!) She was playing a ball game which he readily appreciated, where we were all assuming the roles that he had been brought up to expect of us.

Jaime drove me to Malaga on Saturday morning, and I know that in reality we were both quite relieved to see the last of one another - not that I’m in the least unappreciative of his hospitality.

On the train to Cordoba, my problem was in finding a way to disengage myself from conversations with my fellow passengers without giving them offence. I need some peace and quiet on such journeys. Jaime had told me that it’s only in the south (particularly Andalucia) that the people are so talkative. He says I can learn to expect a far greater reserve up north - which I suppose represents the stereotyped image for the Spanish, which most Britons have in mind. All this perpetual chat which I have encountered here in the south has indeed been a surprise to me. But it’s a glorious feeling to be totally independent once again. Such a release!

The pension that I have found for myself at Cordoba is a bit of a disappointment - and certainly a come-down after Alcuzcuz. I need to reaccustom myself to having oily food to digest. And the standard of hygiene in the loos is disgusting.

It was in fact quite difficult to find any pension at all at the belated hour when I was searching for one. All the rooms were taken, but they had said I could sleep on a bed out in the passage for one night, until I could be given a room of my own the following day. But the proprietress tried to backtrack on this promise, telling me that there was a French lady who now needed a bed, so would I be content with a room that I might share with another man? Having a room of my own is far too important an issue to me, so I promptly declared that I’d go and find myself another pension - whereupon the French lady withdrew her request, and the proprietress declared (with bad grace) that I could have it after all.

I spent Sunday exploring Cordoba, which is full of impressive ruins. And the Mesquita (formerly a mosque but now a cathedral) is beautifully mysterious in its atmosphere. The art museum was also worth a visit.

Before leaving Cordoba, a party of Egyptians arrived at the pension - quite an intellectual group, dressed up in European hiking gear. It somehow broke the mould of how I expect Arabs to appear. They were nice and friendly, which again was contrary to my expectations. But I noted the coolness after one of them had enquired about the professions in which members of my family might be engaged, and I had told him that, currently, I had one brother serving with the Life Guards out in Suez.

I had some trouble at Cordoba station, with a porter trying to short-change me on the money I had left with him to buy me a ticket. He was an unpleasant type, but I managed to get the right change out of him in the end.

It was on Monday that I travelled on to Madrid - promptly falling victim to another of these porters who prey upon foreign tourists. It ended in a wrangle at the pension where he was taking me, with the proprietor suggesting a compromise figure - which I paid.

There was a French artist called Hector sitting in the foyer when I arrived, and on seeing that I had a painting easel with my luggage, he came over and introduced himself - then inviting me up to his room to show me his own work, which was something in the style of Andre Lhote. But it became clear to me that he was a pansy, and might harbour intentions for seduction. While sitting there in his armchair just in front of me, I noted how he was massaging his balls in an overt fashion! So I’ve been doing my best to avoid him ever since. But I’ve been put into the room next to his, so that we keep bumping into one another. I do my best to appear civil, without giving him reason to suppose that I am offering him encouragement.

Since my arrival in Madrid, I have been on an endless round of sight-seeing. I’m not greatly impressed by the actual monuments, but there are some wonderful museums. The Prado of course, which I find better perhaps then the Louvre or the National Gallery. (But I noted how they seem to have scant regard for any of our greatest British painters!) Their museum of modern art was disappointingly restrained. They are only just becoming aware of the French influence upon art around the turn of the century, but without endeavouring to evolve their own styles from it. The British have done better I feel.

In one of the art museums I missed out on what must surely have been a good opportunity to pick up an attractive American girl. It even struck me that she was inviting such self-introduction. She had large breasts which featured prominently in her bearing, and an expression which looked encouraging enough. But I felt far too inhibited to go up and say something to her - which was ridiculous in that anything at all might have been appropriate.

