AUTUMN PALETTE

Every autumn, the villagers of Guájar Alto make expeditions to the pine forests to forage for the edible fungi which spring up after the first rains of the season.The most common to be found here are boletes, with brownish caps and vivid yellow flesh. People say they are pleasant to eat, but only when they’re young. The boletus family is very large, and many varieties are edible. Also fairly common in our forests are aniseed toadstools - so called because of their strong, aniseed flavour. They have a delicate green colour and although most people would probably find their taste too strong, the Spanish have a great liking for aniseed, so gather these toadstools eagerly. Much harder to find are saffron milk caps, which have vivid orange gills and ooze carrot-coloured liquid. They’re highly prized, and their size is impressive. Mushrooms are plentiful, so it doesn’t take long for people to fill their baskets. When they return home, everything they’ve collected is inspected, fried, and shared around in a ‘fungus fiesta’.

When searching for fungi, there is always the danger that inedible or poisonous specimens might be mistaken for edible varieties, but here in Guájar Alto, where the people have been fungus collecting for generations, they are surprisingly knowledgeable. Once, when I went on a village expedition with other villagers, they were most concerned when I kept pouncing upon colourful russulas, with caps as purple as aubergines and white stems flushed with rose, which were definitely not edible, I knew. I had to explain several times that my intention was to draw and paint them, not eat them. To me, fungi are just as beautiful as flowers and I love particularly their wide range of delicate colours, which lend themselves so perfectly to the medium of watercolour.

Watercolour is a difficult medium which takes years to master. The aim is to retain the transparency of the pigments and allow the luminosity of the paper to show through. To do this, the student has to learn how to manipulate the water and one of the most common mistakes made by beginners is to allow the water to become dirty. Cleanliness is essential when using this medium and the water has to be changed frequently; it is imposssible to obtain transparent colours if you are working with a grey sludge. Equally important is to work with a limited palette and avoid using black, which doesn’t occur in nature; it is better to use ultramarine blue mixed with burnt umber. I always mix my own greys, using raw sienna, alizarin crimson and ultramarine blue, and you can obtain a wide range of greens by mixing yellows with blues. Another advantage of the limited palette is the resulting colour harmony, something which beginners often find hard to achieve.

One of the many pleasures of living in this area is that there is always colour, whatever the time of year. Autumn brings the flowering of the tree heathers which cascade down the mountainsides in shades of pink, purple and white, complemented so prettily by the blue of the rosemary bushes, also in flower. At this time of year, all the colours of nature are enhanced by the brilliance of the light. The sky is intensely blue in the mornings, and the Sierra Nevada, with its new covering of snow, looks stunning when you glimpse it peeping above the mountains of Guájar Alto, dazzlingly white.

The night sky, viewed from the mountains where there is much less light pollution, is spectacular, and people who come up from the coast to visit us are always impressed by its beauty. Jupiter has dominated the heavens for several months, and if you have good binoculars or a telescope, you can see all four of its largest moons. The Milky Way is a glorious sight in the clear, autumn nights, and the sky is so black, that even with the naked eye, you can pick out the different colours of our closest stars; Vega, for instance, in the constellation of Lyra, is distinctly blue. Whenever I stand on my terrace stargazing, I nearly always see a shooting star (meteor) or two and recently I was lucky enough to see a fireball. It was very bright, and moved across the sky more slowly and gracefully than a meteor. It was one of the many remarkable things I’ve seen since coming to live in Guájar Alto.

THE OLIVE HARVEST IN GUÁJAR ALTO

In Guájar Alto, all the olive growers are busy at the moment preparing for the annual harvest. This involves clearing the ground underneath every tree to make sure that it is free of weeds and stones, and raked as smooth as possible. Since most of the olives end up on the ground, this preparation is necessary for efficient collection.

We, ourselves, have a good crop this year and our trees are dripping with fruit. To begin with, we shall harvest only those olives which have turned black; the green ones will be left to ripen. This means that we shall be spending the next two months picking olives and taking them to the mill. The olives of Guájar Alto produce oil of very good flavour and quality. The extra virgin, from the first pressing, is thick and green and has a rich, nutty flavour. For cooking purposes, we use the virgin oil from the second pressing. This, too, is of extremely good quality and is far superior to virgin olive oil purchased from the supermarket. We have so much of it, that I’m afraid we tend to be very extravagant with it.

A couple of years ago, while the ground underneath one of our trees was being dug up, an old coin was unearthed. It was a large coin, and when it was cleaned, we discovered that it was Italian, dated 1866. On one side was engraved its value - 10 centesimi, and on the other was the head of King Vittorio Emanuele II. We were very puzzled as to how an Italian coin could have found its way to our finca, but when I showed it to a historian in Motril, he said its find wasn’t extraordinary at all; in the latter part of that century, many botanists, geologists and archaeologists came to the area because of its outstanding scientific interest. Most of our olives are very old, so perhaps the coin fell out of the pocket of one of the scientists while he was sitting under the shade of that particular tree.

One of the fascinating aspects of Spain is that, unlike Great Britain, where items of historical interest are kept under glass in museums, or fenced off so that they can’t be touched, here many treasures are lying about, for anyone to pick up. I, myself, have found several fragments of Moorish pottery on our land. One is part of an earthenware bowl, glazed with cream and green, eleventh century in origin. The green is typical of that period and was produced from manganese. I have another piece of pottery, 600 years old, with an attractive, blue and white glaze. This, I was told, is typical of ceramic ware from the Nazari period of Moorish occupation.

As with the olives, the grape harvest was also very good this year, and the wine we made from ours has already been sampled. It is rather good. It is very clear, with no trace of sediment or cloudiness, and it has a good colour - a delicate pink. The taste is smooth, clean and sweet, with no hint of the yeasty aftertaste you sometimes get with country wines from our area.

