Andalucid

Five Fab Things About Summer in Lanjarón

1. Planting luscious scarlet and cream hibiscus and feather-dustery callistemon in pots on our rooftop terrace, while Macduff sternly supervises.

2. Searing coffee, icy water, a cigarette and Psychologies magazine in Spanish after a swim in the Hotel Andalucia pool. My sixth year squinting at dazzling white apartments against the burning blue sky.

3. Late-night cinnamon and lemon leche merengada ice cream (thanks for the delicious writing, Olive Me) plus coffee and brandies at the Heladeria. With big family ice cream parties going on all around you and the rest of Lanjarón parading past on their sundae paseo.

4. Dancing to Kwaanza's retro reggae in the Parque Salado at midnight. Looking up to see a row of helmet-hair Spanish grannies sitting patiently on plastic chairs waiting for The Birdie Song to start.

5. Sleeping on cool blue and white cotton sheets under the big fan.

What are your favourite things about summer in Andalucía?

Feeling Fiestive

My hairdresser says I have to make an appointment; we're practically parking in Orgiva; at the Regüerta, Manolo is looking thinner and more harassed than ever, and my elderly neighbourly ladies (who all made appointments) are swanning around town with candy-floss hair overdo's.  Our sixth San Juan fiesta in Lanjarón was as much noisy fun as its predecessors.

The fiesta - ours is dedicated to Lanjarón's famous mineral water and jamón serrano - opened on 19 June as the Durcal majorettes (national champion twirlers no less) stepped out towards the Plaza. At midnight, the Fiesta Queens and 'Mister' were crowned with solemn rituals stretching back to 1980, and the Orquestra Milenio accompanied the first of several verbenas - open-air dances where women could show off their frothy flamenco frocks, and men could show off.

Saturday, as always, the big fancy dress parade, La Pública, rolled through town on a wave of noise and free tinto de verano.  And if some of the costumes seemed rather cobbled together, insiders knew why: the handsome young tailor who strolled into town and undertook to create the costumes for at least four different groups, strolled out again last week with all their money and some big rolls of material. He's now being hunted down like a pantomime dog by the Guardia's best minds.

Brazilian-themed marching bands and Caribbean orchestras, break dance and sevillanas, flamenco and salsa.  Andy and Lucas in concert with their support band, the Demented. Then for an hour after midnight on San Juan Eve, the 23rd June, the streets once again flowed shin-deep with water as revellers ran a gauntlet of hoses and buckets from Hotel España to the town hall plaza.  That's a lot of nautical miles. I went up on the roof terrace with some vino to enjoy the screaming, and was treated to my annual glimpse of bare bums as a French family crouched behind their car to change out of dripping clothes.

Best of all was the long walk through town, greeting friends every few paces, stopping for drinks, the familiar faces behind the familiar counters, the three-generation ice cream sundae worship at the Heladeria, grandparents and prams and toddlers and police all weaving around each other, the miniature train nipping at everyone's heels, and good-natured chaos under a flavoury cloud of roasting chicken.

This weekend marked ten years since we left England, and though I do miss many things about my old home,  fiesta always renews my gratitude for community: the fragile, priceless ingredient I have found here as nowhere else, as essential to our quality of life as pure water and deep garnet ham.

Devotion and Doughnuts: Corpus Christi in Lanjarón

Temperatures are soaring, there's Andalucia-coloured bunting everywhere and forests of flowers and plants being carted around town. It's just days before Lanjarón's biggest annual party, the San Juan Fiestas del Agua y del Jamón.(You can see the events program on this link). But before that week of mild frenzy begins, there's my favourite celebration of the year, Corpus Christi.

Spain has been celebrating 'the body of Christ' with lavish rituals and props since 1317. I read about elaborate parades and spectacles in cities like Toledo, Sevilla and Valencia: the religious processions there are accompanied by 'evil bogeymen, circus animals, dancing choirboys and devils'. And while there's no shortage of candidates for these roles in our town, they don't come out specially on this day.

