Across the water a cloud rises. It seems to glow, illuminated from beneath as it swells in the still air. Soon another joins it, and then another, until they become one – a huge, grey-white mass lowering over the streets like devil's breath. Below and all around, a flurry of explosions crackle through the night and three new trails of white gas pour through the scene, climbing quickly before the projectiles arch back to earth. The beast before us inhales as it rises ever higher and reaches out towards the people massed along the banks and across the water.
My wife and I have been in Girona for a little over twenty-four hours. We came here with simple expectations – some wine, warmth and time together after a draining few months. A wee break, booked on a whim a few months earlier, long before Spain decided to imprison politicians for up to 13 years for the appalling crime of allowing people to vote. Those sentences were handed down three days before we arrived.
Every single part of the city seems to feature some sort of political symbol, with pro-democracy, pro-independence and anti-fascist sentiments radiating from the streets. There is the Catalan flag, La Estelada, draped over countless balconies; yellow ribbons of protest painted on almost every street sign; graffiti on the pavements and walls decrying the injustice of the Spanish courts and calling for Mort al Rei (Death to the King); banners hung from the side of buildings, slogans such as Self-determination is a right, not a crime; street art demanding llibertat (liberty) and welcoming passers-by to 'the Republic of Catalonia'.
