Despite being so well prepared for a picnic at the Alhambra today, when the alarm went off at six o’clock, we decided not to go. Keith had been up for hours and he could not fix the computer so we would have to sleep a while and then take it to a technician. Using the Spanish dictionary to prepare for our visit, we went over to the computer shop and explained our problems. The quickest solution was for us to make sure we had backed up everything on our external hard drives, and to wipe the lot and reinstall the operating system. This would take some time and we would end up with everything in Spanish. We had no alternative but to say to go ahead, and really I was quite pleased to think that we would have such a good way of learning more Spanish. We left our computer and set off for a visit to our own past.
Following our noses, and taking a different way into the centre of the city was a great idea because we came to a bookshop with foreign language books. I found one that was perfect, having read the blurb, which said that it was a novel set during the invasion of Aquitaine by the English. It was only after Keith pointed out that it was in Spanish that I realised that it was not going to be quite so perfect since I can’t read much Spanish – but at the time of writing weeks later I still think that I should have bought it. I couldn’t read French until I bought a really interesting book. Anyway, I settled for two books in French by Guy Maupassant, and one in English on the theme of antiquarian book selling and intrigue.
We continued, with me not looking to left or right in the interests of us making headway towards the patch of light on the hill where we, (Alan, Mark, Keith and I) had gone in 1977. We were distracted for a moment by a group of protesters; middle aged folk like ourselves with a smattering of older and younger, with placards against the selling off of Spain’s and their history. 
They moved off towards the centre in an orderly fashion. We were walking fast because of our late start, and had to keep taking off layers of clothing. At last we came to the arch and the statue, and stepped through into a time warp. It was bitterly cold so we were getting a few strange looks, and at one stage when Keith had stopped to take a photo and I had walked on alone, a man even paused to ask me if I was all right and wasn’t I cold wearing a T-shirt. The Sierra Nevadas in the background were covered in snow. We recognised the place where we had come to watch Flamenco dancing, in a kind of cave which started as a free standing building but continued into the rock of the mountain. I remembered sitting in a row, thinking that the dancers looked really fierce and unfriendly and that surely it would finish soon. Not that I didn’t enjoy the dancing and playing, and the dresses – I did, but I remember feeling exposed to the performers and trying hard not to shuffle or yawn. Keith was sure that he recognised the name of the cave we had visited and when we looked at the photos of their troupe , I was sure that some of the same dancers continued, only looking even fiercer now that they were so much older. I remember at the time thinking that this was a dance form where age was not a barrier to performance.
On the other side, the hill was still clothed in vegetation, and we could see caves that could be lived in. Some had extensions at the front and a couple had smoke coming out of them so we knew that they were in use. Still, they were not the cave homes that we remembered so vividly, nor was that hill the stony rubble heap we recalled.
We were now in territory that was new to us, leading past stony gullies and up a hill to the Abbey of the Sacred Mountain. Unfortunately it was just siesta time for the abbey, so we couldn’t go in, but I was able to ask the lady there about the star of David that was everywhere; in the coat of arms of the abbey and even in the decorative lamp posts on the way up to it. It was the star of Solomon, and was the symbol of wisdom for Christians, Jews and Muslims before it became to be associated only with Judaism. 
It was particularly disappointing to miss out on the museum, since it houses some lead tablets that are connected with considerable controversy. Apparently they were found in a cave on this mountain by a Muslim at the time of the Christian conquest. They were ancient, and emphasised the common ground between Islam and Christianity and promoted coexistence of the two religions. Not long afterwards the bones of St Cecilia were found in a cave on the mountain – so what could it be called but ‘Sacred Mountain’. The Catholic Church validated the two finds and processions were held annually. Unfortunately the lead tablets turned out to be fakes, but somehow the cult had taken off and so the church ignored scientific information, or chose not to make a big deal out of it. For some time the lead tablets were at the Vatican but now they are home on the mountain. Cecilia’s bones are still in the clear. No-one wanted the mountain to be less special or sacred, so it conveniently kept its name and reputation.
The Abbey is being restored, but it is a massive job, with a great cavernous ghost building looking out blindly from the mountain top. There were several people at the Abbey square, with many seeming to be picking up children from primary school, and most others being policemen relaxing in the sun. Crime at the Abbey did not seem to be a problem due to the focus on prevention with a large police presence. We scooted back down the hill, past the house with plates decorating its exterior and plants everywhere and past the gullies. The steps were calling us and we were a little worried about the weather.
