It is always problematic to remind oneself of an ancestor of whom one knows so little. Pointless to pay respects and totally impossible (at least for me) to imagine that this charming, young Andalusian girl, long since departed at the age of 106, is my own mother’s mother. The only possible remaining link being the hours of harp and guitar music emanating from a music room in the heat of a Spanish summer. As if echoing the years filled with rich and disorganised emotions, a work is sitting right there, on my music stand, bursting with forgotten fragrances and sprinkled with painful recollections of childhood.