This January my youngest daughter invited me to go to Barcelona for a couple of days so we could spend some quality time together, and sample some of the many delights of the city. We had a wonderful time, and I reminisced a lot, as I had been several times before and loved it every time.

My first time was in spring 1975 while I was on my year abroad. I had been travelling round Spain, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, but generally meeting up with fellow students on the way. I was supposed to be attending the University of Salamanca, but all the universities in Spain were closed, an act of revenge by Franquista government, as some brave students had thrown eggs at the Rector of Valladolid university, and the situation galloped out of control from there. I can’t remember the details, but it meant we were free to do as we pleased. Most people sensibly did their coursework and found jobs. I managed neither, but I saw a lot.

I arrived in Barcelona absolutely penniless. I had spent my grant on various necessities and I was waiting for my top up from my dad. It didn’t come. I rang him, at great expense, having booked an international phone call at the main post office, and he told me rather shirtily that he had sent it and there was no more to expect. Disaster. Disappointment. Disbelief. Disgruntlement. How long can I go on for? You get my gist.

Anyway, my friend Eirlys Jones offered me some accommodation – the use of her bed in a hostel. She would leave early to go for her harp lessons with one of the best harpists of the world at that time, and I would stay under the covers until the cleaning lady came and went. then I would creep out clutching my three pesetas to go to the public baths where I could have a lovely long bath, with soap and clean towel, to set me up for the day’s sightseeing. And reading. I remember Watership Down was the book of choice. Not even something Spanish!

I had a few friends there and I remember contacting someone called Tony -Kingsley, possibly? whom I had met the day before I went to Sheffield. He was a part time musician, and invited me to a gig at the British Council. It was free, so I didn’t hesitate. This was about two weeks in to my life of poverty. There were lots of acts in this show, and in the interval I went to the loo, of course and there I heard some girls speaking English. I was quite starved of English conversation by then and so I approached them by asking if they came here (to the Brit. Council) often. At that time I didn’t know that this was a traditional pick up line but I soon found out. One of the girls turned on me, angrily at first, and then she cried out – are you Barbara Why so key? That was how my surname was pronounced at school but I hadn’t heard it for a long time. Yes, I stuttered and then suddenly I recognised her. Frances Lowndes, a couple of years younger than me.

We had a nice chat, and then she casually mentioned that she was staying with one of our school teachers, Miss Royle. I was thrilled, as this was someone whom I had liked very much and was and was very distressed when she was sacked on the spur of the moment from our school, for playing the music from the Musical Hair as part of our dance/drama classes. (

We got talking and she invited me for lunch. Frances was leaving in a couple of days and so I went to her flat , in Ramon y Cajal, I think for the most marvellous meal. I have been cooking sea bream her way ever since!

As we were talking she discovered that I was virtually homeless and penniless, and offered me her boyfriend’s flat for two weeks! I don’t know what Carlos thought of this arrangement, as he had to move in with her, but I had a whale of a time – free baths and all. Thinking back I must have had a little money, because I don’t remember being hungry, just very frugal.

Sheena wa an absolute lifesaver, as well as having been such an inspiration during the swinging sixties at school. The nuns had given her a job after she left college, but they weren’t prepared for her personality or her enthusiasm. She put on plays – la Casa de Bernarda Alba – that didn’t quite meet with their idea of what convent girls should be absorbing, and she wrote poetry and made us write poetry in freefrom style – I’ve written about the little book she published – and she taught us dance – not quite cotillions or minuets either. I must admit I didn’t like the dancing or the drama, so I would wander the corridors whenever I felt something physical was coming on. And that is why I feel guilty that she got the sack. I was at the foot of the stairs, ready to hide in my room upstairs when Mother Mary Frances (the Head Mistress) caught me and looked at me quizzically and said, My dear, have you any idea where that noise is coming from? At that moment the words of the song Sodomy came up in all their unanticipated glory (look them up, I’m not writing them here – I am still a product of my schooling!). MMFrancis stopped in her tracks. I was frozen. I didn’t know what half the words meant, just that they were vaguely rude, but MMF was a highly educated woman. She’d also had a life before she entered the convent. She knew. She understood.

She asked me the name of the teacher in question. Within half an hour Miss Royle had gone, never to be mentioned again.

She had been such an inspiration.

We kept in touch for a number of years, then lost touch, then got in touch through LInkedin again. And that was wonderful, and we met again for the first time when I was working as a librarian in the London Oratory. (not quite as restrictive, but a close second, even after 50 years). We went for lunch and talked about her time at St Augustine’s.

Luckily she wasn’t remotely traumatised by her dismissal and had gone on to do many other things. To be honest, she said, she could hardly remember what she had done, and laughed uproariously when I told her. That was seven years ago. We promised each other we would meet again. She invited me to Barcelona.

But I was only there for two days this year and didn’t ring her. I should have done. Her son contacted me a few days ago to say that she had died after a very short illness a couple of weeks ago. I am very sad. She was such a vibrant, clever woman,, very giving and loving.

RIP Sheena Campbell Royle.