It was amazing that we woke up in time for the Sunday morning walk with Brian, the dogs and Paul and Barbara and their dogs. Sometimes others come along too, but not today so maybe everyone had stayed up to watch the dancing and had overdone it. We drove down to the start of the walk because walking along the winding mountain road is very dangerous. The walk was around mountains and into a national park on a quiet road, curling down gradually until it reached the little river in the valley below. We passed farm houses with empty garden beds with little white fences around them, learning that it is here that the raisins are cut from the bunches by the women and then are left to dry. Soon there were no houses and even the olives and grapes had given way to small bushes on the heights and some trees in the ravines. Brian's story of the car going over the side was on our minds as we looked down, even though this was not the spot. We could not see how anyone could have climbed up in conditions like this, only worse since it had been raining, let alone with injuries.
We left the others who were taking the dogs to play in the river, and followed the road towards the village El Acebuchal. We were now on another mountain, looking back and down onto a house with a fenced yard with more than twenty dogs in it. A man was shouting at a woman, not just for volume but in a way that was a very aggressive kind of shrieking that was quite scary to listen to. From our vantage point it looked as though our friends' dogs may have stirred his dogs up as they passed, and that two of his had now escaped. We could not see, but I was sure that the man was frothing at the mouth, he was so wild, and I was alarmed to see him storm out of the gate and towards his car. He was in no state to be in control of a vehicle. He passed the car, however, and headed up his drive to the road, where our friends were walking unsuspectingly along. He talked to them, waving his arms, and when they passed on he headed back down his drive. Later Brian said that he had seemed upset but not aggressive with them, and that they knew the man. By now our attention had been taken by the loud whining noise of motorbikes zooming up behind us on the rocky dirt track. It would not take much of a rock to push a wheel out from under the bike and at this speed it seemed that bike, rider and all would slide over the edge.
All this drama was eventually over and we were able to enjoy the peace and quiet of our walk to El Acebuchal.
This village was deserted after the Civil War, when there was Communist inspired guerrilla fighting with the Guardia Civil going on. The Guardia Civil suspected that the villagers at El Acebuchal were giving support to the guerrillas so they forced them all out of their homes. The deserted houses became little more that ruins over time, but now someone has bought up the whole village and restored it to more than its original beauty. It really is pretty, with all the snowy white buildings on either side of a looping road. We stopped at the bar to have a cup of coffee and a piece of cake which was a bit like very moist hummingbird cake. The walls were absolutely covered with photos of people, mostly from the family of the man who served us, but also showing others, and simultaneously the history of the village. At this stage I was not very knowledgeable about what had happened in this area since 1936, so dates, names and clues in the photos did not mean much. I was just happy to be shown the photo of our waiter, when he was young. It is only now, after some reading, that I might be able to see more significance in some of the photos.
a nearby house not yet lovingly restored like the rest of the village
Brian met us back at the walk starting point and we drove home, more conscious than ever of the winding road. Jamie had dropped the Civil War book in and I was literally itching to start it. Fast as I am as a reader, I only had two nights left here, and I knew that every moment would count. Nevertheless, after breakfast in the sun, we set off again to Torrox, a village where an enormous crowd was expected for their three day Dia de las Migas festival. Migas was the dish that was eaten in the lean times during and after the Civil War. The festival included free migas, salad and wine for an expected 40,000, craft stalls, music, dancing and general revelry. The queues for the free food stretched forever and hardly seemed to move, despite the vats of migas and salad that were being served up. We joined one and had plenty of time to see how migas was made.
Each man had an enormous pan, at least five times bigger than a very large wok balanced in bricks over a fire. He sloshed in about a litre of olive oil, and when that was smoking, about twelve cloves of garlic and a cup or two of salt. After a while several litres of water was added and everything brought to the boil again.
Semolina flour was then poured in until it had absorbed the liquids and the mixture was like the consistency of couscous. At this stage there was much stirring with shovel shaped implements for at least ten minutes until all was cooked. It was so heavy that two men had to strain to carry the finished migas over to the serving table, before going back with their pots to start all over again. At one spot a group of men worked with shovels stirring a cauldron that would have been big enough to boil a basketball team in.
Waiting in the queue on this lovely sunny day gave us plenty of opportunity to watch the crowd, to see how privileged friends and relations were able to queue jump and receive the plates with the garlic on them, to listen to snippets of Spanish, German and even English conversations and to admire the ladies who spontaneously started to dance because the mood moved them. I had read in the Lonely Planet Guide to Spain that the Spanish population is the shortest and the slimmest in Europe.
Certainly we were beginning to see some regional features in the crowd and there were many short people. Quite a few older and younger folk were stout as well as being short. This era is an era of plenty, albeit often on credit, so eating patterns may have changed. It is hard to imagine that the traditional lifestyle of mountain farming, in which people walked up the mountains to their land and back each day, or alternatively walked very long distances to the silver mines, would have produced such roly poly people.
