Well, I'm back from my latest escape: a long weekend in Spain with my sister. It was wonderful. Fabulous weather, lots of swimming in the sea, great company, delicious food, a night in Barcelona - my favouritist of cities - some delicious mojitos, a whole row to myself on the easyjet flight home (unheard of, although there was the obligatory EJ delay to contend with before that). But no T.

T and I had booked to go to Spain for our summer holiday in August. But we never got there. We'd spent months planning a holiday to Croatia. Even bought the guide book. Then decided at the last minute that it wasn't coming together and opted for Spain instead. We were going to spend some time in the mountains, a week by the sea and a few days in Barcelona - a city I'd told T all about but that he'd never visited. It was going to be my opportunity to show him why I love that place so much. And a chance for him to fall in love with it himself. I think it would have been the perfect holiday; a good balance of all the things we enjoy. And a chance for us to start trying for a baby.

Although I've done more than my fair share of travelling since T died, I found elements of this break particularly hard. Going to Gatwick as we'd done many times before when heading off on our summer holiday, queuing up alongside the couples and families heading off on their long-anticipated annual break: it was all so familiar. Yet so bloody alien. I could picture T beside me. The usual pre-holiday stresses causing some unnecessary tension and bickering between us - are you sure you packed the passports? I can't believe you forgot to pack X, Y or Z. Why did you have to finish work so late, knowing we had to get to the airport to catch our flight? Did we definitely lock the front door? etc etc. Then the relief of making it through to the departure lounge and onto the flight. Time to relax. Time to start enjoying the break. Time to make the most of it as we'd be back at work before we knew it. That holiday feeling. Bliss. Holding hands as the plane took off. Watching London disappear through the cloud. A snooze on the flight to make up for the late night packing the night before. Then the wall of heat hitting you as you stepped off the plane at the other side. Deep breath. And relax...

After 13 years together, we had our little holiday routines. It was hard being on a more traditional holiday without T there beside me. Hard seeing other couples acting out exactly what it would have been like to be there with T, in front of my very eyes. Hard being in the place where T and I should have been holidaying this time last year. Hard being in Barcelona, knowing that T will now never have the chance to go. Just hard not having him there with me.

Don't get me wrong. It was great being away with my sister. We had the best time, lots of laughs and I'm very grateful that she was able to come with me. We've got some great memories of our holiday and I hope to go back to both Sitges and Barcelona very soon (city break anyone??). It's just hard getting used to doing things without T. Yes, I've been away without him in the past. But then I'd be sending him postcards, calling him every day and picking out a little souvenir to take home to him from my trip. Now there's none of that. Just that gaping hole again. It's proving to be a bloody big place that hole.