Órgiva, Spain, Wednesday December 17th

We had a lovely chatty breakfast with Sarah and Barbara, and then Chris returned from an early morning coffee with a neighbour. We wished him 'Happy Birthday', and since he planned to have a quiet day with Sarah, a long walk for us was good for everyone. Chris made a couple of suggestions for walks nearby. We chose the simple option of following the river and then a mountain track that zigzags for as far as you wish to go, and then to return via a quiet road to Órgiva. We were to be the cooks for the evening so we needed to do a little bit of shopping before we came home.

When we left, Chris and Sarah were preparing for a bike trip and Barbara was happily listening to music and liberating the irrigation trenches between the olive trees. The sky was blue, the air was still and crisp – it was a perfect day to be setting out on an excursion.
Chris had given us an ordinance map, with the warning that essential items, such as paths, were not accurate, but it provided a sense of security and an aid if assistance was to be necessary. We had also taken our bearings from the terrace, built at roof height at the back of the house, from which we could see the arches of the bridge, the mountain we were heading for and the town. It looked a piece of cake.
The river was running shallow and fast, bubbling brown and white over rocks, with a much wider bed showing that at one time it was a force to be reckoned with. We followed our instructions, and managed to end up in a farm yard where some dogs challenged us and an elderly lady paused in her fire wood collecting to see who her visitors were. She assured us that there was no way up the valley from her property, and that we would have to cross the river at the bridge to go in that direction. It was a case of the question and answer not quite fitting, since she interpreted Keith´s wave of his arm as meaning a different ultimate goal to the one it meant to us. Either that or she had not left her farm for a very long time, because not far from the lane leading to her place we crossed over some rocks and water and ended up on a track going just where we wanted.
Just ahead of us were Sarah and Chris, doing some bike maintenance, and so we stopped for a chat and had to confess to having been lost in the first hour of our whole day outing. We talked about the quality of life for the elderly who can continue in a family setting, as the lady we had met was, with the support of a family who has members at home during the day. She was contributing to the running of the place, even if she could no longer do many of the things that might be needed if she was living alone. Chris and Sarah observed that in Spain elderly and disabled people were more likely to be with family than in England. We thought that Australia was probably similar to England.
Armed with a new set of instructions, we set off again towards a stand of euclypts in the distance. The many gum trees that we have seen in Spain have been River Red gums, so sometimes we can pretend to be at home for five minutes as we walk through them. They are grown for building, particularly for use as roof beams. Traditional homes here have flat roofs and large roof beams, and the beams are often round and can be seen from the interior of the rooms. Chris and Sarah have an external roofing material that looks like a mix of sand, dirt and fine pebbles, which is spread out on the roof. The rain compacts it and it does not allow any water through, but the heat cracks it so it has to be attended to every year before the rainy season begins.
This time we did so well that we ended up with no way to reach a public thoroughfare other than to walk warily past the barking farm dogs, and then beside the irrigation channels through the fields. Perhaps the 'until you can't go any further' wasn't meant to be taken quite as literally as we took it. We did get a very close-up look at the irrigation trenches and metal gates, the olives, crops, ploughed fields and some canine teeth, and soon we were on a road.
The road led us between olive and orange farms where people were harvesting olives with sticks, knocking the black fruit onto the mats spread out below. I had foolishly tasted a raw olive at Chris and Sarah's and would not recommend it for anyone. Apparently after twenty days of soaking and water changing, that taste is modified into the delicious olive as we know it, and then you choose to store them in oil, brine or vinegar. A man working around his trees greeted us and plied us with oranges, picking more and more off his tree to fill my bag. They were absolutely delicious, being a little tangy. From then on our progress was marked by little piles of orange peel.
The mountains rise steeply from the plains near the river, and this end of the valley funnelled into the gully where, higher up, the river was dammed. As we zigzagged up the mountain track, we rose above a patchwork of crops and trees, with avocados and bananas being grown in a perfect micro-climate between the valley frosts and the exposed mountain heights.