The steps took us up to the upper road of the village, too narrow for cars and perfect for donkeys. We rounded a bend and there we were, exactly where we had been all those years ago. A few tables and chairs were clustered under three trees, no taller than they had once been, with a view across the valley to the Alhambra. They were serviced by the same makeshift bar plopped in front of the house door, with a choice of beer or coke. Missing were the disabled children we all remembered, but time would have been as relentless with them as it has been with us. Cats and kittens were on the look out for what they could get. We had a beer and a coke for old time’s sake, and received the unexpected tapas of a toasted ham sandwich, much to the delight of one cat who enjoyed the ham. The woman there seemed familiar – was it her aunt or mother who plonked things down on the table for us? Was it really the sunny January day we remembered or one threatening rain as this one was? Keith is sure it was sunny, and that we walked up further and were passed by donkeys before we came back for a drink.
We continued along the road past houses and we were challenged by a small dog who objected to the invasion of its privacy when Keith took its photo. It was so ferocious that I was not keen to walk back past it, but luckily it did not hold me responsible for Keith’s actions. We followed a dirt track, going higher up the mountain and now we were definitely in the land we had traversed. A rough path led to natural caves that were full of rubbish – evidence of habitation of former times and of current use for goodness knows what. Enormous sisal and prickly pear plants dotted the hillside. Some teenage girls passed us coming down the path and a man was walking off over the hill in the other direction. A tourist scaled the steep incline towards the old city walls that rose abruptly and led up and over the mountain. What had drawn them all to this apparent dump? We clambered back down and up another path, where there were many caves being lived in now. The entrances of some had been enlarged and extended out in shanty style. A man was working in the yard of his cave dwelling, marked out by a fence of plastic sacking. 
The rain finally broke through and we were too exposed up here. Down we went to the lower road, looking for shelter in a village where it was not provided. We found a tiny awning to huddle under, and I started one of my new books as we ate our lunch and waited for the Cave Museum to open. A large black car drew up beside us, and the men inquired if we were waiting for the owner of the house, because it was the passenger. We said that we were just sheltering and they drove on. 
At last it was time to visit the museum, which is set up on the hillside and includes cave houses that are for display only now. It was a marvellous museum, run by a charming and very informative man. For eight years he has been developing the ethnographic, environmental and geological displays there. The cave dwellings are man-made and have always been part of Grenada’s housing. Poor people and gipsies once lived in them, and at one stage in the 1950s, due to migration of country people to the city, there were over three thousand cave dwellings here and in other parts of Granada. Nowadays the caves are lived in by a variety of people – poor students, peopled seeking alternative lifestyles, black magic practitioners and the down and out. There are no services connected – no electricity, no water and no sanitation – and they cause a problem to the local authorities because of the mess and health issues. Presumably the residents are not paying rates or rent.
The museum caves were all beautifully whitewashed and full of interesting old items and fascinating photos and information. Some had been stables for animals in the past, and we certainly had seen caves being used to house animals in Turkey. Signs explained the different environments on the two sides of the Darro River valley, with the one we were on receiving morning sun, and the cycle of drier land meaning less plants and more erosion, exposed conglomerate rock and so worse soil, so less plants etc contrasting with the other side where more humidity and less sun led to more plants, retention of soil and build up of humous, and more plants. An enormous river red gum grew by the museum entrance.
We wandered back to Granada in the rain as dusk fell. The real world was rushing on in a whirl of pre-Christmas consumerism, however a slightly surreal sight cut right across it. A long parade of dogs in Christmas outfits, with matching owners, was marching in protest right through the main shopping street. It was yet another demonstration with the banners being difficult for us to understand. I guessed that it was to tell people not to give a puppy for Christmas but Keith thought that the dogs were barking about the council’s plan to clean up the streets for Christmas by poisoning stray dogs. These pet dogs could equally fall victim to poisoned bait.
Back in our room, we again planned a visit to the Alhambra for the next day, when a very early start would be required to ensure tickets, according to our hotel staff. I gave Keith a haircut and we had an early night. Oh, and I had a little read of my new book.
Before writing this day for the blog, we sent photos to our friends, and were interested to see Mark thought that our impressions of this place matched his memories and Alan was not so sure. We will have to have a slide night with our old slides when we return.
Another dream property awaiting loving restoration.
Following our noses, and taking a different way into the centre of the city was a great idea because we came to a bookshop with foreign language books. I found one that was perfect, having read the blurb, which said that it was a novel set during the invasion of Aquitaine by the English. It was only after Keith pointed out that it was in Spanish that I realised that it was not going to be quite so perfect since I can’t read much Spanish – but at the time of writing weeks later I still think that I should have bought it. I couldn’t read French until I bought a really interesting book. Anyway, I settled for two books in French by Guy Maupassant, and one in English on the theme of antiquarian book selling and intrigue.
