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Some years ago, we had our last family holiday.

My Father had his heart set on having an apartment in the South of Spain and was having a place built there. His dream was to sell his business, trade down on their house and spend the winters there, taking his grandchildren and playing with them in the warm sun. But, in the meantime, he rented a villa and persuaded my older brother to come with. One last family holiday.

Of course, he wasn't to know about the Cancer that, even then, was beginning to knaw at his flesh or that he would never live to see his apartment finished, so he wasn't aware this was the last holiday but, nonetheless, he was the sort of man who made each moment with him special, as if in some way, some biological level, he suspected.

We spent spent the days by the pool, or on the beach, enjoying the feeling of sun on our skins the way only the English or a Trogladyte can, eating out in the evenings, sampling different restaurants, different foods, glowing from Mediterranean cuisine.

One afternoon, for a change, I wandered into the local town. Whitewashed, thick-walled buildings, tiled floors, terracotta roof tiles, the town was almost a parody of itself and yet avoided the touristy cynicism so prevalent down the coast. As I wandered, window shopping, mindless in that way you can become when shopping for nothing, with no time constraints, I came across a shop with a cool interior beckoning me in.

What the shop sold has faded like so many memories - I have a vague recollection of wicker, or pottery, but one thing remains fixed in my memory, a buoy to fix those memories of the trip, of my Father to.

On the stereo was playing, softly, a piece of music. Suddenly, as I listened, all thoughts of everything, everyone else faded and I was entranced.

The music was Rodriego's Concierto de Aranjuez http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8LL1x6J2rU

I can't explain why, but as soon as I hear this music, I'm transported. Wherever I am, I close my eyes and can see the shadows the setting sun casts on the Sierra Nevada, the mountain range that sits behind the coast of Andalucia. I can hear the chirping of the insects, feel the warmth in my bones, the smells of cooking, olives, oranges, bourganvillia. My heart slows, my breathing deepens and once again, I'm with my family, my Father. Although an adult, for a moment, I'm absolved of adult responsibilities, duties, the weight of duty.

I can't listen to it in the car, as I would not be in the present and rarely do I have the time to sit, listen, drift.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I will put it on and, as a soft tear rolls down my face, I smile and know that, oddly, I'm home.