Andalucid

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!

Small town, simple pleasures

Welcome to Lanjarón, our quaint spa town in the beautiful Alpujarras......

In spite of the increasing obstacles to commercial and social life, the ancient instinct of the hunter-gatherer continues to assert itself.  Stationed behind a completely useless bright yellow barrier earlier this week, I watched local people picking their way through the post-apocalyptic scene unfolding in  Lanjaron's 'high street' - Calle Real.

Abuelas and abuelos on wobbly pins and sturdy canes; young mums with teetering pushchairs, pulling toddlers out of the path of reversing diggers; delivery trucks ploughing like Columbus' galleons through choppy seas of builders´rubble.  There's never a dull moment, and the whole show is something of a  tourist attraction in its own right.

New pipes and cables are being laid, hence the excavations.  But we'd just got used to threading the little mountains of assorted builder dusts (I am defiantly ignorant about building materials) when a new twist was introduced: last week they took away the pavement.  Now we're all weaving around the builders, their rubber-footed robots, and each other in an increasingly elaborate Lanjarón shuffle.  It's basically a rapid sidestep ending in a short leap towards the nearest shop doorway.

But don't let all this talk of roadworks kerb your enthusiasm for a Saturday morning of simple pleasures in our pueblo.  Recently, Fred and I have started a new weekend custom. We choose an interesting recipe, something a little more complicated than we would do during the week.  We walk up to the 'new' covered market (head up the street opposite the church, past Carmen's fruteria and Antonio's pollo asador, and take the next left.  Head up the stairs to the market).

At the butcher's, we might choose some plump solomillo de cerdo (pork tenderloin) to sauté with an oloroso sherry sauce, (here's a similar recipe on YouTube) or chuletas de cerdo (pork chops) also sauteed, this time with a Catalan prune and cinnamon sauce.  You can see this recipe in The Foods and Wines of Spain by Penelope Casas. 

If we're feeling in need of an Omega-3 boost, we visit the fish stall (run by the Callejon family who also run the very good Los Mariscos seafood restaurant near the Hotel Miramar).  Hake, flounder, shark, prawns, mussels - everything appears to have been polished, and it's all so fresh that there is no fishy fragrance force field as you approach, only the faintest hint of the sea. 

Actually, the old 'Central' market further up the road towards Barrio Hondillo also has a great fish stall presided over by Enrique. (He used to be behind the bar at Los Faroles restaurant).  A couple of weeks ago, we went in search of flounder for Lenguado al Limon, a dish with lemon, ginger and mustard sauce (also in the Casas book).  Enrique didn't have flounder, but suggested pargo, or red snapper. 3 big pieces of fish for €6, and it worked brilliantly with the recipe. 

After all the excitement of shopping, time to stop at Cafe Melilla.  (Come down the steps from the market, it's a small doorway on your right as you head towards Coviran supermarket).  It's been the neighbourhood churreria for more than 20 years, cheerful, loud, authentically local.  Get there before 11.30 when there is a stampede of shoppers from the market. You can order fresh orange juice, get wired on the strongest coffee in town, and soothe your nerves with a media racion of deep fried churros.

Then you can stroll home by way of Carmen's jewel-box greengrocery, pick up some knobbly sweet potatoes, emerald kale, delicate bright orange carrots to go with your protein. 

That's it.  You stroll home, greeting friends on the way. You've spent about €15 on buying dinner and having a great morning, and as you pick your way through the madness of Lanjaron's main street, suddenly it doesn't seem so bad.  The age-old instinct has kicked in, with Nature making sure you forget the pain. 

    

La Joya-ful New Year

Coming back to Lanjarón to find all the big hotels boarded up for winter was depressing.  I'd gotten quite used to paying around €15 for two coffees and a cookie in London and at least all the cafés stay open all year. But the day after we got back, Fred and I walked into town under a triple-rinsed blue sky.  In the market we bought monkfish and clams from Juani to make a great Moro casserole.  We stopped off for the most powerful cafe con léche in town at nearby churreria Café Melilla.  At Carmen's Fruteria, we used root vegetables to beat our way through the shopping-bags-on-wheels brigade.  Then we lugged our bags back past the knitting shop, past Sebastian's fascinating, overstuffed hardware store, past the pastry shop with its Miss Havisham window display of cakes that have become old friends over the past four years.  Suddenly I realised I was happy to be back...