There was nothing much in the way of trees growing naturally on the mountains, with the lower ones having low heath-like shrubs and lots of aromatic rosemary and lavender. Alyssum was also growing wild, creating a pretty lacy edging in some places. The road had been cut into the hill, with an amazing narrow part remaining at one spot on the down side. It looked as if it might all go over if you leant on it.
On and on we walked, finding a little track across the mountain side with GR42 in it and the red and white signs that had been our focus on the GR65 in France. We ignored it and continued upward, to a point where it was possible to see into two valleys.
Houses up here are not so remote, but life would be isolated on a daily basis. We enjoyed our picnic lunch, and then followed my curiosity a little further to see a beautiful large house that looked as if it had grown and been added to over time.
Later we saw a more extreme example of this, with a few old very low roofed residential rooms, attached to an extensive newer section and finally to a modern looking house. They ran across and then down the block and could have accommodated a large extended family easily.We returned to Orgiva via a short cross-country foot track, then by a road a little way up the mountain, where we could see a patchwork of crops way below and terraces of olive trees on either side.
The water from the mountain is harvested in little channels and fed out across terraces that are supported by rock walls. The amount of work that has been done over the centuries is staggering. A day later we were to have a discussion with a German girl working in a Spanish National Park, where the consequences of agricultural reaping of water that would have entered the river systems naturally have been disastrous. She talked about the impact of such water reaping at international level, and predicted water wars for countries which share rivers, but where damming and redistribution of water has meant great losses downstream.
Many houses were built right on the edge of the road, white stone buildings with terraces covered in grapes, now just skeletons, but promising beautiful summer shade. Many places in Órgiva have been bought by Northern Europeans, many of them English and some in response to books about the area by an English author, Chris Stewart, who lives here. It would make an interesting study to see the impact of a large ex-pat community on an area. The rise in house prices would be one but there would be many others at a more subtle level. Equally, it would be interesting to hear the experiences of all the ex-pats.
It seemed a long last stretch, but finally we were in the outskirts of Órgiva and on our way down to the supermarket. It wasn't yet open, so we had a belated wedding anniversary hot chocolate while we waited. It took both the town's supermarkets to supply us with ingredients, but with help from an Englishman, who advised the market the next day as the best solution, we set off home, fully laden. I wore the puff pastry under my jumper to hasten its defrosting, and I recommend it as very effective when you are pressed for time.
Unfortunately we missed a turn on the way home, but when we reached the river, we knew where we were courtesy of yesterday's ramblings, and we were not really lost. We cooked up a storm and in an hour were serving up a lovely meal to the family of Chris, Sarah and Oliver, helper Barbara and us two couch surfers.
After tea we left Oliver home to his own devices and the rest of us walked up to the town for birthday drinks for Chris. Our eyes adjusted, and it was fun and invigorating marching up together in the dark. We were the butt of a few jokes due to our amazing ability to get lost. We spent a very pleasant evening in a bar having a few drinks with Chris's friends Martin and Pete, who were interesting conversationalists and very friendly and pleasant company. Feeding the world and the pluses and minuses of the coal mining eras for the community were two of the topics explored.
The time flew, and it was quite late when we set off on the return journey. I had been joking with Chris that he had 'special powers', and he had agreed but not divulged what they were. We had learnt from Sarah today that he can make a bicycle stand up without touching it, a fake special power when you hear about the miraculously placed rocks. To me his special powers are apparent in his relationships with his friends and most impressive of all, in his ability to quieten an enormous barking dog and put his fingers through the fence to stroke him, coming out with hand intact. What a talent that would be to have on a pilgrimage through wild dog country.
It was very late when we checked our emails, with nothing from Australia. We would never make it for the direct bus to Málaga at 8.15 so we decided to go back to Granada and then south from there, at the more respectable and warmer time of 10.30.

Sometimes it looks like Australia with so many red gums. They seem to like the south of Spain and some were a good 40 metres tall.
Defying the huge swing towards modernisation and westernisation, a lone goatherd leads a flock up the mountain.

