A young woman stood at the door smoking an already smoked cigarette. There was a near laughter smile when I asked for two tickets, she thought I might make some enquiry first. We entered a dark bar in a cave like atmosphere with two drinkers and a well built gentle looking man strumming his guitar quietly. We were given a sangria with our tickets as a young man, then an older one started gently tap dancing to the guitar. The woman with the smile took us down a spiral staircase into another dark bar area behind which were our booked seats. “You’re the first here, you can put your jumper on your chosen seats” 1/2 a metre from the stage in this small dungeon like room. We could hear singing now in the bar upstairs. We sat in the best seats as a dozen others gathered around us, the upstairs musicians amongst them

The guitarist took his seat, the singer his, as a tall young handsome man enterer with an older well built woman on to the stage. This was Flamenco, old Flamenco, in a brick vaulted cellar without microphones, how it used to be. On one corner of this tiny stage was the guitarist gently but expertly playing, with the singer on the other moving from mournful cries to musical shouts, the two dancers in the middle mesmerising us with their expert work with their feet and pirouettes. The maestro came on towards the end and with full focus and fierce passion had this audience of 12 on their feet including my wife who was not a big fan but now converted. This was spectacular. I once read a book called Duende where the author was searching for the real Flamenco.Tonight I think we found it