"Feel free to overdress," said the New Year's Eve party invitation from the L.O.S.T. in Spain team (Lindsay, Orla, Sheila, Tony), and almost everyone did.  Even Fred, the Howard Hughes of Calle Huelva, donned a suit and waistcoat and got in the mood.  He looked impressive, though the giant vat of prawn and pasta salad he was carrying to the party spoiled some of the effect.  I felt cold and croaky, so I compromised by dressing up my top half with anything glittery that came to hand, but wearing big boots under my skirt. You can do that sort of thing in Lanjarón.

When we got to La Joya, even the gardens were wearing evening gowns of coloured light.  In the winter-proofed Corral, vaguely familiar men and women stood around outshining the Christmas tree.  All the women suddenly had Shiny Hair - gleaming bobs and shoulder length layers of silk that made them all look like U.S. senators' wives.  And underneath the hairdos were Shoulders, more bare shoulders than in the whole of The Gladiator, but prettier.  All the men looked like James Bond.  Who would have imagined that black tie outfits lurked in so many expat wardrobes?  

Lanjaron chic tends towards fleecy things and jeans in winter, teeshirts and shorts all summer, the kind of clothes you can mix cement in.   Now here was Jan in scarlet silk , Lindsay in black velvet with a sweetheart neckline, Sheelagh in slinky navy jersey with a cutout back, Hildy elegant as a gold-topped cane in black wool and silk. Best of all, Lindsay's mum Agnes in a black velvet suit with cream silk ruffles.  When we were singing Auld Lang Syne, she seized Bernie's arm and flung him around in what I took to be a Highland Reel.  She is a tiny, 88-year old powerhouse, and Bernie must have realised he was powerless to resist.

Two woodstoves radiated almost as much warmth as the hosts.  Everyone bought their signature party dish and after a couple of drinks, my plateful of curry, nudging prawn-pasta salad and coronation chicken, with a slice of goat's cheese and onion tart and some highly-populated rice on a bed of tiramisu seemed just perfect. Glasses were refilled and plates whisked away as if by unseen hands, (I did drink quite a lot), and suddenly 2007 was over.

At midnight, I gobbled up my twelve grapes as Spanish tradition dictates, though I could never time the mastication to match each stroke of the booming clock.  As a result, it seems I will be rich for five months of the year, then have to busk in the streets of Orgiva for the next seven.  But warmth and plenty and friends and laughter are not a bad way to start 2008, and the party underlined what a great community we have here in Lanjarón, both Spanish and English.  Lindsay and Orla, Sheila and Tony, take a bow.  You help make this a great place to be. 

Fred and I want to wish all Andalucid readers a peaceful, prosperous 2008, wherever you are.  Maybe we'll see you in Lanjarón next Spring?

All the best, Arpi

Orgivanised Chaos

"Orgiva's not even Spanish, just an alien place."

"It's full of hippies."

"It's dirty and lacks grace."

And these are just the comments I have heard this week about the capital of Las Alpujarras. Plenty of people think Orgiva is as seedy and crumbling as a stale pipas de girasol loaf from Galindo's - and they don't all live in Lanjarón either. 

On grumpy days, I can see what they mean.  The endless obras, construction works that never seem to decrease the number of buildings needing work; a plentiful supply of potholes but non-existent parking; the run of cafes opposite the church - plastic chair parking lots serving the Orgiva special, a tostada con tomate where the tomate is apparently scraped off the polystyrene bread just before serving.  Stray people and stray dogs busy heading nowhere. Even the little piper wraith opposite Galindo's, with her formless fluting.  Some days I just want to get in, get the shopping and get back to Lanjarón's more sleepy certainties.

But if I don't take the winding road to Orgiva for a week or so, I start missing just that clash of people and energies that drives me mad at other times.  Here's a 'top-of-mind list of things I love about Orgiva:

Café Galindo's terrace (see pic above) on a mild spring or autumn morning.  Who's sipping their café con leche under the big green canopy today?  I might stop to sip and read the latest hair-raising issue of The Olive Press.  And to buy one of Galindo's serious, substantial loaves of wholemeal, oatmeal, five grain or sunflower-seed bread. (The earlier stale loaf allusion was just a figure of speech).