No, in Lanjarón, we go big on plants. In barrio and placetas, the neighbours have clubbed together to bring or buy shiny rubber plants, doll-pink carnations and vermilion gladioli.  The women arrange these around their particular 'imágen', a beautiful, often valuable small statue of la Virgen, El Crísto, a huge Bible bound in gold and scarlet, or an elaborate cross. The men rig up dazzling sodium lights in trees and on balconies. As darkness falls, women young and old take their seats outside on green or white plastic chairs and settle in for an all-night vigil, while excited kids run or cycle rings around them.  At paseo hour, locals, young people back from college or jobs in Granada or beyond, and tourists stroll through town, detouring to admire each brightly lit courtyard and catch up with family and friends.

When we lived in Barrio Hondillo, Fred and I were invited to 'do' Corpus Christi each year with the other residents. Everyone brought out food and drink to cover the picnic tables.  At midnight, grannies in serious aprons appeared with vats of boiling oil and started frying buñuelos (doughnuts) and serving thick chocolate. Our dog Macduff still has fond memories of being stuffed with doughnuts by his fans, before sprawling to sleep in the middle of the courtyard, finally waddling indoors with me at six in the morning. Perro bueno...

This year was as lovely as ever. The Hermita de San Roque across from La Caixa bank has flung open its doors for only the second time in the year. Flowers cover every surface. On the fine faded rug, a plump cherub with gilded wings lies on its back with its adorable plaster feet waving in the air. Near the kebab shop serving teenagers another kind of sustenance, the monstrance (usually an elaborate cross that holds consecrated bread) is made entirely from plastic packing chips.

At the Coviran grocery on the corner of Hondillo, they've pulled out all the stops as they do every year in a pious outpouring of red fabric. The banner covers the entire shopfront including the door, and is pinned with artificial white roses. On a table below, a miniature church is full of worshippers, startling in tartan bonnets.  The priest looks a little préocupado, and no wonder; he is presiding over a wedding and a first communion for several angelic young people.

Our old neighbours greet us warmly and we stop to chat, but I wonder why it seems so quiet. It's definitely poca gente compared to the bustle of previous years. Locals who work or live away aren't travelling back so much this year, Irene tells me.  I shouldn't be surprised, as times are tough here, according to informative online news site Typically Spanish.  

Nevertheless, for me and Fred, Corpus Christi is a celebration about living here. For tonight, who cares about the loony revving his car in and out of the garage opposite eight times a day? Or the motos, the cement trucks, the endless construction? (Someone forgot to tell the builders here about El Crisis). The sometimes offhand service and the few people who stare straight through you, the invisible extranjero. I hoard up images of smiles and hugs, of collection plates and precious ornaments left unattended and undisturbed, of three generations slurping banana ice-cream at the Heladeria.

By the way, if you'd like some glimpses of our familiar Lanjarón faces, Fred, official photographer for Andalucid, just captured a few on a trip through town with me earlier this week. Meet our bank manager, catwalk-elegant Cristál who works at the corner shop, Jose-Luis, lordly in lime green, and his lovely wife Yolanda, proprietress of the flamenco gear shop. It was part of a worldwide photo challenge organised by Darren Prowse at Problogger.  And such is his pulling power that these faces have had 1500 views since yesterday! More faces to come, and maybe stories too.

Another small-town summer has just begun in Lanjarón, and although I will be moaning about the heat until mid-September, I'm starting to see that there's a lot to love.

What do you love or hate about summer in the Alpujarras? Comment and let me know!

Mme. Carrière Found in Secret Spanish Garden

'I'm growing old-fashioned roses, come over and see them,' said Marianne.  That was four-and-a-half years ago when she sold me the deep pink damascene Rose de Resht now blooming madly on our front porch. We're thinking of adopting a new rose or two, so Fred and I shoulder cameras, notebooks, bug revoltant and hats for our expedition  into Lanjarón bush country.

Up the Path of the Numberless Espígas (the grass spears every dog owner is picking up and pickin g out right now), down one Aztec ruin of concrete steps and up another, we tread down sweet herbs across a field to a tawny stone cortijo set in a green madness of growing things. I had always envisaged politely trimmed plants in neat rows, but Marianne's secret garden gushes up from the earth in fountains of leaf and flower.