Perhaps my inhibition was due in part to the presence of an elderly Spaniard, who was following her round - quite obviously with the same intention as myself. I had youth, beauty and the English language as my advantages, to be sure, but he had the experience of how such pick-ups should be effected. And my guess is that he made regular visits to this museum, to select a pretty young tourist and invite her to come and have lunch with him. The girl was preening herself (a bit tartily) in the knowledge that there were two males hovering ever-hopeful in her vicinity. I could really have kicked myself later in that I had neglected to make a move. By then I had lost my opportunity, for the Spaniard was talking to her - explaining the picture on the wall, I think. And she appeared to be listening avidly to whatever he had to say. I gave up, and moved to a different area of the museum.

I’ve just returned from a two-day excursion to Aranjuez and Toledo. I spent Friday morning looking round the former royal palace at Aranjuez - without being much impressed. It has been stripped too bare to retain any feeling that it once had a glorious history. (That also applied to the one in Madrid, incidentally.) Then in the afternoon, I went by launch to see the Casa Labrador, which is redeemed by all those painted ceilings. Then in the evening, on by train (which was deplorably slow and subject to prolonged delays) to Toledo, where I spent the night.

It was a nice pension - Las Ruinas del Alcazar - and Toledo itself is the most interesting town that I’ve visited, and all so nicely compact. The part I liked best was the Casa El Greco and the St Vincent museum - which is simply full of his paintings. My admiration has risen to new heights - for the exalted atmosphere that he creates, colourfully depicting elongated forms, just faintly distorted and with their expressions so forlornly spiritual. I was also faintly ashamed to find myself surrendering to the sentiment demanded by the guides, who told heroic stories from the civil war, concerning the (fascist) garrison who withstood the red siege for so long. I’d have liked to hear about the suffering on the other side too.

On arriving back at the Pension Los Angeles in Madrid, I now found myself sharing a table with a disagreeable Arab. There were others at the table, and as soon as I said that I was English, he made a grimace and then started ranting on about how Englishmen are hard and self-willed - in a manner that rendered subsequent conversation at the table to be quite strained. A young man from the Phillipines (called Ramon Moras) urged me quietly to take no notice of him, but it’s difficult just to take it in your stride when someone sets out deliberately to make you aware that your nation is disliked.

On Sunday I found a letter waiting for me at the post office from Jimmy Skinner. He says that he will be arriving in Madrid any day now. It will be wonderful if I can continue my journey by car, instead of by train. But I’m not at all clear whether that will be possible. Apparently he is journeying south in the company of James Spooner and Timmy Renton - having left my TR 2 back in England it seems.

I am getting to know Ramon much better. It’s difficult to judge where he fits within Madrid’s social strata, for he gives the impression of being quite well off, and likes to give expression to that wealth in the clothes that he wears. But he is certainly not aristocratic. Perhaps he has connections with the diplomatic corps, although he hasn’t revealed as much.

His interest in me perked up when I told him that I’d been to Eton, and was now at Oxford. It was perhaps as a result of it that he has since been cultivating my friendship, and he suggested that I go along with him after lunch, to a cafe on one of the principal boulevards where he was meeting up with a group of his friends. I found it quite an interesting experience.

The friends were much like himself - perhaps setting too much store on the finery of their attire, and fiercely macho in their whole attitude to life. But they were friendly, and it was pleasant to listen to them chatting. Like so many young Spaniards, they appeared utterly sex-starved - craning their necks around to see whatever pretty girl might be walking down the avenue, and then jumping up to follow her if she gave them even the flicker of a smile. Sometimes it would lead to a brief conversation, standing there on the pavement, but they always returned to the table empty-handed.

I was surprised to hear how they prized English girls perhaps higher than any other nationality. Or they were agreed upon the idea that the best English girls are the most beautiful in the whole world - even if the worst were simply terrible. They hankered after tall shapely women with good thighs, which represents an ideal for womanhood that I don’t think would be voiced by any of my Oxford friends.

Due to the fact that I wasn’t joining in with their pursuit of passing damsels, and also because I was telling stories against myself concerning my miserable failures in the quest for sex, Ramon took the line that they must instil me with self-confidence. He claimed that the lack of it was etched into my demeanour for all to see. And he demonstrated how I ought to throw my shoulders back when I walked - as he himself did - and confront people as if they must fall in submission to my will.