We continued, with me not looking to left or right in the interests of us making headway towards the patch of light on the hill where we, (Alan, Mark, Keith and I) had gone in 1977. We were distracted for a moment by a group of protesters; middle aged folk like ourselves with a smattering of older and younger, with placards against the selling off of Spain’s and their history.
They moved off towards the centre in an orderly fashion. We were walking fast because of our late start, and had to keep taking off layers of clothing. At last we came to the arch and the statue, and stepped through into a time warp. It was bitterly cold so we were getting a few strange looks, and at one stage when Keith had stopped to take a photo and I had walked on alone, a man even paused to ask me if I was all right and wasn’t I cold wearing a T-shirt. The Sierra Nevadas in the background were covered in snow. We recognised the place where we had come to watch Flamenco dancing, in a kind of cave which started as a free standing building but continued into the rock of the mountain. I remembered sitting in a row, thinking that the dancers looked really fierce and unfriendly and that surely it would finish soon. Not that I didn’t enjoy the dancing and playing, and the dresses – I did, but I remember feeling exposed to the performers and trying hard not to shuffle or yawn. Keith was sure that he recognised the name of the cave we had visited and when we looked at the photos of their troupe , I was sure that some of the same dancers continued, only looking even fiercer now that they were so much older. I remember at the time thinking that this was a dance form where age was not a barrier to performance.Flamenco was not considered an art form at one time, but was a way for gipsies to unwind and enjoy themselves. Since gipsies did it, and they seem to have always been on the bottom of the social ladder, it was considered crude. It is all about rhythm, and watchers would have tapped or banged anything on hand to encourage the dancers. The guitar was introduced with only two notes being played to accompany the song, which was always sung in a very low register. Gradually the guitar accompaniment evolved into the complex form heard today.
As we walked on past other cave performance venues offering flamenco dancing, drinks and dinners, the village seemed to be crudely sculpted in white stone onto the barren mountain side. Across the valley the Alhambra looked distinguished with its polished architecture and its myriad trees. They were two entirely different worlds facing each other. The temptation to go up steps that I knew we had walked before was overcome by our desire to go around a bend in the road that we knew we had once passed. It was an eerie feeling to find that not much had changed. There were some signs of the Islamic past on buildings beside the road, and of the Christian present, with the church and church school on a little terrace below the road behind a closed gate.
As we walked on past other cave performance venues offering flamenco dancing, drinks and dinners, the village seemed to be crudely sculpted in white stone onto the barren mountain side. Across the valley the Alhambra looked distinguished with its polished architecture and its myriad trees. They were two entirely different worlds facing each other. The temptation to go up steps that I knew we had walked before was overcome by our desire to go around a bend in the road that we knew we had once passed. It was an eerie feeling to find that not much had changed. There were some signs of the Islamic past on buildings beside the road, and of the Christian present, with the church and church school on a little terrace below the road behind a closed gate.
On the other side, the hill was still clothed in vegetation, and we could see caves that could be lived in. Some had extensions at the front and a couple had smoke coming out of them so we knew that they were in use. Still, they were not the cave homes that we remembered so vividly, nor was that hill the stony rubble heap we recalled.We were now in territory that was new to us, leading past stony gullies and up a hill to the Abbey of the Sacred Mountain. Unfortunately it was just siesta time for the abbey, so we couldn’t go in, but I was able to ask the lady there about the star of David that was everywhere; in the coat of arms of the abbey and even in the decorative lamp posts on the way up to it. It was the star of Solomon, and was the symbol of wisdom for Christians, Jews and Muslims before it became to be associated only with Judaism.It was particularly disappointing to miss out on the museum, since it houses some lead tablets that are connected with considerable controversy. Apparently they were found in a cave on this mountain by a Muslim at the time of the Christian conquest. They were ancient, and emphasised the common ground between Islam and Christianity and promoted coexistence of the two religions. Not long afterwards the bones of St Cecilia were found in a cave on the mountain – so what could it be called but ‘Sacred Mountain’. The Catholic Church validated the two finds and processions were held annually. Unfortunately the lead tablets turned out to be fakes, but somehow the cult had taken off and so the church ignored scientific information, or chose not to make a big deal out of it. For some time the lead tablets were at the Vatican but now they are home on the mountain. Cecilia’s bones are still in the clear. No-one wanted the mountain to be less special or sacred, so it conveniently kept its name and reputation.The Abbey is being restored, but it is a massive job, with a great cavernous ghost building looking out blindly from the mountain top. There were several people at the Abbey square, with many seeming to be picking up children from primary school, and most others being policemen relaxing in the sun. Crime at the Abbey did not seem to be a problem due to the focus on prevention with a large police presence. We scooted back down the hill, past the house with plates decorating its exterior and plants everywhere and past the gullies. The steps were calling us and we were a little worried about the weather.