Granada to Órgiva, Spain, Tuesday December 16th

We are becoming experts at packing and walking with our packs but this morning we took a local bus the four kilometres to the bus station. Luxury! Once we left Granada, which spilt out of its two hill packaging in an untidy way into suburbs and semi-rural areas, we felt as if we were on the road again. Olives, olives and more olives. The mountains were rugged and steep, with snow on the higher ones and in patches lower down as well. The road wound around with steep drops over the side, in ways that I would have felt sick to be experiencing in a car, but somehow I felt one remove from real life as a passenger in a bus. The driver tooted at extreme corners, although his judgement and mine of 'extreme' were not the same. I settled for looking up, and there certainly were magnificent views, and also lots of windmills creating electricity. Villages of white buildings and high spired churches seemed super glued to the mountain sides. In the distance, cars crawled like ants across the face of the mountains, the roads invisible to the eye below.
It was a raucous fun filled bus with a group of senior citizens and the bus driver bouncing comments off each other. I could not understand a thing, but Keith could follow a little bit. One lady took off her coat when she got hot, and revealed a purple top with sequins on it. This brought cracks about her wearing evening clothes in the morning and where was she off to etc. She brought the house down when she replied that she could have night life in the morning. The bus stopped at many villages along the way, and there seemed to be no hurry to get on or off, and plenty of time to chat. Oh how I wished that I could understand Spanish!
When we arrived in Órgiva, a larger white washed town with two bus stops, and the home of all the senior friends, Sarah was waiting for us. She had the most beautiful smile and we felt welcome straight away as we walked and talked our way down the lanes out of the town and into the countryside.
Sarah and Chris, and their two children then aged eight and six, came to live here nearly nine years ago. They had taken a trip to look for somewhere to live, and this was where they landed, finding a house on an enormous block that met their needs of electricity, a road to the house and walking distance to a town with schools. Their house previously belonged to a lady called Rosa, whose seven sons had all grown up and left, but who kept seven beds available should they all return at once. It seemed funny and sweet, but upon reflection, what we have done, despite theoretical plans for sewing rooms and libraries in the vacated child bedrooms at our house. I warmed to Rosa, who had finally gone off to Barcelona to be near most of her sons.
Chris and Sarah have made enormous changes to the house, and it was amusing to hear that our room was once the goat shed, that the lounge room was a pig sty and that the room currently being worked on had been a rabbit hutch. All the walls are part of the one building, which is now an intricate string of rooms opening off little passages and other rooms. It is charming and cosy and must have taken so much work to achieve. Any work has to have a permit, and Sarah told us of how they were rendering the walls inside one of their rooms when the police arrived and told them to stop work because their building permit had expired. Outside there are 48 olive trees, orange trees, Sarah's vegetable garden, a pool, a grape covered terrace and a soccer field and goals for Oliver. We didn't meet Isabel, off at University in Grenada, but she was lovingly spoken about in this tight knit family. Three much loved cats claimed spots by the fire.
I was very tired after yet another late night email vigil, so while Keith helped Chris with a jammed door, I went off for a sleep. I woke to a delicious lunch of pizza and baked potato, coleslaw and fruit salad that Chris had prepared. After our cold food and cold drink days in Granada and Córdoba, to cradle a hot cup of chocolate in my hands and to eat this lovely lunch was bliss.
Oliver was home from school, and covered in injuries from a fall on the hard ground of an icy soccer field. At last my excess of dressings from my spider bites came in handy and we were pleased to note how few of our precautionary items in our medical kits had been used. Touch wood. The needles and syringes for Tanzania looked extreme now and as if we were hypochondriacs. After some chatting and an unsuccessful attempt at making the wifi work with our computer, we set off for a walk.
The lane led past other farmlets with olive trees and oranges, down to a dirt track that took us to a cliff over the river. It was running quite fast, but there was not much water for the sound it was making. As we walked back, we crossed a paddock that sounded as if we were eating crisps with our feet, the dried grass stalks were so brittle. A herd of goats was grazing under a tree at the bottom of our lane, but we chose to take another path and explore a bit further.
We followed a lane that led us past some ancient olive trees whose twisted trunks looked like ancient spirits waiting patiently.
There were some well cared for houses and others, in absolute ruins, that Keith suggested I might have in mind to purchase for him to restore. It was nearly dark when we returned, meeting Chris on his way out to a meeting as we walked up the lane. It was so comfortable relaxing with Sarah and Oliver, and Barbara after she had showered and settled inside after her day's work. She is a student who has taken a year off to work and travel in rural areas in Spain and in other countries. She is there via an organisation that places people on farms for work experience (something like WWOOFers - willing workers on organic farms), and has had short term placements in Ireland and Spain. From the north of Spain originally, she speaks 'correctly' and doesn't drop her s's as the southerners do. Part of her work with Sarah and Chris is to help them to practise their Spanish. She is a delightful girl and very easy to get along with.
Oliver cooked himself some supper, but the rest of us waited to eat with Chris. It was hard to believe that we had only been here for half a day, so much at home and welcome had Chris and Sarah made us feel. We drank the white wine from Lorraine that Michel had given us, in honour of our wedding anniversary. We thought how lucky we were to have each other, our family, friends and the chance to be travelling about as we were.