Camac Wholefood Store - To me, Camac is the perfect 'village store' run by the perfect proprietors.  'Organic, international, wholefood and soulfood' is how they describe the contents of their pleasant shop.  I love exchanging weather news and local gossip with Steve and Audrey while buying the all important chocolate peanuts and raisins, Steve's yummy homemade jams and pickles, emerald basil and coriander nodding happily in their pots, Indian and Thai ingredients to transform local chicken or veg...I sometimes go in even when I don't want anything.  Camac is part of the Orgiva experience.

Baraka - Perched just above the Plaza Alpujarra, serving wonderful drippy chicken or falafel shawarma wraps and blended carrot/apple/orange juice, with a thoughtfully-supplied shower in the women's loos so you can clean up afterwards (semi-joke).   And just a waddle away is Café Willendorf.  Excellent coffee in tall thin mugs, squishy sofas (if you get there first), palatial loos.   Dire food but never mind, because for great food there's...

...Cafe Libertad.  Sally and her team of smiling maidens have ditched the original, rather clinical décor and given the room a lightly girly makeover.  No pink ostrich feathers, but soft seating in jewel-coloured velvet now surrounds a big low table at the back, with warm brown cane seating around tables draped with softly shaded cloths.  And the menu - brunchy, lunchy, crunchy, a great balance of healthy and self-indulgent savoury and sweet things.  Fred took a photo of me trying to look dignified as I plunge into the All Day Breakfast Tart, light pastry around a wobbly egg custard filled with bacon, sausage and tomato.  There's a veggie version too.  Unless you are very hungry, get one to share!

Art shows put together at two days' notice.  "They told me the space (the old ayuntamiento next to the Plaza) was available.  I told them I didn't have anything to show just now.  Next day, they printed a poster announcing the exhibition," says a slightly bemused but happy Jayne Morley.  She worked early and late to put up the show, also featuring wildlife photographer Gig Binder, and Fred.   Jayne, a theatre actress turned photographer, is busy putting together aRThOUSe Orgiva, a range of residential courses in photography, filmmaking, theatre, dance, music, writing,  and voice. (Website under construction, like everything else in Orgiva, but getting there).  I love that in Orgiva, you don't have to be rich or connected to some stuffy European establishment to get things like this started.  Good luck Jayne and I hope to report on aRThOUSe's first season soon.

Christmas shopping at Nomadas.  If you haven't been into the sunny mini-emporium above Bar Cañada (opposite Dia supermarket) lately, it's been transformed.  Maria has done away with a lot of the ethnic fabrics, soft furnishings and clothes, replacing them with gifts, decorations and household stuff.  I am going there to do some Christmas shopping next week - the products and prices are a joy, and they wrap your gifts in bright pink Nomadas paper stamped with gold.

The little piper.  Bright-eyed and wild-haired as a Portuguese water dog, this elfin street performer almost lives on the high kerb opposite Galindo's, in the shade of the yellow pillarbox. Her unpunctuated piping is one of the characteristic sounds of Orgiva.  When she is not there, I step around her space.

So if you see me lurking in a shop doorway with a scowl, just ignore me.  But if I've found a shady seat at Galindo's and Antonio has just brought my coffee, then put your shopping down, take a seat and tell me what drives you nuts or lights up your day in Orgiva!

 

High Art In the Alpujarras

It never ceases to amaze me that round every dizzy Alpujarran corner a talented artist is even now pacing his or her studio, designing and making something beautiful, original and collectible. Without even trying, I can tell you what three 'creative campesinos'  are currently working on in these here hills pre-Christmas.   

Thanks to my friend Hiam Odds in Orgiva for bringing this example to my attention:

MARTA MOIA: Fragmentos del Sur

Marta Moia was born in Argentina and studied fine arts and theatre design there. She moved to London, studied at Chelsea School of Art and worked with Saint Laurent and Liberty among others.  She's also produced her own range of furnishing fabrics in her signature Mediterranean shades, with 'haute couture' one-off designs for buyers in London, Paris and Tokyo. 

Since 2003, she's been living and working in Orgiva.  Her latest show is inspired by Moroccan and Andalucian tile and textile designs.  It opens at the Sala Alpujarra in Orgiva (in the main plaza) at 6.00 pm on 30 November, and runs from 1st to 9th December.  Go and drink in the wonderful colours and shapes.