Back in Denmark, Marianne Dylsing was a midwife and homemaker with a spare-time partiality for roses that eventually grew into a passion. She was inspired by Danish rose-princes Valdemar Petersen and Thorben Tim.  'I visited Tim's famous gardens not far from Copenhagen and met him.  When I was leaving I told him: "Your gardens need weeding, they're a mess!" By 1996, she was working for him full time. 

 Much travelled Marianne (she has also lived in Nicaragua and Israel) came to Andalucia on the trail of yet another rose gardener, loved Lanjarón, and moved here in 2004. From a tangle of weeds and builder's rubble, and with the help of her obliging landlord, Antonio, she has created a series of bowers or garden rooms.  I take my nose on a stroll through her 'sense garden'.  Roses, lavender, mint and rosemary entwine with deep purple sage flowers and their velvety leaves, against a curtain of valerian and lemon balm. An almond tree bends gracefully in one corner, with lemon, pear and orange trees to keep it company.  In the far corner, glassy pink and white cherries weigh down their branches.

How does Marianne's rose garden grow? In the past, she has brought plants over from Denmark, but a recently established nursery garden with native cuttings looks promising. She pots bare-rooted plants in ordinary compost until she can choose a good, part-shaded site in the heavy clay soil roses love. In spring, when they start to green up, she feeds them yummy well-rotted goat manure, then deep waters every few days when they are in the ground (pots get watered every day).  Apart from 'a little chat and a morning shower', spring and summer care is largely deadheading and pest control. Fungi like rust or blackspot are removed as quickly as possible and not recycled into compost. 'Many varieties will bloom again in the autumn, with more intense scent and colour than before,' says Marianne. In winter, the rosebushes are pruned back hard.

I ask Marianne which is her favourite rose. She points to a many-petalled climber, a white rose that has just had a thought about turning pink. Mme. Alfred Carrière leans langorously over the fence in front of the cortijo like an escapee from the Chelsea Flower Show. 

Marianne has plants for sale, and can design a secret garden for you too, if you ask nicely.  Email her at l@rosa.as. When we leave, she picks me a bouquet of lavender, lemon balm, valerian and sage, and tiny rosebuds, icing-pink.  'Come back in the autumn for your rosebush,it's too hot to plant now,' she says.  I turn around to thank her, but she has disappeared into the green.

Rebuilding History: Molino Benizalte, Orgiva

On a dazzling May morning, the massive stone walls of 17th century Molino
Benizalte ('mill of the son of the oil family') promise deep shade inside.  We walk through a neat walled garden drowsing in the sun, and enter the cathedral calm of the former olive mill, which was still operating well into the 1950s.

'Hi, welcome to the Molino!' The hush is shattered as Sebastian Blakeley strides towards us, radiating his very own sustainable energy.  Dressed in his trademark was-white teeshirt, jeans and building- encrusted boots, Sebastian is on coffee break from supervising construction at David and Shujata Dry's lovely Barrio Luque development in nearby Orgiva.

Sebastian and his partner Pamela Lassalle bought the Molino in March 2005. Wasn't he daunted by the sheer scale of the restoration?

'No!' he booms. 'I'd already restored a 13th century house in Tuscany, and I was looking for a new challenge.' Plus, the Mill worked its spell on him:  'I'd seen loads of other places and almost given up looking in the area. But as soon as I walked in here, I had a clear vision of how it could be,' says the former furniture designer and cabinetmaker. (His clever, graceful designs for tables and chairs are modern classics).

Guided by his 'fear and loathing of cement' and a passionate commitment to green building principles,  Sebastian and his team set to work using local materials and traditional methods. Lime, quarried nearby, was traditionally used in this region as mortar, whitewash and insulation. Hemp fibre bricks provide excellent insulation and sustainable timber soars upwards to support the roof space. The 'cajones de tapial' construction of the walls, brick skeleton 'boxes' packed with compressed earth and stone, is thought to date back to Roman times.