Perhaps this is the perfect house to buy and restore.

This small red gum plantation will be used for both building and firewood.

Granada, Spain, Monday December 15th

I led us on a wild goose chase this morning because we raced back up our favourite mountain so that I could see the lead tablets in the Abbey of the Sacred Mountain Museum. I should have checked the opening days last time we were there, because today was not one of them. We dipped through a different tangle of streets on our return, and after our strenuous walk, I was down to my t-shirt. With city walking pace though, it was not long before all the layers went back on. In fact, if we were not in the sun Keith had to keep walking so he would not freeze.

Back in the town centre, and using our map to guide us to monuments of interest, we found that the Ethnographic Museum was closed. A large building with a belén (nativity scene diorama) in it looked interesting but it was home to the military and even its belén was closed to the public. At least we got to admire the enormous belén on the ledge above the jewellery shop in which the three kings were presenting their gifts. This created the psychological inference that the public had better rush into the jewellery shop and purchase their gifts for the season, and Keith pointed out that the Rolex ad beside the belén was even making a suggestion of what would be appropriate.
We broke our string of ‘non entry’ bad luck by being able to go to look at the Corral del Carbon (coal yard), which was a fourteenth century merchants’ inn around a courtyard, currently used as government offices and undergoing renovations. It has a beautiful horseshoe arched Islamic façade, but unfortunately the government run craft shop we hoped to see was not open.
Walking over to the other side of town we discovered that the Basilica of St John was shut. Further along we stepped through an arch of something not closed – it was the old cloisters of St John, but is now a hospital specialising in venereal diseases and AIDS. There were religious paintings on the walls all around the cloisters, and we walked about carrying our backpacks looking very touristy as we examined them. Meanwhile doctors in green shower cap like head dresses and white outfits walked in and out of doors and obviously ill patients looked at us dubiously. I hadn’t even registered that it was a hospital, so absorbed was I in the art works, and strangely I didn’t immediately think that the characters in this ‘monastery’ were out of context. Eventually I noticed that the doors had labels like ‘X-rays’ and then I couldn’t leave quickly enough.

Next in my plan for the day was a visit to the monastery of San Jeronimo, and while we had time to admire its cloisters and courtyard, the church itself was closing for the siesta break.
This non-day continued with even the statue of the Captain of the Catholic Monarch’s army that I imagined would grace the square named after him not existing. We stopped there to eat a snack on a sunny seat, and enjoyed watching teen culture once school was out. Truly there is nothing new under the sun and all the ploys for gaining attention and spending time with certain boys or girls seem to be pretty much universal in western countries. The sun moved, or really, of course, the earth did, and once we were in shadow it was cold and we had to start walking again.
Our final attempt at redeeming this day of monument visiting was to walk down to the Federico Garcia Lorca Park which commemorates the poet. He would have hated it – it is the most regulated park in the world in terms of straight lines and imprisoned plants. Only joggers used it in the time we were there. His house nearby, the Huerta de Saint Vincent, is where he spent many summers writing, surrounded by what used to be orchards. We would have liked to visit but, being Monday, it was closed. Oh dear – at least the supermarket was open but it is a bit sad to think that we were excited about that.
The computer was not ready when Keith first went over, causing us some anxiety, but later we were able to pick it up. We are now the proud owners of a computer that has all its messages and options in Spanish. I must press ‘apajar equipo’ now and give up on this day.

