One Summer, A Stranger Asked ....

I don't remember which wines we tasted that day.

I know there were too many! Rich reds and crisp, cold whites, all made from grapes that thrive in the unforgiving soil around Jumilla in south-east Spain. Someone explained their flavour with words like oak and spice. I remember nodding thoughtfully, swirling my glass as instructed and probably smiled in all the right places.

But if you asked me today, many summers later, I couldn't tell you one wine from another.What I do remember is a question.

"Are you alright?"

Funny, isn't it, how one ordinary sentence can outlast every vintage wine in a cellar.

Whenever I see a bottle of Jumilla on a supermarket shelf now, I'm taken straight back to that late summer morning in southern Spain. The vineyards gently swayed beneath the cloudless sky. Cicadas hummed somewhere in the distance. The air already carried the warmth that promised another hot afternoon. And I remember wondering whether I should have stayed in bed.

The previous evening had been difficult. One of those evenings that leaves your heart heavier than your suitcase and your thoughts refusing to settle. Sleep never really came. By the time dawn crept through the slats in the shutters of our apartment, I had talked myself out of going on the winery tour at least half a dozen times.

"Let's just stay here," I said. Tim looked at me for a moment. "We've paid," he replied with characteristic practicality. "Besides, it might do you good." I wasn't convinced.

The effort of showering, getting dressed and walking to the pick-up point felt disproportionate to a simple day trip. It amazed me how heavy sadness can be. It makes ordinary things feel surprisingly difficult. Even climbing onto a minibus, and trying to brightly greet fellow tour passengers.

The bus arrived exactly on time. I instinctively chose a window seat. I've always preferred windows. They allow you to look out when conversation feels too much. Across the aisle sat a cheerful woman called Jackie, who appeared to have joined the tour alone.

At first, she and Tim chatted about the usual holiday things. Where are you staying? Have you been here before? What have you seen? I half listened trying to avoid eye contact in an attempt at distancing myself from the conversation, while watching the Murcia countryside roll past the window, miles of vineyards stretching across hills bleached brown by a long hot summer. Looking back now, I realise life often changes while we're looking the other way.

The winery itself was modern without feeling clinical. Cool inside despite the heat pressing against the glass outside. Our guide spoke with infectious pride about generations of winemakers, about vines that somehow flourished in land that looked too dry to sustain anything. "The vines struggle," she explained. "That is what gives the grapes their character." At the time I simply admired the scenery.

Years later I think I finally understood what she meant. Sometimes people are no different.

We wandered through rows of oak barrels in the imposing and cavernous cellar, before arriving in the tasting room. A long table gleamed beneath perfectly arranged glasses waiting to be filled. The first wine was poured. Tim's phone rang. "I have to take this, it’s a conference call I need to join" he whispered, disappearing outside to, for a short while, be the other Tim – the serious, knowledgeable and reliable Tim.

Jackie moved into the empty chair beside me. For a few moments we sat in comfortable silence. Then she turned towards me.

"Can I ask you something?"

I nodded.

"You've been smiling all morning," she said gently, "but your eyes don't look as though they feel like smiling. Are you alright?"

To this day I don't know how she knew. Perhaps she was simply one of those rare people who truly notice others. Whatever the reason, the carefully constructed wall I'd spent hours building quietly crumbled. We talked. Really talked. Not the polite conversations strangers usually have over a glass of wine, but the honest kind. The sort that somehow feels safer with someone you've only just met because there is nothing to lose by telling the truth. Within half an hour Jackie knew the events of the night before and what had led up to them – the whole four years of pain.

When Tim returned he found two women laughing through tears over half-finished glasses of white wine. He looked slightly puzzled. "What have I missed?" "The important bit," Jackie smiled, and then without hesitation she turned, looking straight at him she declared “I need words with you”.

By the third tasting we'd stopped being strangers. By the fourth we'd become friends. The wines became increasingly generous. So did the laughter.

Tim, who has an extraordinary ability to sound authoritative regardless of whether he knows what he's talking about, began discussing tasting notes with complete confidence. "I think this one's got real depth," he announced. I looked at Jackie. She looked at me.

"Oh really?" I asked. Neither of us could restrain the laughter, and perhaps a little cruelly it was directed at a very confused Tim.

That was the moment the day changed. Or perhaps it was me.

Lunch was served in a nearby restaurant, every wall covered floor to ceiling with shelves lined with bottles of local wines. Bread appeared. Olive oil glistened in little dishes. Plates arrived almost faster than they could be emptied. Every time a bottle of wine was emptied, another magically appeared.

Conversations spilled up and down the table. People telling stories they'd probably never expected to tell that morning. Isn't that one of the joys of travelling? You can spend an entire afternoon with people you've never met before, sharing parts of your life that somehow never come up with friends you've known for twenty years.

By the time we climbed back onto the minibus, everyone was distinctly merry.

Then the bus broke down.

A strange smell drifted through the cabin before thick fumes engulfed us causing everyone to cough. Our driver pulled over immediately and disappeared underneath to investigate as we all spilled off the bus.

Tim cheerfully announced "It's alright. I'm an engineer."

Now, for the record, Tim is indeed an engineer. He is absolutely not a mechanic.

Undeterred, and fuelled by too much Spanish wine, he disappeared beneath the stranded bus to offer assistance.

To this day Jackie will still pronounce "Don't worry everyone - Tim's an engineer" at gatherings. It never stops being funny.

While we waited for the replacement bus, another practical problem emerged. There wasn't a toilet for miles.

Jackie and I exchanged the sort of look women have exchanged throughout history. Without saying very much, we disappeared towards an abandoned building. I suspect that was the exact moment our friendship became permanent. Being on ‘guard duty’ for each other was a different kind of bonding.

Some friendships are forged over years. Ours was apparently sealed behind a derelict Spanish farmhouse after two or three bottles of wine….each!

Life is wonderfully unpredictable.

Eventually another coach rescued us and we laughed all the way home.

Looking back now, it would be easy to remember that day as a winery tour. But it wasn't really.

It was the day a stranger looked beyond the smile I'd struggled to wear and asked whether I was alright. She reminded me that kindness doesn't always come from the people who have known us longest. Sometimes it arrives sitting across the aisle on a minibus in rural Spain.

Many summers have passed since then.

The wine has long since been drunk.

The photographs have faded slightly.

The bus was eventually repaired.

But Jackie is still one of our closest friends, and continues to offer her wisdom and wit.

Every now and then we laugh about Tim fixing buses he had absolutely no business fixing. We remember the abandoned building. We remember the endless bottles of wine.

Mostly, though, I remember that gentle question.

"Are you alright?"

Because sometimes the greatest souvenirs we bring home from a holiday aren't bottles, photographs or postcards.

Sometimes they're people.

And every now and again, if you're very lucky, one summer day quietly changes the rest of your life.