Already, the Molino is coming back to life as a uniquely atmospheric celebration venue and centre for the arts. And Sebastian has turned the former stables/pig pens into a charming home for the Blakeley menagerie. But with three young children and their future to consider, Sebastian and Pamela have decided to put the Molino up for sale, even as work continues. 'We've drawn up detailed plans for the Molino as a superb retreat hotel with 22 bedrooms,' says Sebastian, leaping about to show us how the space would be divided.

You can take a look at the Molino and marvel at its vital statistics online. (Just scroll down past the Luque development details on David and Shujata's site). But the pictures don't quite capture the mystery or the beauty of the Mill and its setting, looking south to the dark hills of the Sierra Lujar. Come one summer evening as the sun is setting, to hear some jazz, blues or baroque music; see new art; experience real flamenco made even more dramatic in this magical setting. The Molino Benizalte will surely weave its spell on you too.

Señor de la Exasperación

So I'm just putting the finishing touches to a degree assignment that has to be in tomorrow, when the doorbell dings.  My dear friend Alex has arrived from London to take a break at her finca near Lanjarón.  She has brought a new old friend with her from her inexhaustible supply of eccentric Englishmen.  Alex tries to talk to me while John tries to talk to her and me together. I reply in half-sentences, but it's OK because no-one's listening to anyone anyway.  I get them up to the roof and give them liquids to keep them busy. 

 Meanwhile, naughty spaniel Lola slips out and goes into town, probably in search of Friday night takeaway. Fred, just coming out of a long day of work, laces up his hiking boots and stomps off in search of our princess. I see Alex and John off with a cheery wave, all the time watching Fred walk back to the house empty-handed.

We take off into Lanjarón with the sad cargo of Lola's empty lead and split up to look for her.  It's the solemn feast of El Señor de la Expiración. (The pìcture shows the Orgiva celebrations). The whole town is stepping over the roadworks towards the church.  Cannon and firecracker explosions seem to rock the very buildings, and I jump so often I have to pretend I'm skipping.  I wait for the townsfolk to fall to the ground screaming, but nobody even blinks.  Various neighbours stop me in the street, lay a hand on my arm, report sightings of Lola - (Carmela, our vegetable vecina, has alerted friends). 

I get home to find Lola happy and excited after a minimal telling off and far too many cuddles. She is sent to bed without any supper except her usual full bowl.

 

I take Macduff for his walk.  On the way, Carmela presents me with a lettuce as beautiful as a newly-opened rose, and graceful purple lirios, irises - a gift. I can't turn back now I've got 13-year old Duffs up the hill, so I cradle the lettuce, the irises and the poop scoop and we carry on.  As we go round the corner, the cannons go off again and we walk into a flock of goats heading into town for the weekend.  Three of the goats detach themselves and head towards us.  I lunge at them with the lettuce/iris/poopscoop combo.  They know not to mess with that and take off at a trot. We get home without any more adventures.

All of which is just to give you a snapshot of a typical untypical hour or two in Lanjarón - exasperation and affection woven closely together and usually affection wins.

Don't you love Fred's latest in his White Bowl series? It wasn't posed specially, but simply found in the natural environment of our kitchen. I thought the stapled teabag was particularly poignant. We are going to call it La Cuenca del Crisis, and are happy to discuss commissions from thrifty art lovers.

Have a good week/month/time elapsing before my next blog!

Life goes on in Lanjarón

For weeks, my 'To Do' List has carried an outstanding item: 'Shut down Andalucid'.  I guess what I really meant was 'shut down Andalucia'. Ever since we got back from the Lonely Planet job, covering all of Andalucia except Cádiz between June and August, I've felt restless, stuck in a Lanjaron that is closing down for winter.  Of course, this happens every year and I'm used to it, but this year things seem quieter than ever. Several friends and acquaintances are having 'El Crisis' of their own.  Splitting up or setting off back to the UK, to France, even in one case to Dubai, in search of more reliable work or just a new start.