GHOSTS OF GRANADA

Here is the complete text of an article that will be mentioned in the Sunday Times 12th October

We sailed from Plymouth, in the wake of those great adventurers Charles Darwin, Francis Drake and the Pilgrim Fathers, to begin our new life in Spain. Disembarking from the ferry in the grey gloom of a late November morning, we drove through France and spent the night near the Spanish border before continuing our journey the following day. Despite the torrential rain and sleety showers which accompanied us for most of the way, our drive from one end of the country to the other was uneventful and as we descended through the sierras of Granada, towards our destination on the Costa Tropical, we saw the sea, below a cloudless blue sky, sparkling in the distance. We had made it! Everything had gone remarkably well and we congratulated ourselves accordingly. Furthermore, the house which we had rented in the resort town of Salobreña while waiting for our own to be built seemed to fit our requirements perfectly: it was situated in a quiet corner of a much sought-after, mountainside urbanization overlooking the sea; it had a garage in which to store the bits and pieces we’d brought with us; parking for our two cars; a spacious, securely fenced garden for our two dogs. We had a celebratory meal that night in a restaurant in the town and went to bed.   

Not long after we’d settled ourselves down to sleep, I became aware of a noise. It was as though the wind were rattling a door or a window which hadn’t been properly closed; strange, because there was no wind that night. The sound persisted and because I knew I’d never get to sleep while it continued, I made Digby, my husband, get out of bed and go to investigate. Complaining, he groped around for the light switch, couldn’t find it, so stumbled out of the bedroom into the darkness. The next moment, there was a loud thud followed by a bellow of pain; he had fallen down the short flight of marble stairs leading from the bedrooms into the living room. I was not sympathetic and told him it was his own fault for drinking too much; after all, he’d known that the stairs were there. He protested that it was nothing to do with how much he’d drunk: something had propelled him down those stairs. 
“Yes”, I replied, acidly, “the drink.”

Digby spent a night of extreme discomfort and was in so much pain the next day that he had to consult a doctor who took an X-ray and confirmed that he’d broken two ribs. It was not a good start to our Spanish adventure and I was still convinced that the cause of his accident was due to drinking too much wine. Then, a few days later while I was walking down the same marble stairs, carrying an armful of washing, I experienced a curious sensation: it was though I were on board a ship which had made a sudden, almost imperceptible roll. Disconcerted, I clutched the wall and cautiously continued my descent; two days later, the same thing happened again. Digby had been right after all: there was something very funny about those stairs. 

Despite suffering a not inconsiderable amount of pain, Digby went to work every day at the family-owned estate agency with which he’d been liaising for some while, dealing with English clients. Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to explore the area, walking for miles every day with the dogs. It was a relief to get out of that house and I was always reluctant to return to it due to a feeling of unease, which I couldn’t explain, as I climbed the steps to the front door. By now, we were well into December and the days were becoming shorter. One evening, just as it had begun to grow dark, the lights went out. Thinking it might be a power cut, I peered outside and saw that all the other houses on the mountain were lit up. I flicked the trip switch up and down but to no avail; I tried all the switches in the fuse box, but still nothing happened. Finally, I decided to drive myself down to Salobreña and ask Digby to call the electricity company. Someone called later that evening; he opened the fuse box, flicked the trip and immediately trhe lights came on. I felt very foolish. A few days later, the same thing happened again. As I groped my way into the kitchen, feeling around in the darkness for a candle, I sensed, for no accountable reason, a sudden, cold rush of fear. By now, we’d had a telephone installed so I was able to call Digby; he summoned a friend, an electrician, who came round immediately and, just as before, restored the lights by operating the trip. Again, I felt very foolish.

One day, I returned from a shopping trip to find that my little Jack Russell, Charlie, had disappeared. While searching for him in the garden, I heard him barking in the distance and discovered that, somehow, he’d found his way into the walled garden of the unoccupied house next door, further up the road. There was no way I could get him out; I had to phone Digby who, in turn, called a couple of builder friends who came round at once with a ladder, the only way by which the dog could be retrieved. How he’d got into the neighbour’s garden was a complete mystery. Again and again I walked around the boundaries of our rented house, looking for a gap in the fence through which Charlie might have wriggled through, but found nothing. Anyway, I asked myself, even if he had managed to get out, how did he find his way into the other garden? It was completely surrounded by a high wall and the only access was by means of an iron gate which even a small cat couldn’t have squeezed through. It was an upsetting incident, not least because of the unpleasant and overpowering sensation that, when I’d first discovered Charlie in that garden and had tried to find a way of getting him out, I’d had the distinct impression that there was something close by, revelling in my distress.

Curious things continued to happen in the house. Objects would disappear unaccountably then turn up somewhere else; often, there was that same vague, yet disconcerting, sensation that something was there, resenting our presence. On several occasions I found myself glancing over my shoulder, convinced that I was not alone. At first, Digby and I had said nothing to each other because we both felt rather foolish but by now we were compelled to admit that we disliked the atmosphere in the house and neither of us was happy living there. All the same, we had no choice but to stick it out: after all, we’d paid three months rent and gone to the expense of installing a telephone and a satellite dish for the television. But after a few weeks, our two dogs began to show signs of stress. The older dog, a stout-hearted bull terrier, acquired the habit of incessantly nibbling at his front paws and one day I returned from shopping to find, yet again, the Jack Russell had disappeared. I searched the garden and the road outside but there was no sign of him, nor could I hear him barking. I returned to the house, thinking that he might be asleep somewhere, and eventually discovered him crouched on the floor in one of the bedrooms, shaking with fright. A few days later the old bull terrier, who’d always been impeccably clean in the house, had an inexplicable lapse and made a mess on the floor of the same room, on exactly the same spot that I’d found Charlie in a distressed state. It was while I was bending down to clean up that I realised just how cold the room was. I would have liked to keep it permanently closed, since we never used it, but the door handle was broken and so it was difficult to keep the dogs out. Less than a week later, the same thing happened. Again, as I bent down to clean the floor, I experienced the same, overwhelming sensation of profound coldness. This made no sense considering that it was late afternoon and the last rays of the setting sun were streaming in through the window. I hurried out of the room, found a piece of string and secured the broken handle so that the door couldn’t be opened. I did not want to enter that room again.  
   