The migas was tasty and we ate it and the salad as we wandered around the stalls. Traditional foods, including 'patatas a los pobres' (poor people’s potatoes), meat balls and stews could be purchased. The place was packed at the top terrace and all along the main road into the village. There is a style of dancing known as Andalusian dancing and I think that that was what some older ladies and a man were performing while a small band played, for them, in a little space in amongst the crowd. It can be a very seductive dance because partners wind their bodies around each and the lady seems to lead the man on, and he responds in kind. At the same time it has formal elements such as the graceful use of the arms which are a bit like flamenco. Everyone was appreciative of the performance and no-one seemed to think that it was odd that the dancers were about seventy and had ordinary clothes on.
The main square had a stage on it where we enjoyed a seat in the shade to watch group after group of children and adolescents showing their dance routines, with each one being a step up in acquisition of the complex and graceful skills that a true flamenco dancer can call on effortlessly.
The action at the bar at the other end of the square was hotting up and we could imagine that all the young adults who had been suddenly pouring in would be making a fun night of it all.
We had Brian's phone to ring home when we had had enough, but a message in Spanish, translated for us by a friendly policeman, said that there was no credit. Luckily Jane rang us, thinking that, good as the migas festival is, we had been there a mighty long time.
Jane had cooked a delicious Indian meal, and I learnt that papadams could be prepared in the microwave. We watched the antiques show, with Prince Charles at the beginning chatting about assisting renewal in various communities in such an obscure way that I had to ask what he was talking about. Lark Rise to Candleford Christmas Special was next, and while the costumes and characters were beautifully created, the ghosty theme was truly over the top for modern cynics such as Keith and even for lovers of a good ghost story such as me. That didn't stop us enjoying it nor me from telling Jane and Brian how I have always thought that I would have liked to live in an uncomplicated era, where I went no further than the nearest market town, and that only once a year. It was pretty funny, coming out of the mouth of someone sitting in a lounge room on the other side of the world to her own, taking advantage of all the complications and opportunities of the modern era. They said I wouldn't have lasted long in the village and would have been drummed out in no time.
The real treat of the evening was a session of poetry reading by Jane. She has always loved poetry, and reads so beautifully and with such feeling. The rhythm and poetic turn of phrase can really be appreciated when poetry is read and the words just roll over you. The poems ranged from the serious to the amusing and ended with a favourite of all of us; The Highwayman. For each poem Jane told us how she had come to it, and about others she had shared it with. This was a serious session for all of us, in that we listened, thought and talked carefully about the poems and our responses, and yet a session of great warmth and humour too. It took me back to childhood readings by my mother, who also loved poetry and reading it aloud very much. It was one of the highlights of the year for me and a wonderful gift that Jane shared with us. It is something that I think will grow for me, and that I will read more poetry, sharing special finds and reading them aloud.
We are not the first people that Jane has shared her love of poetry with, and indeed for several years she produced and presented a magazine style radio program that featured poetry, and in which people could write in for requests.
It was very late again, but we had had a wonderful evening; one that was unique and special. It was even later when I closed the Civil War book to enter dreams where fear and vengeance ruled.
We left the others who were taking the dogs to play in the river, and followed the road towards the village El Acebuchal. We were now on another mountain, looking back and down onto a house with a fenced yard with more than twenty dogs in it. A man was shouting at a woman, not just for volume but in a way that was a very aggressive kind of shrieking that was quite scary to listen to. From our vantage point it looked as though our friends' dogs may have stirred his dogs up as they passed, and that two of his had now escaped. We could not see, but I was sure that the man was frothing at the mouth, he was so wild, and I was alarmed to see him storm out of the gate and towards his car. He was in no state to be in control of a vehicle. He passed the car, however, and headed up his drive to the road, where our friends were walking unsuspectingly along. He talked to them, waving his arms, and when they passed on he headed back down his drive. Later Brian said that he had seemed upset but not aggressive with them, and that they knew the man. By now our attention had been taken by the loud whining noise of motorbikes zooming up behind us on the rocky dirt track. It would not take much of a rock to push a wheel out from under the bike and at this speed it seemed that bike, rider and all would slide over the edge.All this drama was eventually over and we were able to enjoy the peace and quiet of our walk to El Acebuchal.
This village was deserted after the Civil War, when there was Communist inspired guerrilla fighting with the Guardia Civil going on. The Guardia Civil suspected that the villagers at El Acebuchal were giving support to the guerrillas so they forced them all out of their homes. The deserted houses became little more that ruins over time, but now someone has bought up the whole village and restored it to more than its original beauty. It really is pretty, with all the snowy white buildings on either side of a looping road. We stopped at the bar to have a cup of coffee and a piece of cake which was a bit like very moist hummingbird cake. The walls were absolutely covered with photos of people, mostly from the family of the man who served us, but also showing others, and simultaneously the history of the village. At this stage I was not very knowledgeable about what had happened in this area since 1936, so dates, names and clues in the photos did not mean much. I was just happy to be shown the photo of our waiter, when he was young. It is only now, after some reading, that I might be able to see more significance in some of the photos.
