Spain through the lens of Ashleigh Brooksbank

In June, I found myself tracing the edges of Europe once more, chasing familiar streets in some of my favourite European cities before discovering something new along the Costa Brava. L’Escala — a small, unassuming town pressed between pale rocks and the quiet sweep of the Mediterranean — became the place I didn’t know I’d been waiting for.

Spain asks you to slow down. And being there, you cannot help but soften into the rhythm of the locals, strolling barefoot along the shoreline, dining without urgency, speaking in the unhurried tones of those on holiday, people inherently at ease. I arrived with a camera and a leather journal I’d bought in Florence, and in that light-filled town, I finally understood the ease of ritual. Each day I would write — the smallest details, the textures and tones of the small alleyways that led down to the water, the way salt lingered on my skin, the sound of boats creaking against stone. Writing became like photographing: a way of living a moment twice.

There were no grand revelations, only small ones. That joy can be derived from the simplest things: fish, fresh from the ocean, the warmth of sun-soaked concrete, the laughter of strangers. That stillness can be its own form of beauty — watching a lone sailboat move along the horizon in the haze of dusk. And that love, even when it is not romantic, is everywhere: in the voices of neighbours across balconies, in the rhythm of bodies swimming into blue-green water, in the patience of a couple sitting side by side until the sky fades.

"Spain asks you to slow down. And being there, you cannot help but soften into the rhythm of the locals, strolling barefoot along the shoreline, dining without urgency, speaking in the unhurried tones of those on holiday, people inherently at ease."

I was surprised by how instantly at home I felt. It wasn’t the glossy escapism of the Mediterranean I’d imagined, but something quieter, and in a strange way, more real. The beaches weren’t crowded, the days unfurled slowly, and with each one I found myself more content to simply be.

If I return (and I would in a heartbeat) I will bring friends. To share this pace, to gather in the evening air over wine and olives, to watch the last light pierce the sea. Until then, I keep the memory in words and images: Spain as it felt to me, not a postcard, not perfection, but a reminder that true beauty is most often found in the unexpected.