One day, Digby came home after a meeting with a colleague in the business of property rental. She’d asked him where we were staying and when he told her, she said that her husband had done some work on the same property and hated going there because of the feeling of unease he always experienced while he was there. She knew the history of the house and told Digby that the family who owned it had realised their dream of living in that location but, shortly afterwards, the husband became depressed and committed suicide by throwing himself from an apartment block. His widow and two little girls didn’t want to remain in the house and so it was let. When I heard this, I felt a cold thrill of horror run up my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck bristled. It appeared that our imaginations hadn’t run away with us: there really was something very peculiar about that house. Nevertheless, neither of us was prepared to admit that we were victims of supernatural happenings; there had to be a scientific explanation. We knew that there were numerous geological fault lines in the area and judging from the large cracks in the concrete walls surrounding the terraced gardens of our house, it was evidently built on one. Perhaps these fault lines caused interruptions in magnetic fields which, in turn, affected our brain function - or something...

Christmas had come and gone and with the emergence of spring, the days grew warmer and the birds began to sing. It was then that I realised no birds ever came into our garden, despite the fact that it was well stocked with mature shrubs and trees. At least the lengthening days meant that we were able to spend more time outdoors. This was a great relief, since the atmosphere inside the house continued to oppress us. I had begun to have unpleasant dreams and the feeling that our presence was resented intensified. I was convinced that something was intent on doing us harm, especially after an electrician was summoned in order to investigate a problem with the cooker. He discovered a bare, loose wire in the dark recesses of a cupboard and informed me, cheerfully, that if I’d touched it with damp hands, it would have been curtains for me. From then onwards, I took extra care with all electrical appliances. When the first three months of our tenancy were nearly over, we decided that we’d cut our losses and find somewhere else. The stress of living under the perpetual cloud of anxiety induced by the atmosphere in that house was intolerable.

In the event, it all turned out very well. There was a  house available to let just a stone’s throw from the boundary of the land on which our own house was being      built and even though it was very small, we seized the opportunity to rent it: even a caravan or a tent would have been preferable to the other place. We moved in on the first of March, a glorious day - warm, sunny and, surely, a good omen. A few days prior to leaving the other house, the plumbing under the kitchen sink had begun to leak slightly. Before we left, we searched everywhere but could find no way of turning off the water supply and as we took our departure, the leak suddenly grew worse and my last sight of the interior, as I closed the front door, was of a spreading pool of water moving slowly towards me as though it were driving me away in a final gesture of deep resentment. We settled into the little house, aptly named El Refugio, and were very content for the next three months after which, at last, we moved into our new home. 

We have been living in the province of Granada for six years now and from regular reading of the Spanish press I’ve discovered that not only are the people very superstitious but also that they take matters concerning the supernatural seriously. Our regional newpapers regularly publish reports about inexplicable happenings and strange manifestations; Granada, it seems, is full of ghosts. In fact, the provincial government, theAyuntamiento de Granada, organises guided tours of haunted buildings in the city of Granada comprising seven destinations: the Hospital Real, where the spirit of San Juan de Dios  manifests itself; La Diputación, where the ghost of a woman claiming vengeange for the injustice she suffered drifts about; the Centro Materno Infantil, where, it is claimed, an apparition of the same person appears in two different places at the same time; The Hospital Clínico, where a woman dressed in black has been haunting the buiding since 1978; the Conservatorio de Música, in the rooms of which may be heard the ghostly melodies of the Russian composer Scriabin who, it is said, manifested himself after his death in the form of his own music and in the Real Chancillería, which is haunted by the ancient spirit of a warlock known as El Verdugo de la Audencia ( The Court Executioner). Finally, to restore peace of mind to those who might be disturbed by such a concentration of ghostly encounters, there is a visit to the Casa Castril del Museo Arqueológico where, in the summer of 1998, there was an apparition of a woman of such exquisite beauty that even now, it seems, contemplation of her is rewarded with tranquility of the spirit.

According to an expert in parapsychology, the ghostly manifestations in the city of Granada are due to two factors: firstly, its antiquity and the many cultures which have inhabited it and, secondly, the electromagnetic forces of the mineral-rich (including gold - an important component) waters of the River Darro which run under the city. Indeed, there have been numerous reports of inexplicable happenings occurring in buildings situated along its course. Before I came to live in Spain and despite having grown up in Cornwall, which has more than its fair share of spooks and spectres, I was always very sceptical about anything to do with the supernatural. However, since settling in Granada, with all its ghosts, and having had the experience of living in a house which, I’m covinced, was pervaded by some malign influence, I’ve become much more open-minded.   

Three years ago we moved from the coast up into the mountains. Our house, above the little village of Guájar Alto, is in an idyllic setting with sublime views of the sierras, in all their lovely shades of blue and violet, fading into the distance. We are presided over by an imposing, flat-topped mountain which, although it appears serene and beautiful, was once witness to a horrible and bloody battle between Moorish and Christian armies in 1569. After a day’s combat, with no victory for either side, the Moorish soldiers retreated to the summit to join the women, children and elderly people who had taken refuge there. Deciding that it would be futile to continue the battle, the men left under cover of darkness to a village in the next valley and entrusted those who were unable to follow to the clemency of the Christians. There was to be no mercy, however: the Christian soldiers put to death all the adults and threw the children over the steepest side of the mountain into a ravine which is still called today the Ravine of the Dead. If ever a place deserved to be haunted, it would, surely, be this. Yet, I have walked all over the mountains around my home and not once have I encountered even a hint of a ‘bad vibe’. There are no ghosts here: only peace and serenity.

AUTUMN DELIGHTS

In the second week of September, our long summer drought ended at last with a thunderstorm and some welcome rain. The countryside has taken on a fresh, green look and under the parched stubble of dried grasses, new growth is sprouting. There is always something in flower in the mountains of Guájar Alto; at the moment, there are tall spikes of sea squill (Urginea maritima). Although, as the name suggests, it’s a maritime plant, it’s not uncommon to find it growing inland (see photo). It’s a bulbous plant and with its clustered, starry white flowers, looks very striking. Interestingly, it’s one of the oldest medicinal plants of the Mediterranean. The Egyptians, for example, used it to treat snake bites because of its calming effect.