It’s possible that he does have a point in all that. I know that I’m lacking in self-confidence, although I think there’s another side to me which he neglects to perceive as conjoint to that image. I think I do perceive, and believe in, an image of myself as I’ll one day emerge. And it’s quite as glorious an image as he might hold for himself. But unlike Ramon, I recognize that it’s going to take me a little while before I get myself worked out inwardly, so that the outward appearance can then match it.

While I was seated in this cafe, a sports car pulled up and someone called out: "Alexander, is that you?" But it struck me that there were two complete strangers sitting in that car. One of them explained that he had met me at my Oxford exhibition. He was a friend of Teddy’s, and his name was Fernando Valdemar. His manner was effeminate, and his boyfriend in the car was dressed as fastidiously as himself. So I naturally assumed they were homosexual. But they invited me to come round to their flat for a drink that evening, and I accepted.

It was an embarrassment of course, that they should have accosted me thus in front of Ramon and his friends. And they were indeed looking at me quizzically when I returned to their table. One of them commented, with a slight laugh, that he thought he’d heard a few tales about one of these characters. I told him that it wouldn’t surprise me, because I knew the reputation of the mutual friend in England whom they had named. But I couldn’t take it much further than that, in my attempt to clear my own reputation from their suspicion!

I arrived at Fernando’s flat that evening to find they had the most perfect little love nest for a gay couple. Their relationship wasn’t concealed in any way at all - photographs of each other on the dressing-table, and but one large bed for the two of them. Inasmuch that they knew me to be a friend of Teddy’s, they were assuming that I too was queer. And they continued in that misapprehension for most of the evening.

After drinks in their flat, they took me along to a nightclub called `Sesame’, near the Puerta del Sol. It had a delightfully existentialist atmosphere, with cubist drawings on the walls and a piano-player strumming jazz. For the rest, it was much as I might have expected, with most of the seats occupied by men whose arms were draped around one anothers shoulders. I observed that Hector, the homosexual artist at my pension was there - with a boyfriend. There were just a handful of girls present, but not many.

I discovered over the course of the evening that Fernando claimed to know both Jaimito and Rafaelito very well. The latter appears to be enormously popular in their circle. I also discovered that I was having quite a success myself at this nightclub. Strangers were coming up and flirting with me quite openly - asking where I’d been in Spain - asking me about Rafaelito. It was all harmless enough, although I think that Fernando felt I ought to be reserving rather more of my attention for himself. But I do enjoy being popular! My big regret however, is that I am always so popular with pansies, while being dismissed as too young for their amorous attention by many an attractive girl. I had in fact found the evening quite enjoyable. But I think I disappointed Fernando when we came out of the nightclub, for he suggested that I might wish to come back to their flat with them - and I rapidly made my excuses for an early night. Perhaps I’m a bit of a cock-teaser!

This morning Monday, I went for a day-trip to El Escorial, and obtained a brief look round the Monastery and the Casita del Principe. Impressive, but I was short on time.

I had two more days of touristic activity in Madrid. I have become friendly with a German girl called Marguerite Hoffmann, after she started sharing the same table with Ramon and myself. So I invited her on Wednesday to attend an open air concert with me. She speaks little English and I speak even less German, so we had to communicate with one another in Spanish. It was surprising how fluent it all sounded. We were enjoying the music all right, but I think that Marguerite was enjoying the oddities in my grammar and vocabulary to an even greater degree.

It can now be fairly said that I’ve reached the standard in Spanish that I was hoping to attain in these travels. And that in itself is a huge boost to my self-confidence - to my own belief that I can achieve whatever I have really set myself to do.

Marguerite surprised me by saying that Ramon had intimated to her that he is training to become a matador. If I’m to suppose that this is a fact, then all those friends of his that I met the other day might well have been bull-fighters too. An interesting thought. I wish I knew the truth of the matter.

On Thursday morning, Jimmy S, James S and Timmy R finally arrived in Madrid. But I find that they are not intending to visit the north of Spain at all. There wouldn’t be much point for me to travel south with them, so it looks as if I must complete the journey by train, as originally planned.

Like so many of my friends, they had come abroad with the conviction that they were going to jump into bed with the first pretty girl that they saw. After all the frustrations that I have encountered in Spain, I knew that it was highly unlikely that their fantasies would be fulfilled, but they were determined to try. And they expected me to know the right places in Madrid to make it happen.

