As I sat there, scratching, and wondering where I would spend the night, I suddenly heard the sound of music coming from a nearby street - not the Spanish kind, but waltzy gusts of Strauss played on accordion, flute, and fiddle. Curious, I went off to have a look, and found three blond young men bashing out a back-street concert in the midst of a crowd of wide-mouthed children. Men had halted their mules, women stood listening in doorways or hung from balconies overhead. The syrupy beer-hall strains of ‘Vienna Woods’ swept incongruously round the Spanish houses, but the boys were doing well - pennies tumbled from windows or were tossed over the heads of the children, to be caught with a flourish in the fiddler’s hat with heavily accented thanks. It was a significant moment, and I was cheered by the sight, as this was how I, too, hoped to live. It seemed that I’d come to the right country, poor as it was; the pennies were few, but they were generously given. And music was clearly welcome in this Spanish street, the faces softened with pleasure as they listened. << less