In the vegetable garden, it’s changeover time; we’re pulling up all the summer crops which have finished and replanting with winter vegetables. The squashes this year have been particularly nice, due no doubt to all the long hours of hot sunshine. In the province of Granada they do very well and everyone grows them so that, not surprisingly, there are lots of ways of cooking them. Mari- Carmen, who runs a bar and restaurant in the village, serves some delicious squash dishes but I think she’s a bit reluctant about giving away the secrets of her recipes. However, I managed to find out that one of her tastiest dishes is made from wedges of squash fried in butter, with onions; York ham is added and then the mixture, topped with grated cheese, is baked in the oven. Here’s another recipe called crema de calabaza:
Fry gently in butter, without browning, some sliced leeks and chopped pumkin (or any other variety of squash); add some vegetable or chicken stock and simmer until the squash is tender and most of the liquid has evaporated; add seasoning plus some freshly grated ginger root and put into the blender with some cream. Pour the mixture, which should be nice and smooth, into an ovenproof, shallow dish, top with a generous amount of grated cheese, to which some parmesan has been added, and bake until the top is browned. This dish is always well-received at dinner parties and the hint of ginger gives it an exotic flavour.

Although we haven’t had a good tomato crop this year, due to blight, the cherry tomatoes, which are more resistent, have done well. They are very versatile because they can be used not only in salads but also in hot dishes. They go particularly well with the delicious chorizo which we buy in our village shop. In an ovenproof dish, on top of a generous amount of cherry tomatoes, I lay some chorizo sausages, some capers and soft green peppercorns and a big bunch of mountain and garden herbs wrapped in bay leaves. I pour a can of cider over the sausages and bake the dish in a moderate oven for about an hour, by which time the tomatoes have softened but still retain their shape.

Spanish gardeners grow lilies for the house among the vegetables and at the moment nardos are flowering. I’m afraid I don’t know the botanical name because I’ve only ever seen them growing here. They are tall spikes of small, pinkish flowers and although they’re not as spectacular as other lilies usually are, at night they give off the most divine scent imaginable and just one lily will perfume the whole house.

Although we haven’t had a good tomato crop this year, due to blight, the cherry tomatoes, which are more resistent, have done well. They are very versatile because they can be used not only in salads but also in hot dishes. They go particularly well with the delicious chorizo which we buy in our village shop. In an ovenproof dish, on top of a generous amount of cherry tomatoes, I lay some chorizo sausages, some capers and soft green peppercorns and a big bunch of mountain and garden herbs wrapped in bay leaves. I pour a can of cider over the sausages and bake the dish in a moderate oven for about an hour, by which time the tomatoes have softened but still retain their shape.

Spanish gardeners grow lilies for the house among the vegetables and at the moment nardos are flowering. I’m afraid I don’t know the botanical name because I’ve only ever seen them growing here. They are tall spikes of small, pinkish flowers and although they’re not as spectacular as other lilies usually are, at night they give off the most divine scent imaginable and just one lily will perfume the whole house.

FIESTA IN GUAJAR ALTO

Guájar Alto’s annual fiesta in honour of its patron, the Virgen de la Aurora, has just ended and after three days and nights of uninterrupted celebrations, a strange hush has fallen on the village.
It was a successful event, well-organized by a team of dedicated mayordomos . The usual religious processions and solemn masses took place every day and there were special entertainments for the children which included the popular fiesta de la espuma in which machines spray everyone with foam and, of course, a bouncy castle and face-painting workshop. Various bands, groups and solo singers provided non-stop musical accompaniment and local theatre groups gave performances; for those who didn’t go to bed during the three days of festivities there was a surprise visit from a Brasilian drum band at 5:30 on the second morning. A military band also made an appearance, marching round the village beating drums or carrying rifles. In Spain, everyone dances and so the second night of the fiesta, as always, was dedicated to dancing.
Eating and drinking are an important part of the ritual of the Spanish fiesta and on the last day everyone was offered paella, prepared and cooked in the square in enormous, steaming pans. In the heat of the afternoon it was pleasant to drink with it tinto de verano, a refreshing and popular summer drink which consists of red wine, lemonade, a hint of vermouth and plenty of ice. The village square, where all the activities took place, was packed with people enjoying themselves; August is a busy month in Guájar Alto because not only are there a number of foreign visitors who have holiday homes here, but also people who have left the village to work or get married and who have returned to spend the month of the annual vacation with their families.
During the pleasantly relaxed afternoons of the fiesta we were entertained by an outstandingly accomplished band of young musicians from Marbella. Spanish bands are different from traditional English brass bands because there are more woodwind instruments and the resulting sound has a haunting, plaintive quality which reflects the Arabic influence on the music of this country.
It’s customary to dress up for the village fiesta and so the women in their best finery, complete with silk shawls and fans, and all the little girls in their best frocks and ribbons in their hair, made a colourful picture. When the paella was served, everyone was presented with a straw hat and a brightly coloured scarf, making it an even more vivid scene.
Noise is another important component of the fiesta ritual so throughout the celebrations the deafening sound of exploding rockets, either accompanying the solemn processions or announcing the beginning of each event, reverberated through the mountains. At night, firework displays lit up the sky.