Granada, Spain, Sunday December 14th

We were up and off before it was daylight. The warnings in the guide book of the 2000 only tickets sold at the ticket office and the benefit of booking ahead, along with the hotel staff’s advice saw us on a near empty bus heading up the hill to the Alhambra while the city slept. The only other person on it was an employee there, and he told us where to go and that the ticket office would not yet be open. We formed a queue of just ourselves for some time until another couple, also anxious to beat the crowds, arrived.

They took our photo and we all laughed at our eagerness and early arrival. When the doors opened the security guard controlled the crowd of us four, letting us in first and the others in to go to the counter once we had finished. We hired an audio guide and then ‘queued’ at the entry gate. The tickets are stamped with a half hour time slot when you can enter the Nazrid Palace, where you can stay as long as you like once in. With sometimes 6000 visitors in a day, it is easy to see why they do that, and also why the tickets are for a morning visit, to 2 pm, or an afternoon visit, from 2 pm. There is no siesta time up here in tourist land. We met a young Russian living in London and entertained ourselves chatting. He had come to the Alhambra on the evening visit from 8 pm. At that time there had been no security like now, and once he had bought his ticket he was free as a bird. It must have been freezing as he wandered from palace to palace in the dark, so no wonder he was coming for a daytime visit too. In fact, when he went to leave, he could not, since many of the gates generally open to the public were closed. He eventually found his way towards the lit up hotel within the walls, and they told him the only way out was through the entrance and set him on the right path.
Our ticket for the Nazrad Palace, the palace of the emir, was for 8.15, and we had it checked three times and registered electronically before we actually entered. In the low light it was a little difficult to see clearly the amazing decorative plaster work in the first rooms, the council chambers where the public could go, but gradually the sun rose, taking over from the grey dawn. Starting life as a fortress in the ninth century, the Nazarid emirs converted it to a palace fortress in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. There was once a little town attached but only ruins remain of its medina. The mosque was replaced with a church after the Christian re-conquest, and a Franciscan convent was built, which is now a hotel. Two generations later, Carlos V had a wing of the original palace destroyed to make way for his own enormous Renaissance palace. The whole beautiful area was abandoned in the 18th Century and, without care and with thieves and beggars and then Spanish soldiers during the Napoleonic invasion living there, it fell into disrepair and ruin. At least it was not blown up, which could have been its fate if Napoleon had ordered it to be. An American romantic writer, Washington Irving, lived there in the 1820s, writing a book called ‘Tales of the Alhambra’. It was supposed to be his voice on the audio guide, so we knew a little of his brief stay, during which he camped in the Nazred Palace along with gipsies. New interest was sparked and in 1870 the Alhambra was declared a national monument and now has UNESCO World Heritage status. Thank goodness for Washington Irving because since his time, the renewed interest and then the tourist potential have led to what was ruins being heavily restored.
The interior decoration of magnificent tiles, intricate plaster work and amazingly ornate patterns, the array of geometric designs and Arabic inscriptions and the enormous heavy doors continued through the audience rooms and the Patio del Cuarto Dorado (patio of the golden room). The residential part of the palace was built around another patio with a rectangular pool and hedges of myrtle in it. The carved ceilings are a feature of this palace, and after a while we ran out of superlatives to describe what we were seeing. The room where the Christian emissaries would have negotiated with the emirs, the Comares Hall, has 8000 pieces of cedar in its domed ceiling which represents the seven heavens of Islam. We were led along a tourist trail in and out of rooms and patios, eventually coming to the Lion Patio, which we had firmly in our minds as a highlight of our last visit. It was disappointing to find that the lions had been removed for restoration work. The rooms on all sides of this patio were very beautiful and the delicate columns created a light feel as we moved in and out of the terrace arcades. In one room there is a dark stain on the marble floor; said to be the blood of the Abencerraj family, whose leader had made passes at the favourite of the Emir Abu al-Hasan. The palace evolved over time, with additions creating more and more mini-worlds around beautiful patios and gardens.
When we emerged, we felt that we had had an absolute feast of architectural and decorative beauty. It would have been plenty for a day, but the tickets are expensive so we needed to press on to make the most of our time. With umbrellas up and our fingers freezing and feet freezing, we followed the signs to our next venue. The Carlos V palace is so austere in comparison, that what would be impressive in any other setting seemed amazingly restrained and plain. It is set around a circular central courtyard and apart from the visual arts gallery and an exhibition space, the rooms of the two storeys of galleries were not open to the public. The museum there was closed on Sundays. The exhibition had a major modern installation with stills from a film all around a circular room. We were given 3-d glasses to appreciate it further and by pressing buttons viewers could select a section of the New Zealand film to run. Other sections showed modern sculptures with an impressive enormous lion having been made entirely of strips of black tyres and a strange one being books floating up and down in fish tanks. Downstairs we learnt about the restoration process for some of the elements of the Alhambra.
