Kitchen Flamenco is what I like best – an intimate, small gathering of friends around the table with a few snacks and drinks – something that I used to create at times in my place in Oxford. Here in Jerez I have found it again – in the house of Estella - a writer and flamenco researcher – who has an open door on Tuesday evenings for any of her friends who happen to drop in. I have been there three times but still can’t find my way alone. The layout of Jerez in the old town is still a maze to me – a mysterious labyrinth of passages and buildings with imposing doorways. Each time I have been taken there I have been shown a different route by friends and could not re-trace any of them. Six months on the city is still an unfathomable puzzle – I half expect to hear one of those huge doors clang shut just after catching a glance of the White Rabbit scurrying away. It is a dreamy, disorientating zone – one that puzzles your senses – is that the corner that I remember from last time or a different one? Somehow nothing connects up in the way you expect it to and everything connects up in a way you can’t anticipate.
On this occasion my friend Nuria takes me through the ‘rite of passage’ that leads to Estella’s door. We stop in a plaza to buy some drinks at a little local provisions store. A group of teenagers are crowding in and filling the tiny space with us. I buy a bottle of ‘Tio Pepe’ to take to the party and Nuria gets a typical Jerez-style white, puffy, oval roll filled with ham. Outside a young girl of about 6 or 7 years old waits with her arms folded and feet set apart in a firm and defiant stance. She has blonde braids and an intense stare behind her blue glasses. Seems she is waiting to see what her older brother – or maybe cousin – is going to emerge from the shop with. Something tells me that she will not settle for anything less than exactly what she asked for. I have to keep staring at this little girl – what is it that is so fascinating about the way she is standing - that rooted ‘not taking no nonsense’ attitude. I can’t quite get it. Only now, writing this, do I realise  - of course – it’s the same totally rooted, no questions asked, attitude of a seventy or eighty year old hitching up her skirt, showing her bloomers and dancing a bulerias. It’s a pure moment of ‘Mira – aqui estoy – totally owning the moment’ It’s straightforward – it’s La Chicarrona and Tia Juana De La Pipa  packing a punch – tiny form – huge presence.
As we cross the plaza we pass a group of men sitting outside a bar and one of them calls out to Nuria “stop eating - you’ll put weight on!” We laugh and slow down as he approaches. Was that a chat up line? He’s quite a strong guy with longish hair, a prominent nose and teeth yellowed by a lifetime of smoking. I guess he’s in his 40s. Nuria and he chat and I tune in and out as I don’t have enough focus to follow the conversation. I’m still watching the young girl – still there – still standing arms folded – still intent on something. Nuria and the guy finish talking – he says give me a call sometime – and I take my gaze away from the young girl. We are near Estella’s house and turn another corner which brings us right outside the Bereber. The Bereber! A place I only  ever attempt to get to by taxi – an ancient Moorish palace turned into a beautiful, chilled out nightclub. It’s an absolute must if you are ever in Jerez, but trust me – take a taxi. So we are outside the Bereber – a landmark! – and head down a narrow alley with old fading walls on either side which seems to lead nowhere special. There are no doors or windows as we pass along, but suddenly we stop and there it is – Estella’s door! I remember it from before. A unique portal to a warm, intimate world. I step through and take off my shoes just like last time – immediately feeling very at home there.

Estella’s aparment is softly lit with halogen spots and low hanging lamps. Healthy plants flourish in the main living area and decorate the kitchen giving the flat the feel of a little oasis in the midst of the dusty, dilapidated urban surroundings. An assortment of chairs gathered from different rooms are set around the simple kitchen table ready to receive whoever turns up on this particular evening. I take in the fascinating range of flamenco memorabilia that Estella has brought together in her home - remembering some from previous visits and noticing others for the first time. My favourite is a portrait of a peasant farmer with an old weather-beaten face, a huge nose and wise eyes. He stares out from the canvas and behind him a track winds into the distance of the brown hills. The barren earth and his sun beaten features seem to reflect each other – both having seen many seasons of intense heat and hard labour.

There are four or five people already there and Estella breaks out snacks and pours drinks for everyone. A tall glass jar is set on the counter with  delicious home-mixed wine which tastes of spices and cinnamon. I have a cold and am also feeling quite hungry so I set about creating a huge crater in the bowl of crisps, conveniently set on my side of the table, while listening attentively to a sudden and intense discussion of the relative merits of some of the grand singers from the past. Various opinions fly to and fro between the aficionados present creating a great warm-up to the real business of the evening.

Sometimes a guitarist will strum a few chords that will suggest a particular palo and one of the singers present will take it up. But the reverse is also true – sometimes a singer will murmur the beginnings of a song and the musicians will immediately find the support and accompaniment. Juan sings Malaguenas and Fandangos gesturing in the air as he gains momentum and then, beautifully, holds the cap of a beer bottle in between two fingers as if it were a delicate icon or totem. The evening started gently and looked as if it was going to be a quiet night with not so many people, but everything can change in an instant – especially where there is flamenco.

Juan takes a break from singing and goes to have a look at the lock on Estella’s front door – sorting through some screwdrivers he brought along for the purpose. As he is busy with his diy session another few people enter and a middle aged man in a pink shirt sits down and takes a drink. I hadn’t seen him before, but he was obviously well known by everyone else. He only takes a few seconds to settle and then breaks out immediately into a heart-rendering Solea. He sings of scorching pain – unbuttoning his shirt as he does so to allow the force free rein. His song is about the death of a partner and he sings it as if she had just died moments before – with all the rawness of that suffering. I am transfixed – taken to the centre of a searing heart that has to express its full load of grief. The singer holds onto the guitarist next to him – as if needing a rock to take him through the passage of his story. The two support each other and the guitar is a sensitive response to what the song needs to express. Once sung, it is done – over – there is nothing more left to say.
We move on. Festive for bulerias  and tangos – light, quick and engaging. Now it feels we are in full flow and the evening eventually ends upbeat dancing Sevillanas  - but here it is por Bulerias.
We come out into the passage again. It takes a while – as it does in Spain – for people to say their goodbyes. There are discussions about the weekend – maybe a Romeria in the countryside. Eventually we walk into the stillness of the night. There is no trace of the Fiesta – just a group of friends making their way home. The great church is monolithic in the plaza and the sky is clear. There is a sense of something witnessed. The age of these stones, the immensity of the night and inside that the ephemerality of the fiesta. Somehow the ways are connected. But right now I need help – I need to find my way back home.