A MOUNTAIN EXCURSION

In a convoy of private vehicles we set off in high excitement for our next village excursion, an exploration of the mountains. We headed south, zig-zagging up the steep, stony tracks above the forests of pines. Our first stop was to admire the view; below us lay Guájar Alto with its clustered, white buildings with their bright, red rooftops, as tiny as a toy village, and in the distance, beyond our own, familiar Sierra de las Guájaras (note the feminine ending here, to correspond with the word Sierra) the great Sierra Nevada itself, looking curiously naked without the snow which clothes its peaks for much of the year.
We continued our ascent, by which time all sense of direction was lost, and reaching the summit of a hill, through a billowing cloud of sea mist, we found ourselves looking down upon a sprawling urbanization which, we were told, was Molvizar. On clear days it is possible to see the whole of the Costa Tropical and the coastline as far as Málaga but, on this morning, there was not a glimpse of the sea to be had. Undaunted, we had elevenses, sharing wine and sangria.
Turning northwards, we continued our journey. We passed many plantations of vines, as well as olives, almonds and chestnut trees, and were intrigued to see that there appeared to be no means of irrigation. Because of the high humidity, it wasn’t necessary, we were told. We stopped to look at a great chestnut tree, reputed to be a thousand years old; it took five big men with arms outstretched to span the width of its huge trunk.
Heading in the direction of Lentegí, we halted again to admire the view. The scent of aromatic herbs - marjoram, lavender and rosemary - filled the air. It was all very green and lush compared with the parched, summer landscape we had left behind. All the while we were pursued by the white sea mist, as dense as blown smoke. At last, turning back towards the way we had come, the sky cleared. Guájar Alto was below us again, bathed in a pool of sunshine. Only another half an hour of driving, we were told, then we’d be stopping for lunch.
From my cortijo I can see the next track along which we continued our adventure. It is carved into the sheer, precipitious side of a jagged, white mountain and should not be embarked upon by the faint-hearted. Nearing the end of this rocky and terrifying pass, we stopped to climb a ridge and admire the scenery. Sure enough, there was my cortijo in the distance and, to my surprise, I suddenly realised that we were actually only a very short scramble from the flat summit of El Fuerte, the towering mountain which is Guájar Alto’s most distinctive feature.
At last, we joined the steep road which descends to Guájar Alto, following the course of the River Toba. At the junction we passed the remains of a stone-built kiln used for the extraction of herbal essences, once a major industry in Los Guájares. The kilns were fuelled with dried scrub layered with heat-retaining stones and our passengers told us that this particular kiln was used for extracting juniper essence. Although this plant is now scarce and, as a result, protected by law, we have a number on our land and I’ve often thought it a shame that the berries should go to waste. I think I’ll have to set up a gin distillery.
Leaving the road, we turned off down a track and on to the land belonging to a member of our party. Here, in a shady oasis, we set out ou

A VILLAGE RAMBLE

There is a heatwave currently affecting most of Spain and in Guájar Alto, during the hottest hours of the day when a profound langour settles upon the village, there’s nothing much anyone can do other than laze in the shade or splash about in the swimming pool. By contrast, the nights are wonderfully cool; people sit outside their houses chatting and children play in the street until the early hours. All around, the air is saturated with the heavenly scent of flowering shrubs.

We had another organized village excursion - on foot, this time. A group of about a dozen of us, all wearing lime-green T-shirts and red caps ( to the great amusement of the other villagers ) set off in the cool of early morning to walk along the course of the river Toba in the direction of Guájar Faragüit. For much of the route, the river bed (practically dry in summer ) runs parallel with the road and often when driving in or out of the village we’d wondered about the ancient aquaducts and derelict buildings along its banks. Apparently, they are relics of a flour mill and it seems that since the times of Arab occupation crops of wheat and maize, watered by means of a system of canals, were grown in Guájar Alto.
We passed a small, concrete-lined reservoir which, we were told, once provided the village houses with water. There was also a spot where villagers used to swim and if they fancied a beer or other refreshment, they would ring a handbell to attract the attention of the proprietor of a small chiringuito ( a kiosk selling drinks ) on the other side of the road; he would then walk across with their order. The chiringuito, a small, concrete block, still stands by the side of the road, forlorn and derelict.
Along the riverbed are pools of water in which all kinds of aquatic creatures and plants must thrive. I would have liked to linger to look for the little terrapins which are found in this kind of habitat but I had to keep up with the rest of the party since the route we were following is quite tricky in places and assistance from the gallant, male members of the group was at times required.
As the sun rose higher, we were shaded from its heat by the precipitous, overhanging rocks. After a while, the riverbed broadened out and we found ourselves in a recreation area furnished with seats and tables. The Spanish always have a mid-morning snack so we stayed there for a while so that the sandwiches and other refreshments we’d brought could be consumed. Our rucksacks now considerably lightened, we scrambled up a steep path through a pine forest from the summit of which is a fine view of Guájar Alto and its dominant mountain, El Fuerte.
Continuing on our way, we wound along a narrow track, single-file, until we evntually found ourselves on a dusty track which the villagers call Camino Roto ( broken road ). We’d come full circle and were now heading back towards the village. Now and again, someone would burst into song and the rest would join in. The mayordomos of Guájar Alto are the best, sang the steward leading the party. Better than the mayordomos of Faragüit! This was a reference to the good-natured rivalry between the three villages which comprise Los Guájares and resulted in much laughter.
We passed a number of farms, obviously well-irrigated and fertile judging from the lushness of the vines, olives, avocados and fruit trees. People working on their land were quite startled to see such a large group of people on a road along which, these days, few travel and our lurid green T-shirts and red caps caused much hilarity. I told one man, who’d stopped work to stare at us in astonishment, that I felt like a mountain goat after the terrain we’d just negotiated.
By now, we were all very hot indeed and as we entered the village, we made our way straight to the first of the fountains where we were able to drink the spring water and splash our faces. After that, we had to parade ourselves through the main street and then back again to the house of one of the members of our group for a very jolly hour of tapas and drinks.
August is the month of fiestas in Los Guájares. Guájar Fondón have already had theirs and Guájar Faragüit is currently putting up the flags in preparation for their fiesta which begins this weekend. Guájar Alto is the last to celebrate its annual fiesta which will take place in a week’s time and, already, there is an atmosphere of excitement as the villagers gear themselves up for the festivities.