It was impossible to believe that it could be any colder, but even a jog up the stairs to the first floor gallery did not warm us up. It was a wonderful relief to enter the Museum of Fine Arts, where a hundred umbrellas dripped into a specially designed canal, all looking like broken winged bats and quite sad and dejected. The heating was on and so many who may not otherwise have lingered over art works were connoisseurs today.
All the artists whose works were displayed were from periods after the Christian re-conquest. An early work from 1520, by Jacobo Florentino-el-Indago, was a sculpture called ‘The Burial of Christ’ with amazingly sad, tortured expressions on the faces of the participants. Art in Granada was developed by artists from elsewhere coming here to paint pictures inspired by Granada. Artists would come, and then leave. It was only when Alonso Cano came on the scene that Granada had its very own home grown major arts figure. He lived from 1601 – 1667, and was trained in Seville. He worked in Madrid for Philip IV and while there saw the royal collection of Italian paintings. It is a step back for us to think of an artist not having seen works by other artists, since reproductions are so readily available to us. Returning to Granada he dabbled, with fabulous results, in sculpture, architecture, painting and drawing. He took sculpture in a different direction by painting his pieces, and he took painting in new directions by adding sculptural elements and a strong sense of three dimensions to his pieces. His larger than life sculptures of saints were arresting and brilliant.
Religious commissions were the bread and butter of artists. Their works depicted the way the wind was blowing in different eras. After the reformation, the Catholic Church launched the Counter Reformation, and at the Council of Trent it was decided to go all out with the devotion of Mary and the promotion of the saints. That was because there were now some doubters in congregations and so, to recruit more believers and to overcome waiverers, there was a need to humanise, dramatise and provide greater opportunities to identify with religious figures. Altar pieces were all important because they were like the ads of the future, depicting grabs of dramatic moments and favourite characters, which would be elaborated on in sermons or in chapels. Some altar pieces had moving parts and many were in gold, with lots of vibrant colour. Artists were expected to present characters with personal appeal to viewers.
By the 17th Century, some topics other than religious ones were being painted, such as portraits, everyday scenes and landscapes. Protestant countries led the charge but even in Spain the nobility were starting to commission such works. Unfortunately economic decline in Granada in the 18th and 19th Centuries led also to cultural decline. Although artists are traditionally supposed to be happy to starve in garrets, with no commissions or buyers of paintings, the painters were off. It was not until the rise of the bourgeoisie and their patronage, and the advent of provincial grants and art prizes at the end of the 19th Century that artists again could make a living here.
From 1830 – 1930 the city’s past was developed as a romantic topic, and there were also local responses to all the art movements of the 20th Century. I had not realised that the break with traditional art was prompted to a large degree by photography, which could depict reality. No longer were form, perspective and naturalism solely the domain of the artist. Instead artists experimented with ideas, motivations, the novelty of creation, and their own unique forms of expression. This gallery had fine examples to show the evolution of the arts in Granada and the overview information was excellent.
We gathered up our poor forlorn umbrellas and took them out to protect us from the snow that was now falling into the central courtyard of Carlos V’s palace. Exciting at first, we had to keep moving we were so cold. I hurried to the toilets to put on my long johns under my pants. Keith said that some poor men were in the gents trying to dry out their socks with the hand dryer. We really skimped our visit to the alcazar because the rain, wind and occasional snow were not the best for admiring archaeological digs, walking on castle walls or admiring vistas from the towers. We were so happy to have a dry moment up at the bell tower to admire views of the city of Granada below.In the Church of Santa Maria we saw the processional platform with the statue of the Virgin in gold on top. It takes 64 men to carry the platform, with forty underneath and twenty-four on the outside holding poles. She is paraded for seven or more hours with only minor breaks and the bearers have to be exceptionally strong. We were watching the clock so we didn’t have very much time in the Museum of Angel Barrios, a musician who lived here at the time when the Alhambra was not a tourist Mecca and people lived in a suburb in its grounds. His former house held an exhibition about his life and work, and there were some fascinating old photos of his family as well. We had passed a street named after him, so it was interesting to find out a little bit about him.
The Generalife Gardens were just beautiful, even without anything in the way of flowers, because they are a series of ‘rooms’ changing levels up the hill, connected by steps and arcades. I could imagine them in summer, when the roses and all the annuals would provide a magnificent tumble of colour between the dark green sculpted hedges. The perfumes would be amazing. My next trip here must be in early Autumn. I do think that the name ‘Generalife’ suggests sponsorship by a life insurance agency or some such, so it is important to remember that it translates as ‘Architect’s Garden’, and then it is easy to understand why structure, fountains, pools and buildings are all part of the garden. The Emir’s summer palace is in the corner of the Generalife. There are parts of the garden out of bounds to visitors, although we could look down into them and think of noble children throwing balls and running around the fountains while their mothers looked down at a city that they would never visit.