Well I didn’t. And I was reluctant to make a fool of myself trying to lead them to girls, who would just giggle with them at the most - unless they went to a brothel. But it wasn’t a tart that they wanted. All we could really do was to go along to the part of the town where the nightclubs were to be found. And we were examining a place called the Casa Blanco (near the Plaza Cibeles), only to conclude that it looked far too expensive.

It was at this point that a young pimp came up. He was evidently well practised in discerning which tourists were on the prowl, with money in their pockets to spend. So he offered us his services by saying: "Senoritas? Focky-focky?" We explained that we didn’t want focky-focky with a tart, but that we were looking for a dance hall (none too expensive) where senoritas might be found. He gave us an address, and I tipped him three pesetas. He wanted fifteen. I declared this to be ridiculous, but Timmy thought we’d better give him another five.

The pimp lavished Timmy with his thanks, and then turned on me to ruffle my hair. In that my clothing was far more casual than the suits that the others were wearing, I think he judged that I had been offering them my services in much the same manner as himself. So he wanted to see me off from his pitch, puncturing my dignity in the process. But I wasn’t going to quarrel with him. We just stood there in the street, roughing each other’s hair. He was calling me a name or two, which I didn’t understand, but there was no real loss of face on either side.

Anyway we went along to the address which he had given us - the Villa Rosa in the north of Madrid, and another place just nearby. They looked just as expensive as the dance halls we’d left behind. And I warned them that, once they got inside, they’d soon find the bill spiralling upwards. If I’d had my way, we’d have called it a day. But they were determined to give it a try. And it was at this point that a decoy girl was sent over, to persuade us all to enter. She was pretty enough, so in they trooped - and I followed them reluctantly.

The drinks were 75 pesetas each. Then as soon as we were seated, four more girls were sent over to us - although none of them were half as pretty as the first, but they all placed their orders for a drink at our expense. And there was always something else that they were managing to suggest for us to order. I endeavoured to persuade the others that they must decline such suggestions, for the bill was already mounting out of control. But I couldn’t get them to call a halt to it - with the end result that we were presented with a bill in excess of 900 pesetas. And it was now their turn to feel disgruntled, whereas I was reminding them that I had indeed tried to forewarn them. Looking at it on the bright side however, we had been treated to an excellent cabaret, with some fine flamenco - even if it did only last for ten minutes.On Friday I took the train to Salamanca, and my first impressions of it are most favourable. It is largely a modern city, and one of the nicest that I’ve seen, but it still has the feeling of being a university town. I am greatly impressed.

There was a young German called Otto Schwendtner at the same pension in Salamanca, whom I found most likeable. I think he was telling me that he had once been a member of the Hitler Youth, and he certainly looked the part, with his good looks, blond hair and blue eyes. But I didn’t sense any of the arrogance which might fit the stereotype. I found him sympathetic all round. I should indeed be able to set all the bias in my wartime prejudice behind me. All right, the Germans did do a lot of terrible things, and it might not be wise ever to entrust our future into their (bullying) hands. But it’s time to take due note of the sides to their national character which are compatible with the way the rest of us would like the world to be.

While at Salamanca I did a painting on the conflicting themes of the poverty and the religious devotion in Spain - although it would be unfair to link those ideas in particular to this town. It’s just a jumble of figures which create a composition, and I’m still uncertain whether it’s going to come off.

On Monday I travelled on to La Coruña - which I found dowdy by comparison with Salamanca. But I made my pilgrimage (like any good Briton) to the tomb of Sir John Moore.

On Tuesday I moved on to Santiago, and once again I found it impressive. I’ve got it lodged in my head that Toledo, Salamanca and Santiago are the three nicest towns that I’ve seen on my travels.

There was one negative experience, which was the poor quality of the Pension Miguez - where I stayed. The room (and the bed in particular) were filthy, and I woke up covered with bites - whether from fleas or bed-bugs, I don’t know. But whatever they were, I suspect that there are still some of them lurking within my clothes. I blamed myself really, in that I was searching too diligently to find the cheapest pension for my money.

On Wednesday evening I travelled back to La Coruña, and off again on Thursday morning to Leon.

