I was in a bar in Stiges (yeah - still hung on that particular adventure) and I got chatting to this artist fella called Fiacre O'Rafferty. He described himself, in a croaky Canadian voice, his eyes watery from too much beer, as "the last of a dying breed - a bohemian artist."

We spent much of the evening talking about art and creativity. Fiacre lives in a one room studio on a cliff top above the sea. He has hard times and good times, "Sometimes I'm so poor I can't eat that day, but then I go outside and look across the sea and I don't care," he said. Then added his life's philosophy, "If I can't have it, I don't want it."

Fiacre has taken the plunge. He is living his life. His art. Sure you can scoff... 60s drop out, hippy, dreamer... whatever... drugged up to the eyeballs and off his face or not, he was doing what he wanted to do and was doing it everyday. Creating.

I asked him how it was that he came to have the courage to take that leap... how he could let his art consume him, how he had managed to give up the kind of life most of us cling too, no matter how unhappy we are? And he started to cry.

His sister had died. And from that moment on he had decided to follow his own path and do exactly as he needed to do, he told me.

I told him that I wrote. That I was a writer. I told him that sometimes I wanted to take the plunge - not give everything up and go live in a room on a clifftop above the sea (though the urge does come and go) - but to let my writing take hold, to become immersed in it as he does with his art. But that its fear that holds me back. I'm frightened of letting go, and frightened to lose myself in the word.

Later on, I met this sexy skin head bloke in a darkened bar and ended up having sex in a backroom. Never done that before. It was - different.

I left Spain buzzing with life, feeling like some kind of flame had been ignited in me. But as the days of this last week have passed by, I've begun to wonder if that flame was an illusion. Or just a spark. Of if it still burns inside, just not as brightly.

It's Saturday night. I've given up the chance to go for an all-nighter in Manchester and am here in my Tod garret instead, looking at blokes on the internet, remembering last week, drinking day-old red wine. And I'm not sure what I should be doing. What does it mean to live?

Is it to abandon all sense of what "should be done" and just go with your instincts? Rush off to Manchester and go to some all night bar... Look for some bloke and some fun... Get drunk... Spend too much money.. Write bleary eyed on the first train home about life and passion...

Or is to push on, through all the middling shit, through one adventure to the next, to try and find something substantial in all these lights? Even if that feels like not living sometimes, but rather, waiting for life to begin again with the start of another adventure?

Or is it neither of these... My flat is warmer than it has been for months. This is the first weekend I've had in ages. I've got candles burning and some of my favourite tunes playing... Aimee Mann "It's not going to stop, till you wise up..." And I'm OK. I'm really quite OK.