HIGH SUMMER in GUÁJAR ALTO

A recently published official report comparing standards of living in the European Union concludes that although wages in Spain are low, this country does, nevertheless, out of all those others, enjoy the best quality of life and if summer living in Guájar Alto is anything to go by, anyone visiting our village at the moment would be bound to agree.
It’s the time of year for entertaining or being entertained, whether the occasion is an impromptu fiesta held in someone’s cortijo, a picnic by the river or an organized event, such as one we recently attended. It was arranged by a committee of mayordomos (stewards) who are responsible for the organisation of all the village functions and it took place in a hostelry which caters for large parties and weddings. It’s situated near the coast so a coach was laid on to take us there and as we boarded there was a general buzz of excitement and much merriment; only the Spanish have the ability to extract every last shred of enjoyment out of any occasion. The women were all decked out in their best dresses ( frills are de rigueur at any formal event ) and judging from their coiffeurs Admi, the village hairdresser, had evidently had a busy day.
Upon our arrival, we were ushered to a tree-lined terrace upon which were large, round tables adorned with candelabras; dusk had fallen so the effect was highly romantic. Beer and wine was brought to every table, followed by plates of exquisitely made canapés, fresh prawns and the very popular octopus á la Gallega. The first course, accompanied by a good white wine, was a sweet and succulent fish steak (hake), most perfectly cooked; this was followed by a very pleasant lemon sorbet. The next course was a tender pork fillet, stuffed with something delicious, served on a thin slice of bread which had been fried in butter. The dessert, a chocolate confection, was quite divine. After dinner, most of the women got up to dance to the accompaniment of music provided by a male singer ( who was surprisingly good ) and later, after much cajoling and fortified by a good many drinks from the free bar, a few of the men joined in. The night was very warm so I was glad that I’d brought a fan. Much later, and not a little weary, we climbed aboard our coach and arrived back in Gájar Alto shortly before four a.m.
By contrast, the afternoon fiesta we recently attended at a neighbouring cortijo was a simple affair. When we arrived, we were offered sangria from a big jug and slices of ham from a home-reared pig. It is customary to take the legs to be cured in Trevélez in the Sierra Nevada, Spain’s highest village, famous for the quality of the hams it produces. This particular ham was tender and sweet, one of the best I’ve ever sampled. A goat stew was served next, followed by huge slices of water melon. As the level of the jar of sangria dropped, it was replenished with more wine and chopped fruit and by the time the plates had been cleared from the table, it had taken on a completely different character from that which it had when we arrived. Sangria and the similar tinto de verano ( red wine, lemonade and a touch of vermouth ) are refreshing and pleasant to drink on a hot, summer’s afternoon. After the meal, I noticed the man of the house going into the kitchen with a big bunch of lemon grass which he’d just picked and not long afterwards we were offered a most delicious tea made from various herbs, including chamomile, flavoured with the lemon grass.
Here, at home, we also do quite a lot of entertaining, making use of the plentiful supply of summer vegetables in our vegetable garden. At the moment we have French beans, tomatoes, five different varieties of peppers, courgettes, aubergines, cucumbers and lettuce; soon, the water melons and squashes will be ready for harvesting. The guests enjoy sitting on the terrace by the pool and those who have come up from the coast marvel at the stars; there’s little light pollution here so the night skies are spectacular. At the moment, Jupiter is the brightest object and with binoculars you are able to see four of its largest moons. The warm, night air is perfumed with the scent of jasmine and the big, trumpet flowers of daturas. On nights such as these, it would be a crime to stay indoors.

THE STORY OF THE WISE OLD BOAR

In Bar Carmen, one of Guájar Alto’s restaurants famous for traditional, home cooking, the wall of the dining area is decorated by an enormous wild boar’s head. I once asked José, Carmen’s grandson, where it had come from.
‘Arriba!’ he replied, pointing in the direction of our cortijo. His grandfather had shot it, he added.
It must have been a fearsome beast, the like of which you certainly wouldn’t wish to encounter on a dark night. Its curved tusks are long and pointed and it has a thick ruff of coarse hair around its powerful neck, typical of a mature male boar. Even though it is stuffed and harmless, it still might alarm some people were it not for the comical appearance bestowed on it by the adornment of a Mexican sombrero and a pair of round, black-framed spectacles with very thick lenses. Contemplating it last New Year’s Eve, while waiting for the midnight chimes, it occurred to me that Carmen’s stuffed boar’s head would make a good subject upon which to base a character for a chidren’s book. With a rough idea of how my story was going to be constructed, I began work on the first illustrations in January.
The story begins: ‘Far away, in a land of mountains and forests...’ a setting which, of course, is the beautiful, mountain scenery surrounding my home; the animal characters, too, are all inspired by the creatures which live here. I decided to make Bruno, the hero, into a conceited, self-important animal who deludes not only himself, but also the other creatures, that he is very erudite and wise, hence the title. It’s a simple tale with an element of repetition which children like. The animals seek the counsel of the Wise Old Boar and even though the advice he gives them is silly, they follow it faithfully, trusting in his wisdom. The climax of the story is a terrible storm (a sumbliminal reference to climate change, perhaps?) in which the animals are in fear of losing their lives. Unintentionally, Bruno saves the day and even though he’s revealed as a fraud, he’s hailed as a hero by the grateful animals.
My intention is that the story should be read aloud by, say, a parent at bedtime or a teacher in class. A different voice should be assumed for each of the characters, for example, a deep, pompous voice for the boar; a gruff voice for the badger; a fluttery, agitated voice for the partridge. The illustrations are detailed and as realistic as I could make them. From my experience as a teacher, I’ve found that children prefer realism to flat, cartoon-style illustrations. A child too young to read could look at the pictures and, perhaps, make up his or her own story about each one.
All the illustrations were painted in watercolour with the addition of a touch of casein bodycolour here and there. Some of the full page illustrations can be seen on my web site www.margaretmerry.com.