The steps took us up to the upper road of the village, too narrow for cars and perfect for donkeys. We rounded a bend and there we were, exactly where we had been all those years ago. A few tables and chairs were clustered under three trees, no taller than they had once been, with a view across the valley to the Alhambra. They were serviced by the same makeshift bar plopped in front of the house door, with a choice of beer or coke. Missing were the disabled children we all remembered, but time would have been as relentless with them as it has been with us. Cats and kittens were on the look out for what they could get. We had a beer and a coke for old time’s sake, and received the unexpected tapas of a toasted ham sandwich, much to the delight of one cat who enjoyed the ham. The woman there seemed familiar – was it her aunt or mother who plonked things down on the table for us? Was it really the sunny January day we remembered or one threatening rain as this one was? Keith is sure it was sunny, and that we walked up further and were passed by donkeys before we came back for a drink.We continued along the road past houses and we were challenged by a small dog who objected to the invasion of its privacy when Keith took its photo. It was so ferocious that I was not keen to walk back past it, but luckily it did not hold me responsible for Keith’s actions. We followed a dirt track, going higher up the mountain and now we were definitely in the land we had traversed. A rough path led to natural caves that were full of rubbish – evidence of habitation of former times and of current use for goodness knows what. Enormous sisal and prickly pear plants dotted the hillside. Some teenage girls passed us coming down the path and a man was walking off over the hill in the other direction. A tourist scaled the steep incline towards the old city walls that rose abruptly and led up and over the mountain. What had drawn them all to this apparent dump? We clambered back down and up another path, where there were many caves being lived in now. The entrances of some had been enlarged and extended out in shanty style. A man was working in the yard of his cave dwelling, marked out by a fence of plastic sacking. The rain finally broke through and we were too exposed up here. Down we went to the lower road, looking for shelter in a village where it was not provided. We found a tiny awning to huddle under, and I started one of my new books as we ate our lunch and waited for the Cave Museum to open. A large black car drew up beside us, and the men inquired if we were waiting for the owner of the house, because it was the passenger. We said that we were just sheltering and they drove on. At last it was time to visit the museum, which is set up on the hillside and includes cave houses that are for display only now. It was a marvellous museum, run by a charming and very informative man. For eight years he has been developing the ethnographic, environmental and geological displays there. The cave dwellings are man-made and have always been part of Grenada’s housing. Poor people and gipsies once lived in them, and at one stage in the 1950s, due to migration of country people to the city, there were over three thousand cave dwellings here and in other parts of Granada. Nowadays the caves are lived in by a variety of people – poor students, peopled seeking alternative lifestyles, black magic practitioners and the down and out. There are no services connected – no electricity, no water and no sanitation – and they cause a problem to the local authorities because of the mess and health issues. Presumably the residents are not paying rates or rent.The museum caves were all beautifully whitewashed and full of interesting old items and fascinating photos and information. Some had been stables for animals in the past, and we certainly had seen caves being used to house animals in Turkey. Signs explained the different environments on the two sides of the Darro River valley, with the one we were on receiving morning sun, and the cycle of drier land meaning less plants and more erosion, exposed conglomerate rock and so worse soil, so less plants etc contrasting with the other side where more humidity and less sun led to more plants, retention of soil and build up of humous, and more plants. An enormous river red gum grew by the museum entrance.
We wandered back to Granada in the rain as dusk fell. The real world was rushing on in a whirl of pre-Christmas consumerism, however a slightly surreal sight cut right across it. A long parade of dogs in Christmas outfits, with matching owners, was marching in protest right through the main shopping street. It was yet another demonstration with the banners being difficult for us to understand. I guessed that it was to tell people not to give a puppy for Christmas but Keith thought that the dogs were barking about the council’s plan to clean up the streets for Christmas by poisoning stray dogs. These pet dogs could equally fall victim to poisoned bait.Back in our room, we again planned a visit to the Alhambra for the next day, when a very early start would be required to ensure tickets, according to our hotel staff. I gave Keith a haircut and we had an early night. Oh, and I had a little read of my new book.
Before writing this day for the blog, we sent photos to our friends, and were interested to see Mark thought that our impressions of this place matched his memories and Alan was not so sure. We will have to have a slide night with our old slides when we return.
Another dream property awaiting loving restoration.
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