The Pension Covadonga where I stayed furnished me with another unpleasant experience. I have adopted a policy of attempting to avoid any of those porters who earn tips by taking you to some dubious pension of their choice. So I picked this one entirely on my own - despite having to carry the burden of my own luggage. Even so, I was followed all the way from the station by a porter who, on seeing which pension I had chosen, promptly stood in the doorway declaring "Here it is!" - for the benefit of the proprietress, from whom he doubtless managed to extract a commission for bringing me to her.

Not that he’d given up on the idea of getting a tip from me as well. It was quite ludicrous the way in which he stood beside me when I was enquiring about the availability of a room, and the price, for he was posing as my interpreter when I needed no such assistance. And then he followed me up the stairs after I’d been indicated the number of my room, placing a hand on my suitcase as if he were helping me to carry it - which was bloody cheek in that I’d borne the entire weight of everything for the whole distance from the station. And he had the effrontery to ask me for a tip when I reached the room. Purely to evade a whole row on the issue, I gave him a single peseta.

I learnt later that the normal charge for a room would be 40 pts. But the proprietress (a shrivelled old bitch) had charged me 45, and I’d accepted it too readily without establishing that this was all that I would be asked to pay. And I soon discovered that she was upping the bill wherever she deemed possible. When I pointed out that there were two beds in my room, and that I didn’t want to share with anyone, she said that in this case the charge would be 50, instead of 45. Then I found that I was being charged for all manner of extras - like the wine, the bath water, a police tax and a service charge. The wine and the police tax I allowed, but I remonstrated that this was the first pension that I’d stayed at which did not include the other items within the over-all charge.

I stuck to my guns despite a lengthy argument, and both of us were behaving as if we were being robbed. Indeed, I’m convinced that she got more out of me than was justifiable, but I did manage to set a limit to her excesses. And I suppose that to be cheated out of cheating someone is almost as disagreeable as getting cheated oneself!

I’m beginning to perceive that the north of Spain is far more grasping when it comes to financial dealings. There is no longer the lackadaisical, carefree attitude that I encountered in the south. In this respect, I daresay that the north is more in line with the rest of Europe, and they may have a better chance of getting themselves properly organized from a business point of view. But it came as a sharp rap after all the friendliness which I’d experienced down south.

I did the usual round of sight-seeing - mainly churches - but I’m beginning to feel worried about the books I was supposed to have read by the end of the vacation. I’ve been carrying some of them round with me on my travels, but have only just started giving some time to reading them.

On Friday I travelled on to Burgos.

I find myself wondering if I may be growing too wary about getting cheated by everyone. Once again it struck me that I was being overcharged at my pension, when I learnt that the price of the meal was not to be included within the 45 pta cover. So I went down to the Office of Tourism to enquire what I should expect, and was told that (without a meal) she was grossly overcharging me. So I went back and pointed this out to her. She wasn’t going to budge, so I picked up my bags and left - which meant another tedious traipse through the town, under the weight of my haversack, painting easel and heavy suitcase. But it did mean that I found one where the inclusive charge was 45 pts.

Burgos looked to be a nice city, without being anything special from the touristic point of view. Or the inside of the cathedral impressed me, but the various monasteries were disappointing. I was curious to see how such a religious country as Spain has permitted the opening of the royal tombs, so that the clothes they were wearing can be put on display. I wonder if Britain will soon follow suit - in the interests of promoting tourism. It gives me food for thought on the instructions that I should leave in my will, with regard to the manner in which I myself should finally be buried!

On Saturday evening I came on to San Sebastian, where I eventually found myself a delightful pension. Prices are higher here - it costs me 60 pts a day. But it is run far more as a family concern than anywhere else I’ve been.

There was a storm during the night, and today Sunday, it has rained for most of the day. I feel as if I am reacclimatizing myself for my return to Britain. The huge Atlantic rollers furnish a very different atmosphere to anything on the Mediterranean coast. I watched one roller come surging up over the bridge, to soak a family of Frenchmen who happened to be on it. The little girl started crying - but I’m afraid I laughed.