THE ARRIVAL OF SUMMER IN GUAJAR ALTO

They say in Guájar Alto that the weather doesn’t settle until the fortieth of May. Sure enough, at the beginning of the second week of June, summer arrived, bringing with it hot days and balmy, flower-scented nights. This is the season of outdoor living, with the (quite exhausting!) succession of fiestas (parties) and barbecues which are a way of life in our village.
The family paid us a visit in May and, as usual, our two little granddaughters blossomed in the sunshine and healthy mountain air. We took them on a trip up to the big reservoir, Pantano de los Bermejales, Granada’s ‘inland beach’, which is ideal for the entertainment of young children. The shore is sandy and the water clean, with no jellyfish or dangerous currents to worry about. The drive, too, is enjoyable because of the wonderful scenery encountered on the way. The wild flowers of the higher altitudes (1000 metres and above) are gorgeous; we saw orchids, wild roses, irises, asphodels and, most spectacular of all, wild paeonies. The colours were stunning, not least the swathes of heavenly blue which turned out to be large-flowered flax, something I’ve never seen before. As we descended towards Arenas del Rey, the surrounding landscape blazed with red poppies and golden stipa grasses, a truly lovely sight. The little girls slept most of the way but they woke up in time to see the snow on the distant Sierra Nevada of which there is a lovely view glimpsed through the pine trees.
At Bermejales, we enjoyed a picnic and for a long time the children were happily absorbed playing with their buckets and spades. We returned via the Lecrin Valley, through the village of Restábal and along a winding, leafy lane which leads to Guájar Faragüit. A most pleasant trip.
As a result of the alarming rise of the cost of diesel, we’ve had a national strike of lorry drivers in Spain. Garages quickly ran out of fuel and supermarket shelves were emptied. There were no fish, meat, fruit or vegetables in the shops on the coast. We’re fortunate in Guájar Alto because, since Moorish times, this valley has been self-sufficient. Dani, who runs the village supermarket, did a valient job in keeping the shop well stocked and Jean-Pierre, the French baker, supplied us with fresh bread as normal. Our vegetable garden is very productive all year round so in our house there is always something to eat in an emergency.
As well as the lorry drivers making the headlines, much attention has been paid by the media regarding an incident in Motril last week involving a snake. In March, the Junta passed a law forbidding the keeping of dangerous pets. Typically, they failed to take into consideration what would happen as regards households which already owned these animals and as a result, many have been dumped. In Motril an apartment block was terrorised by the appearance of a 2.5 metre long snake which eventually took refuge on the roof and had to be retrieved by experts. It was then discovered that the snake, a female, had produced young which were so numerous that they couldn’t be retrieved. In the end, the tenants had to be evacuated and a team sent in to fumigate the block with powerful chemicals. Dogs and other unwanted pets are habitually abandoned in our village so, perhaps, due to this new law, we shan’t be surprised to see crocodiles swimming around the reservoirs or giant iguanas roaming the mountains. It would make a change from the nightly rampages of the wild boar!

EASTER IN GUAJAR ALTO

Time has a way of passing very quickly when you live in the mountains so that the early Easter of this year was upon us before we’d hardly recovered from Christmas.
In Spain, Semana Santa (Holy Week) is the most important religious festival of all and Guájar Alto, as with all other villages, towns and cities throughout the country, celebrates it with solemn processions through the streets to the church. Thursday and Good Friday are public holidays but there is no Easter Monday. Nationwide, it’s a very busy week with a great deal of traffic movement hampered this year by awful weather in the northern part of Spain. Here in Guájar Alto, March has been a month of glorious, summery days interspersed with unpleasant, windy spells which means that temperatures have fluctuated wildly. April can also be a very changeable month but with the arrival of May, we can look forward to calm, settled weather.
This year, the stewards responsible for organizing village events suggested an excursion into the mountains on Easter Saturday which turned out to be an extremely successful, enjoyable occasion. Those of us with appropriate vehicles turned up at the appointed time, 0900, to pick up passengers but, this being Spain where, on principle, lateness is the norm, it was almost an hour later, with Mari-Carmen and Antonio from the village on board, that we eventually set off.
In a slow-moving convoy of vehicles, each displaying an orange ribbon to complement the orange scarves, worn scout-wise by the stewards, we climbed northwards out of the village, stopping at intervals to get out to admire the lovely views. It was a fresh, sunny day of clear, brilliant light and an intensely blue sky. Eventually, we reached the track which runs through extensive pine forests inhabited by herds of deer. The forestry people have recently carried out a great deal of work and the thinning out of trees has allowed light in which, in turn, has produced a profusion of wild flowers. Many parts are carpeted with leaves of what I think will be asphodels - tall plants with spikes of small, white flowers- or possibly St. Bernard’s lilies, which are very similar in appearance. Whatever they are, they will certainly be spectacular when they come into flower and so I intend to return in a week or two, depending on the weather, to identify them.
The track through the forest seems to go on forever but, at last, at a height of 1,400 metres, we reached the road called Camino de Cabra (Goat Road) which is the old road from Almuñecar on the c oast to Granada. Here, looking through the pines, there is a beautiful view of the Sierra Nevada. Turning on to the road, we found ourselves in a completely different landscape with vast, rolling hills of almonds and olives. We stopped at a roadside bar for refreshments where we were served the local wine and delicious tapas that included wild boar stew and an elaborate potato salad. We were also able to purchase jars of the local honey. Afterwards we drove a little further along the Camino de Cabra and returned through the pine forest by a different route which took us to open countryside beyond which was a vast, panoramic view of the Lecrin Valley, with all its towns and villages, dominated by the towering Sierra Nevada. We wound our way onwards until, eventually, we reached the spot where we were going to have our picnic, on the northern boundary of Guajar Alto.
The invigorating mountain air had given us appetites which was just as well considering the amount of food everyone had brought. As usual, the homemade village wine was passed around and food shared. We had a big bag of broad beans from our vegetablr garden, picked that morning, which met with much approval because the Spanish love to eat them raw. The Spanish - especially the women - adore sweet things and so the chocolate-coated almonds we’d brought especially were also appreciated. In Spain, when you are invited to someone’s house, it is the custom to take not only beer or a bottle of wine, but also some kind of sweet confection.
After the picnic we set off again through the mountains along a winding route which would eventually bring us back to Guajar Alto. As before, we made frequent stops to admire the wonderful views. I think now until mid-May is the best time of year to explore the mountains simply because the wild flowers are so lovely. There are poppies, marigolds and marguerites in their myriads as well as wild pinks, lavatera and snapdragons; bushes of cistus, with pink or white flowers, cascade down the steep sides of ravines. Overhead, the eagles glide, always a thrilling sight.
It was early evening as we returned to Guajar Alto and the village was deserted apart from one lone soul whose Easter Saturday had evidently been celebrated so well that he’d staggered out of a bar and passed out in the gutter.

