Chapter 189

Recently I went on a bus trip with the Tercera Edad (Third Age aka Seniors) of Mojacar. It was entertaining to say the least. Here are some reflections from the back of the bus: Salt flats – Salina de San Frederico. Pink flamingos, white salt mountains, green lakes on the way to Medina Sidonia. Sun setting over the flats on our return, creating oceans of deep gold and brilliant bronze. Silhouetted birds perched atop a single leg.

On the road, amid rolling hills and an unusual expanse of greenery following the abnormally wet past few months, round-topped pine trees. Horses in squares, standing statues, immobilized by confinement. Ethereal windmills, without a Don Quixote in sight. The picante specks of bull-spiced fields rolling further away beyond densely-packed trees and dark green shrubs.

In the foreground, gravel trails snake paths of sunlight between dappled undergrowth.

Following the road we wind between cleaving serried hills strewn with vines of famous Xerez grapes while distant hills gleam white with pueblo encrustations. On closer ground, the tones are ochre and cream, clay here and there, blue sky beyond.

Another vista reveals tilled fields of dusty chocolate brown, aside creamy pale bases for vineyards, sprinkled with occasional trees, other wider grounds sport black slanted panels absorbing sun, storing its energy. A land cracked open by ancient streams, gasping dry now after months of rain.

Approaching a motorway, red-rimmed circular signs forbid tractors, bicycles, mounted adventures, horse-drawn carriages. Adjacent roads used to lead somewhere, now truncated by abrupt concrete guards, made obsolete by new highways. Meanwhile smooth-skinned multi-hued eucalyptus drip leaves and bark, securely shackled by gravity yet soaring skyward.

Further, closer to a pueblo, a giant dusty green spike-leaved pita spreads pointedly by a gateway, leaves cleave air or fold exhausted to earth. An ochre and white cortijo in the foreground, a glinting-tipped far spire, everywhere spring leaves fecund and throng, dense blossoms, azahar of orange and attar of roses. We are high in the hills now, overlooking the plains, the green fields, rows of windmills.

Medina Sidonia; cobbled hill streets, narrow avenues, graceful plazas, strong coffee, gentle people, Esparto cestas (baskets). History. Religion. Bulls. Bakery.

Sanlucar; Terracotta colours, ochre and white, sidewalk cafes, pan-tiled chimneys, spiral staircase with iron fences, wrought iron gates, gardens of bougainvillas, wisteria. Guadalquivir river, at sunset horse races along the sands. A Podenko (dog) lies beneath a gateway chain guarding the entrance to a granja pequeña (small farm).

Journey home: Snow-covered mountain range. Olive tree graveyard, stumps wrenched from clay-yellow earth, dessicated entrails listless over the broken earth. Distressed land.

Falling sun, thickening light, silvered undersides of small leaves, red-roofed terraces, occasional creamy-white cortijos, wide lanes of olive trees then golden acres of scrub, ruined skeletal buildings, acres of new olive orchards, small saplings bases protected with white wraps resemble rows of war graves. White mountains creeping closer, sun sliding lower, wheels eating miles, we sway through hours of circling tires, occasional stops for coffee and peeing, smokes for those thus addicted. Long hours later, the stops release bodies and bags casually and with great cheers of adios, hasta luego! along our way.

Final stop a couple of hours in advance of midnight. It’s been a long and winding road home.

Blessed to be here. Soon to be there.