One morning last week, I passed Sebastian's hardware store twice and it was empty both times.  I walked in and bought a dusty pink plastic comb just because I could. Lanjaron residents will know that no queues at Sebastian's reverses the natural order of things; Zapatero needs no further confirmation of hard times.  'Se Alquila' and 'Se Vende' signs are everywhere, and several half-finished building projects are framed against the dazzling blue sky, forlorn as winter trees.

My favourite blingy clothes/shoes/chestnuts/whatever shop is closing at the end of the month. At my bank last week, the manager and his solemn sidekick were unboxing a delivery of gift items, though it is clear that a cheap mixer/blender array isn't going to bring car or home loan applications pouring in this year or next. "No-one is taking money out or putting money in," said Antonio, neatly summing up both Lanjarón and the global situation.

Feeling that I had lost touch with the real world, I started mentally limbering up for a return to London.  This guided meditation involves tumbling out of bed when the alarm goes at 6am, leaving the house at 7.15 into a dark -2 degrees centigrade morning, and running for the bus that will take me to the Tube. I get into a carriage with screaming bright lights and too many of my fellow humans.  We all shield our eyes from each other behind headlines about our crumbling economy. I go to an office with no windows where I spend 8 hours evading being managed by a 28 year old on her way to the top. (Don't do it! There's no there there!) And then I go home in the dark again.

 So then I start thinking about all the things I love about this Lanjarón life: the blue sky that is clearer every day; my comfortable morning chats with dear vecinas like Rafaela while Macduff slurps water from the fountain tiled with Lorca poetry. I think about my morning commute through the olive groves and past the figs to the lemon tree that arches across the flowing acequia.  Stopping to give Carlos Caballo (a very good looking horse indeed) a handful of grass before heading home along the now-sunlit and warm lanes. And I think I'll leave Tube practice for a few more weeks.

So I won't be shutting down Andalucid just yet.  Just look out for a fresh new design and more stories and photos!

 

Consider This Cortijo

I don't make a habit of promoting property on Andalucid, but this is an exception.  John and Jenny are dear friends and Fred and I have spent plenty of happy hours at their cosy cortijo in the past. So if you're thinking that this might be the right time for a few months' break from everyday life, this solar-powered house, surrounded by olive and chestnut trees, might be just right.

The house's spectacular hillside location overlooks the delightful spa town of Lanjarón and offers fab views over the Alpujurra and Lecrin valleys of Granada. On the horizon, the Mediterranean glitters. On a clear day, you can just see Africa. Winding away from the house are several walks decorated with wildflowers and animated with birdlife.

The house has two living spaces side by side allowing guests an extra degree of independence and privacy. The main house has a bedroom, bathroom and main living/kitchen area.  Just a few steps away, two more bedrooms and a bathroom make up the guest casita. Both houses feature pretty woodburning stoves, while the solar system runs most normal household appliances and lighting.

Outside, the shaded terrace is a great place to share meals and conversation, breathe the exceptional air, sip Lanjaron's coveted mineral water or just unwind.

The rental period is from this autumn through Spring 2009.

If you'd like to find out more, then by all means contact John Owen: johnowen78@hotmail.com.

Glad in Granada

No soy español, español, español....but last night the joy was everywhere and irresistible. We watched the second half of the big match on a huge screen in a packed bar, and counted down to the final whistle with over a hundred other voices.  At the end I couldn’t even hear myself scream.

Long after midnight Fred and I strolled down Reyes Catolicos, one of Granada's major roads, waving our ice cream cones to salute hooting cars and motorbikes. There was no aggression, no passing-out drunks, just goodwill and euphoria.  Things did get a little darker later on though, with a small line-up of riot police blocking off a street where a lamppost had been set upon and left for dead.

All the way down Recogidas and beyond we moved in one huge, mobile street party.  Alongside us marched platoons of shiny-eyed footie fans draped in Spanish flags and daubed with scarlet and yellow warpaint. In the Plaza Isabel la Católica, a miniature version of the Madrid celebrations was being staged, fireworks illuminating the lads jumping into the fountain or clambering into the stern embrace of Queen Isabel on her bronze throne above the water.