THE THREE KINGS IN GUAJAR ALTO

In Spain, whereas the celebrations of Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve tend to be family affairs, the parade of the Three Kings (January 5th) is a very public event which generates a good deal of excitement and in every city, town and village the people throng the streets to watch the spectacle.
In Madrid, the cabalgata de los Reyes Magos is a truly magnificent event and this year’s parade, which we watched on television, was a stunning display featuring not only the three kings sitting on their their thrones in lavishly decorated floats but also a cortège of beautiful white horses and men and women dressed in sumptuous, matching white costumes. In the city of Granada, the kings were very politically correct because they were accompanied by their wives, while in Motril, the thousands of children lining the streets were thrilled to see the wise men arrive in a most authentic manner, sitting on camels. In the Sierra Nevada, 2,700 metres above sea level, the highest cabalgata in Spain took place and much lower down, in the little village of Lentegí, which is a short eagle’s flight from Guájar Alto, the municipal dumper was the mode of transport for the kings.
Here in Guájar alto, our vehicle was one of three pick-up trucks which were requisitioned to transport the kings around the village. Each was decorated with a tall canopy of palm branches, tinsel and paper on which the name of the respective king was painted. As in Granada, the kings, plus a few, sundry elves, were attended by their respective wives and with Melchior resplendent on his throne (a white plastic chair) in the pick-up of our truck and various children who had piled into the cabin, Digby led the procession, to the accompaniment of a cacophony of car horns. Negotiating the narrow streets of Guájar Alto, even at the best of times, requires great concentration so how Digby managed under such circumstances I can’t imagine. Every few metres the procession halted so that sweets could be thrown to the following crowds and there was much excitement as children and adults scrambled to pick them up. The supply of these sweets seemed limitless but I saw from the wrappers that they had been sponsored by various banks and big businesses, hence the extravagance.
At last, the kings reached their destination, the village square, where the entrance to the church had been decorated in readiness. Sitting on a specially erected dais, with the aid of megaphones, Balthazar, Caspar and Melchior took turns to call out the name of each child in the village and hand them their present. In Spain, children receive a special present on January 5th and this year, according to shopkeepers in Granada, parents were spending an average of 150 euros per child.
Most of the village had turned out to watch the cabalgata and a fire had been lit in the square where, after the distribution of the gifts, people gathered around to enjoy hot chocolate and churros (thin rolls of dough deep fried and dusted with sugar). In the majority of Spanish households at this time of year a confection called roscón de Reyes is eaten ; it is a large cake, in the form of a ring, filled with cream and decorated with crystallized fruits. In Spain, of all the sweet confections associated with Christmas, this is the oldest and, in fact, originates from Roman times. It was made to celebrate the arrival of spring and the ring shape represented the annual cycle; much later, as with other pagan customs, it became Christianized and, often, the roscón has a cardboard crown, representing the Three Kings, in its centre. Just as in England it was traditional to put coins in the Christmas pudding, a little ‘surprise’ of glass or porcelain was sometimes hidden inside the roscón.

CHRISTMAS IN GUAJAR ALTO

At midday on the 24th December, an extraordinary hush descended upon Guájar Alto as, suddenly, all the familiar noises associated with the normal, working day ceased and even the village dogs stopped barking. Not a soul was to be seen, save a solitary, grazing donkey. Everyone was indoors, getting ready to celebrate Christmas Eve.
In England, preparations for Christmas begin so early that, by the time December arrives, many people have worked themselves up into a state of acute anxiety but in Spain, as with most things, there is a much more relaxed attitude towards the festive season and, because there is much less stress, it’s a time of year which you can really enjoy. In this country, it is the custom to celebrate Christmas Eve (Nochebuena) rather than Christmas Day itself and Christmas dinner is eaten before the traditional Midnight Mass. When we came to live in this country, we adopted the Spanish custom of having Christmas Dinner on Christmas Eve and going out for lunch the following day. It is a very sensible arrangement.
At this time of year, it would be difficult to find a Spanish home without a poinsettia (flor de pascua) on display. Spaniards are very superstitious and this plant, which requires long, winter nights to enable it to produce its vivid, red bracts, is considered lucky. Afterwards, it is often planted outdoors, where the favourable climate enables it to grow into a rather attractive tree. Papá Noel (Father Christmas) is very popular and many people hang climbing Santas, with their sacks slung over their shoulders, from their balconies. Of all the Christmas decorations, however, the most significant is the belén (nativity scene) which is displayed in homes, schools and shop windows everywhere. These can sometimes be very elaborate, with months of work having been devoted to their construction. In Spanish towns and cities, a belén viviente, with people portraying the characters, is often performed. To northern Europeans, the idea of being born in a stable is shocking; however, it should be remembered that in many Mediterranean countries it was, until comparatively recently, normal for animals and humans to share accommodation and in the typical Spanish posada (inn with stabling attatched) the animals were often better fed and better housed than the people.
In Guájar Alto, as in other rural places, many people rear the odd turkey or two for Christmas, even if they don’t keep other poultry. We bought ours from the village shop and I roasted it in the traditional way with all the trimmings. As with previous years, Christmas Day itself was warm and sunny. We had arranged to join some friends for lunch at a highly recommended French restaurant in the popular coastal resort of Almuñecar. Everyone was out and about, according to custom, and the bars and restaurants were busy. Having said that, many establishments have reported a 30% drop in business this year during the run up to Christmas due to a massive clampdown on drinking and driving. Legions of police patrols have been on the roads breathalysing drivers and fear of the consequences - a likely prison sentence - has made this an un usually sober festive season.
New Year’s Eve (Noche Vieja) was, according to custom, very much a family occasion and in Guájar Alto, as with everywhere else, everyone was at home and the streets were deserted until after midnight. We spent the evening in one of the village bars and saw in the New Year there. In Spain, it is considered very unlucky not to follow the custom of eating twelve grapes ( one for every chime of the midnight hour ) on New Year’s Eve and so, just before midnight, we were all given a glass filled with grapes. Actually, it’s quite hard to swallow that many grapes in such a short time and I, personally, can never manage more than six before I begin to choke! Afterwards, we all wished each other a Happy New Year and, because we are an hour ahead of the U.K., we left early so that we would be in time to listen to Big Ben and watch the celebrations in London on satellite T.V.. The morning of January Ist, (Año Nuevo) 2008, was mild and sunny but, by the time people had emerged from their houses, nursing their hangovers, the best part of the day was over.
In Spain, the festive season does not end with New Year’s Eve because, on January 5th, the cabalgata de los Reyes Magos, which is a parade symbolizing the coming of the three wise men to Bethlehem, takes place. Even in small villages, like Guájar Alto, it is traditional for three men to dress up as the Magi and throw sweets to the children and the following day, Epiphany (Dia de Reyes), when gifts are exchanged, is a national holiday. Because the shops benefit from a post-Christmas shopping spree as a result of this custom, the January sales don’t begin in earnest until afterwards.