a nearby house not yet lovingly restored like the rest of the village
Brian met us back at the walk starting point and we drove home, more conscious than ever of the winding road. Jamie had dropped the Civil War book in and I was literally itching to start it. Fast as I am as a reader, I only had two nights left here, and I knew that every moment would count. Nevertheless, after breakfast in the sun, we set off again to Torrox, a village where an enormous crowd was expected for their three day Dia de las Migas festival. Migas was the dish that was eaten in the lean times during and after the Civil War. The festival included free migas, salad and wine for an expected 40,000, craft stalls, music, dancing and general revelry. The queues for the free food stretched forever and hardly seemed to move, despite the vats of migas and salad that were being served up. We joined one and had plenty of time to see how migas was made.Each man had an enormous pan, at least five times bigger than a very large wok balanced in bricks over a fire. He sloshed in about a litre of olive oil, and when that was smoking, about twelve cloves of garlic and a cup or two of salt. After a while several litres of water was added and everything brought to the boil again.
Semolina flour was then poured in until it had absorbed the liquids and the mixture was like the consistency of couscous. At this stage there was much stirring with shovel shaped implements for at least ten minutes until all was cooked. It was so heavy that two men had to strain to carry the finished migas over to the serving table, before going back with their pots to start all over again. At one spot a group of men worked with shovels stirring a cauldron that would have been big enough to boil a basketball team in.
Waiting in the queue on this lovely sunny day gave us plenty of opportunity to watch the crowd, to see how privileged friends and relations were able to queue jump and receive the plates with the garlic on them, to listen to snippets of Spanish, German and even English conversations and to admire the ladies who spontaneously started to dance because the mood moved them. I had read in the Lonely Planet Guide to Spain that the Spanish population is the shortest and the slimmest in Europe.
Certainly we were beginning to see some regional features in the crowd and there were many short people. Quite a few older and younger folk were stout as well as being short. This era is an era of plenty, albeit often on credit, so eating patterns may have changed. It is hard to imagine that the traditional lifestyle of mountain farming, in which people walked up the mountains to their land and back each day, or alternatively walked very long distances to the silver mines, would have produced such roly poly people.
The migas was tasty and we ate it and the salad as we wandered around the stalls. Traditional foods, including 'patatas a los pobres' (poor people’s potatoes), meat balls and stews could be purchased. The place was packed at the top terrace and all along the main road into the village. There is a style of dancing known as Andalusian dancing and I think that that was what some older ladies and a man were performing while a small band played, for them, in a little space in amongst the crowd. It can be a very seductive dance because partners wind their bodies around each and the lady seems to lead the man on, and he responds in kind. At the same time it has formal elements such as the graceful use of the arms which are a bit like flamenco. Everyone was appreciative of the performance and no-one seemed to think that it was odd that the dancers were about seventy and had ordinary clothes on.
The main square had a stage on it where we enjoyed a seat in the shade to watch group after group of children and adolescents showing their dance routines, with each one being a step up in acquisition of the complex and graceful skills that a true flamenco dancer can call on effortlessly.
The action at the bar at the other end of the square was hotting up and we could imagine that all the young adults who had been suddenly pouring in would be making a fun night of it all.We had Brian's phone to ring home when we had had enough, but a message in Spanish, translated for us by a friendly policeman, said that there was no credit. Luckily Jane rang us, thinking that, good as the migas festival is, we had been there a mighty long time.
Jane had cooked a delicious Indian meal, and I learnt that papadams could be prepared in the microwave. We watched the antiques show, with Prince Charles at the beginning chatting about assisting renewal in various communities in such an obscure way that I had to ask what he was talking about. Lark Rise to Candleford Christmas Special was next, and while the costumes and characters were beautifully created, the ghosty theme was truly over the top for modern cynics such as Keith and even for lovers of a good ghost story such as me. That didn't stop us enjoying it nor me from telling Jane and Brian how I have always thought that I would have liked to live in an uncomplicated era, where I went no further than the nearest market town, and that only once a year. It was pretty funny, coming out of the mouth of someone sitting in a lounge room on the other side of the world to her own, taking advantage of all the complications and opportunities of the modern era. They said I wouldn't have lasted long in the village and would have been drummed out in no time.
The real treat of the evening was a session of poetry reading by Jane. She has always loved poetry, and reads so beautifully and with such feeling. The rhythm and poetic turn of phrase can really be appreciated when poetry is read and the words just roll over you. The poems ranged from the serious to the amusing and ended with a favourite of all of us; The Highwayman. For each poem Jane told us how she had come to it, and about others she had shared it with. This was a serious session for all of us, in that we listened, thought and talked carefully about the poems and our responses, and yet a session of great warmth and humour too. It took me back to childhood readings by my mother, who also loved poetry and reading it aloud very much. It was one of the highlights of the year for me and a wonderful gift that Jane shared with us. It is something that I think will grow for me, and that I will read more poetry, sharing special finds and reading them aloud.
We are not the first people that Jane has shared her love of poetry with, and indeed for several years she produced and presented a magazine style radio program that featured poetry, and in which people could write in for requests.
It was very late again, but we had had a wonderful evening; one that was unique and special. It was even later when I closed the Civil War book to enter dreams where fear and vengeance ruled.
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