 We'd arranged to meet friends at flamenco and jazz club El Eshavira (Postigo de la Cuna 2, off Calle Azacayas). More and more people arrived after us, both natives and tourists packing the bar to create the limited personal space the Spanish love.

It wasn’t until after midnight that thundering flamenco and fierce cante jondo singing exploded onto a stage the size of a camp-bed, the audience so tightly packed there wasn't even room left to stand. I wedged myself on the floor, leaning against one woman’s legs and elbow to elbow with another. Ana, the dancer, had to step delicately around our bodies to reach the stage.

Being that close to such passionate energy was like sitting in front of a pillar of fire. Ana’s scarlet shoes hammering on the wooden stage, some interior battle going on and the audience forgotten.  She was sweating so much that her face and neck seemed coated in liquid gold, one elaborate curl plastered to her forehead, her face calm and dignified even in the wildest moments.  Then, as abruptly as she had taken the stage, she lowered her head, turned and walked quietly away.

We’re off to Seville and Huelva next for Lonely Planet. See you back here soon with highlights!

Family and friends descend on Lanjarón

Sleepy little Lanjaron played host to an historic visit this Easter weekend. My triplet brother Vartan, his long-suffering partner Jackie, and our old, old friend Carlos, who with us has been laughing at my brother's antics for decades, came to 'do' Granada and the Alpujarras. 

My (other triplet) sister Sosi has been a homeowner here, and having visited so often, she now attracts as much attention as an air-cured jamon leg at Arca de Noe.  But Vart, once heard to sum up Our Town as "two old men and a donkey," my prodigal brother Vart merits a blog.

Carlos survived three nights at tourist tomb Hotel Central, where old men with faded eyes and flat caps play savage games of dominoes at little tables in full view of the street.  Vart and Jackie stayed at the sybaritic Hotel Alcadima, which makes up in comfort anything it might lack in local character. 

For Granada read Alhambra.  I have steadily resisted visiting this over-hyped site since we first got here, but as it was Jackie's birthday, we all dutifully turned tourist.  The Generalife Gardens were lovely, though even they were planted thick with tourists.  But the Alhambra was all I had expected, and even less. 

Oh I shouldn't moan.  After all, I did discover a new word:  "the arch built across the upper angles of a square room to support a dome or cupola is...a SQUINCH."  Don't you love this word?  Doesn't everyone have a Squinch in their lives?  Anyway,  I earnestly followed the guide book around, staring at ceilings, tiles, gilding and such, only to trip over toddlers on plastic quad bikes, people sending text messages, necking couples, and stony-faced wardens.  In the famous Patio de Los Leones, the Leones were away at a day spa getting groomed, replaced by a large Formica and glass box so that you could see what wasn't there.  The Alhambra is other people.  The picture shows our visitors reviving over mint tea at the Alhambra Palace Hotel. (From left to right, Carlos, Vart, Jackie).

Actually, all our visitors were charmed with Lanjarón.  Vart loved the markets, the price of prawns, barbecuing on our rooftop and ordering café con leche in every café in town.  Jackie enjoyed 'silly shopping' for the Lanjaron look - it's loud and proud and must not contain any natural fibres.  Both of them enjoyed visiting Pampaneira, once they got over vertigo and car-sickness.  And we just spent a lot of time laughing at each other, but mostly at Vart, because he is funny.  See him below with four other donkeys....

On our way to Malaga Airport to dump them - sorry, I mean drop them off, we stopped off at Nerja Donkey Sanctuary just outside the town, which Jackie said was the real highlight of her trip. You are given a bucket, a donkey goodie bag of shredded lettuce, chopped carrot and carobs.  And you just go around doing a meet and let eat, getting to know each donkey's story - often very sad, but it's lovely to see them in clover now.  You can take dog chews to the rescue dogs, too.  There are even two turkeys, Christmas Day and Boxing Day.  They like bread sauce.  Only kidding.

This time when I overheard my brother talking about his stay, he was plotting how he and Jackie could come back and housesit for us in the summer. Get over here, guys!