The garden of the Sultana was particularly pretty and, unusually, had a large tree to one side of the courtyard. This is where the lovers were caught, leading to the blood stain and the murders that I mentioned earlier. Some steps with water running down their balustrades in channels led to the final garden, where many large old deciduous trees grew in little hedged sections. There is no going back at the Alhambra – or rather there is, but not once you enter one of the special sections, such as the Nazrid Palace or the garden, where the tickets are electronically scanned. The path we now followed led us back to the entrance where we arrived, with three minutes to spare before our tickets expired.
It rained on and on. We sought refuge under a shelter shed where there were relief maps in bronze of the different stages of building additions at the Alhambra. Two stray ginger cats appeared to see if we had any food for them, and they were like the child beggars who are sent after tourists because they are cute. They mewed and looked up at us appealingly, not overstepping the bounds of polite request behaviour that would be so successful with most animal lovers. When we did not respond they stepped it up a notch and jumped up beside us to rub on our sides to show that they were loving pussies. Finally one attempted to step onto my lap and the other looked as if it would make a leap onto Keith’s. In a flash they were gone, with the arrival of another tourist who opened her packet of meat sandwiches. They were immediately successful and everyone was satisfied – the cats because they had a meal and the girl because she had not had a lonely lunch.
We decided to keep walking up the hill beside the gardens to see where it went and because sitting still we were seizing up with cold. There was only a car park. Rather than wait for a bus we headed downhill towards the town. When we came to a park we entered and enjoyed a photographic exhibition on the theme of water. The photos were wonderful and at every one of the fifty or more we paused to look carefully.
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In the end it was just too icy for us to keep going and we walked back towards the city centre, down a hill past many a ‘carmen’, and unwittingly across the river which was underground. We did take the chance to look closely at the statue of Columbus, kneeling hopefully before Queen Isabella, with his plans for his voyage of exploration in his hand. Of course she said, "Yes, that looks ok – don’t forget to bring me back some treasure," and the rest is history.
One of the worst backgrounds for a sculpture that we have seen.

Back at the hotel it was only marginally warmer inside than outside. The heating didn’t come on until the evening and so we hopped into bed to stay warm. We had a picnic dinner and Keith said it didn’t matter if our room smelt of cheese because the staff would just think that it was backpackers’ socks. He called over to pick up our computer and the bad news was that it could not be ready until late the next day. We contacted our couch surfing hosts to delay our arrival and went off to bed again, this time with no possibility of typing or feeling that I should be typing. We read and relaxed until late.