How tourist trap became a scene of slaughter,

BARCELONA is inextricably linked to the phrase “mes que un club”, its local football team’s motto declaring it to be “more than a club”, because of the role it plays in local life.

To anyone who has lived there it is more than a city.

I studied in Barcelona two years ago and could not help but fall in love with the place.

I chose Barcelona for a variety of reasons: its passion for sport, the low cost of living compared to Ireland, and its wonderful climate.

For many, Las Ramblas is the cultural artery of the city, comparable with Dublin’s Grafton Street but without the exorbitant prices.

I was able to rent a room in an apartment 100ft away from the thoroughfare for less than €450 per month.

Life there is very different; the sun rises early and sets late.

Days in college were punctuated by a swim in the sea. At the weekends we would head for Bunkers del Carmel, a series of ruined Spanish Civil War bunkers that offered breathtaking views of the city as the sun sank behind it.

The ruins act as a reminder of Barcelona’s troubled past but also provided some respite from what my local friends dubbed the “selfie stick warriors”, that’s tourists to you and I.

Barcelona’s locals have a love/ hate relationship with tourists.

They have been the subject of a number of major protests recently and are blamed for a dilution of local culture and a rise in the cost of living.

However, last night locals were united with their visitors in grief, and shock. Unsuspecting.

The city was once a canvas for artist-come-architect extraordinaire Antoni Gaudi, whose work is evident everywhere you look.

It is a focal point for Catalunya’s bid for independence from Spain.

It is one of the few major sprawling European cities to have beaches within walking distance of the main shopping areas and its laidback, suntrap vibes on the Mediterranean coast attract millions of visitors every year.

Visitors and locals alike will stroll down Las Ramblas at some stage, the city’s main thoroughfare and the site of yesterday’s terror attack. Shoppers would have stopped off at the numerous kiosks dotted the length of the kilometre-long strip for ice cream, a drink or a bite to eat when the attack happened.

For me, it was where I went to buy Irish and English newspapers whenever I felt homesick, or where I would go to buy tickets to see Messi and Co at Camp Nou.

The street is largely pedestrianised and made up of three footpaths.

Between them are two lanes of traffic, mainly used by taxis, buses and delivery drivers who snake through throngs of people at a snail’s pace.

At night the area can become quite sinister. Locals are warned of rife pickpocketing and the bottom of the strip is often used by ladiesof-the night who introduce themselves to foreign revellers visiting nearby bars and night clubs.

During the day, it is friendly, filled with street performers, flower sellers and pleasant waiters trying to coax passers-by in to their restaurants.

Every time their football team wins a trophy locals meet here to rejoice.

It is at the centre of life and is regularly shut down for parades.

Nobody would have been expecting a van to drive at them so violently yesterday.

Las Ramblas is the epicentre of local culture and celebration. It is closed to traffic on April 23 every year so local traders can line the route with tables of books and flower stalls to celebrate the Festival of St Jordi, Catalunya’s patron saint. Girls spend the day gifting books to local boys. In return they receive a beautiful red rose. It’s a bit like Lisdoonvarna, done right.

As the terrorists mounted kerbs and drove at pedestrians they would have passed the stunning Liceu opera theatre, traditional Gothic shop-fronts, the world famous La Boqueria food market.

Usually it is full of bustle as shoppers squeeze past each other insearchoftapasandaglassof beer or wine before heading home with a few groceries. It was empty with the shutters down last night as armed police in swat gear used flashlights to hunt down the killers.

Outside, bodies lay strewn on the pavement next to the Virreina Palace.

It was jarring to see an area defined by its vitality, its colour, and its vivacity now empty and desolate – a scene of slaughter.