During Sunday and Monday, it did nothing but pour with rain - which depressed me in that I was hoping to fit in a lot of bathing before I had to travel home. There was a fine firework display on the Monday evening. But it wasn’t until Tuesday that there was enough sun to warrant a dip into the sea.

Here at San Sebastian I have encountered for the first time the proverbial strictness of the Spanish bathing regulations. I’d put on the usual swimming trunks that are quite traditional to wear in Britain, and which could not be regarded as indecent or provocative in any manner whatsoever. But I was on a strip of beach within the precincts of the town, and I suppose there are niggling regulations which they feel they have to enforce - purely as a matter of puritanical principle.

Anyway a policeman came up to me and declared (quite pleasantly) that I must go and hire myself a different pair of swimming trunks from a place he indicated - which I did. The only trouble was that the new trunks, while being longer in the leg and more like boxing shorts, were made from a flimsy material which clung to my body when I came out from the water. And I now found myself truly embarrassed in that they became virtually transparent, or at any rate most revealing with regard to the exact size and shape of my genitals. I found myself scampering for cover just as quickly as I could - and wondering if I’d got the policeman’s message confused. Perhaps he’d intended that I wear these shorts on top of my own bathing pants. But he should have been more explicit on that issue.

There is a young French boy called Mark at my pension, and we have become quite friendly. He was only about seventeen but, as always seems the case, I found his veneer of sophistication shamed me, if I compared it with my own. He said he’d invited a couple of girls to some rendezvous, and he asked if I would come along with him - which I did. But it took me aback when I discovered that the girls in question were just fifteen and sixteen. I found it all quite a strain!

There were moments when I felt as if I were an adult playing with sandcastles on a beach. The time will come of course when such an age gap will seem thoroughly appropriate within my endeavours to sustain romances. But they hadn’t reached that point in maturity themselves when I could regard them as adults. Conversation was difficult.

I am aware how I give others contradictory impressions on the level of my maturity. And I daresay it does stem from the fluctuating level of my self-confidence about life in general. My whole demeanour may seem timid and withdrawn at times. But I feel this belies the confidence that I do feel in myself, which lurks somewhere deep down beneath it all. I only wish that I could get myself sorted out into a coherent identity - and quickly too.

Thursday morning was given over to souvenir shopping - finding gifts for [X], amongst others....

Then I took the night train for Paris. There were two Spanish girls in my compartment who took my age to be fifteen! I don’t know what’s happening to me. Am I really regressing with regard to the evident level of my maturity?

In Paris on Friday, there was time for me to go along to the Academie Julien to participate within their sketching class. My fortunes did a sudden upturn, in that I now encountered a little success from the social point of view. One girl (whose name was Catherine) seemed quite excited when she was chatting with me. Then her girlfriend came up, and she was most attractive. And it did seem to me that she was gazing up into my eyes in a manner that I should regard as encouraging. But I was just passing through Paris, so I couldn’t avail myself of the opportunity. Perhaps they’ll still be around if I return to Paris once my studies at Oxford are complete!

There were horrendous difficulties in loading all my luggage on the train, because I had bought enough wooden stretchers to support all the canvasses I’ve been painting. And the railway officials now classified all this as merchandise. But I got the matter sorted out eventually.

On the train from Paddington to Westbury, I sat in the same carriage as a very beautiful girl, who turned out to be Antonia Packenham - Lord Packenham’s daughter. I’ve been told that Antony Rouse is currently in love with her, while bemoaning that she is not in love with him. And I do see that she is most attractive. We chatted about this and that - mainly about her brother Tom who is currently at Oxford. She was on her way down to visit her aunt, who apparently lives quite near to Longleat.

It’s lovely to be back home at Longleat again, but I am well pleased with my travels. I saw a whole variety of different sides to the way the Spanish think and operate, and I managed to prove to myself that the acquisition of a foreign language is by no means beyond my ability. I realize that Dad is never likely to see things that way, but who cares? I can do it!

I am pleased too with the paintings I have brought back home with me. (And that roll of canvasses added much to the weight that I had to lug round with me!) I could have done more I daresay. It was seven in all that I completed - with one of them given to Don Jaime. But they can match in quality anything that I painted last year. I’m really feeling quite proud of myself.