Next, art you can wear: Horsewoman and master goldsmith Rachel Mackie, (Artist on the Hoof, 11 March 2007, 'Our Town') just made me a new improved wedding ring.  (After a bad allergic reaction to a wasp sting, my 15-year old gold and platinum finger friend had to be cut off by the clinic in Orgiva). Like Rachel, it's a delightful original with a practical twist. She remade my old ring and used it to loosely encircle a wider band of silver, so that it turns and moves freely and won't get embedded again as I get older and fatter.

In fact, Rachel has just built a light-filled workshop in her old stables, where you can learn to work with precious and semi-precious stones and metals, to create your own unique baubles.  Classes are held on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, 10.30 am till 1.30 pm.  Bring a carrot. (Joke). Call Rachel on 958 784 137 to find out more.  And check out her website, Heirloom Treasures, for glittering gifts.

Finally, whether you live in Andalucia full time, have a holiday place here, or just aspire to one or the other, you might like something for Christmas to help with the creative visualisation.  So I invite you to take a look at Fred's Flickr site (click on the garlic in the right hand column of Andalucid) and take your pick of colour or black and white images of Andalucia's people, places, architecture and foods.  Select your chosen image and email me at fshively@mac.com, before 19 November for overseas orders, before 30 November for orders within Spain.  We are doing a special Christmas price of €60 (PDS STG42, $85.00), a substantial saving on our usual price of €75 for matted and signed limited edition prints.  Okay, end of shameless sales pitch!

Finally, talking of useful and beautiful, we were delighted to meet up this weekend with Ben and Marina from Notes In Spanish/Notes From Spain.   These international language learning stars (to their many fans worldwide) touched down in Lanjaron for a few days, and recorded a podcast with me and Fred about our adopted town.  It was rather late and we were rather full after a delicious meal at the Alcadima Hotel, but I think we 'sold' Lanjaron with sincere enthusiasm...see what you think and let us know!

¡hasta next time!

 

Plenty of light; no illumination

How many lightbulbs does it take to switch on an art 'happening'?  In the case of Tormenta, last night's aptly-named performance at Galeria Toro in Granada, the answer is - it couldn't possibly matter.

Gallery owner and friend Cipriana Soto Toro launched her new season of gallery shows last night in the city's arty, studenty Calle Gracia quarter. As a result, a predictable, bouncy mix of art students, old art students and me and Fred crowded into her whited-out gallery space and took our 'seats' - recycled A4 posters promoting Passi, the collective of artists, dancers, and craftspeople who were staging the show. 

I swear I heard my hips creak as I dropped nonchalantly on to the cement flooring next to two gazelle-like dancers.  Luckily, on one side was a trendy dad with a baby whose knitted foot kept kicking my arm, ensuring that I maintained consciousness the whole time the happening was happening.

With no background material and no clue about the story, other than its stormy theme, I was prepared for total mystification.  And I got it.  If I said that there were spasms of activity punctuated by even briefer episodes of applause, that might be giving the impression of more animation than there actually was.  Let's say there were palpitations of movement, each apparently unrelated to what came before or after; that the dancing - sorry, movement - was heavy with incomprehensible meaning; that a group of daffy,  well-meaning young people in white teeshirts, jeans and light bulbs got up and lay down in response to some compelling inner prompting.  I just wasn't hearing the same voices.

To be fair (but it's so much fun not to be), a lot of it was pretty.  Coloured lights were projected through tapestry-like transparencies onto the faces and bodies of the dancers, sorry, movers.  And baroque and contemporary woodwind music played by the Glauka trio was sinuous and elegant.  But it would have been so even without their Blackpool Illuminations dreadlocks.  Still, when the troupe ripped up the white paper backdrop strung on a narrow pole balanced on a performerista's head, and flung the scraps into the audience, signifying the end of the show, it drew the most heartfelt applause of the evening.

When Fred and I were able to get up and use our legs again, we tried to sneak away.  But our night wasn't quite over.  The Granada Hoy press photographer, delayed by traffic, had missed the show and had no photos - could Fred supply an image?  We'd barely said 'si' when we were whisked away by fast car to the Granada Hoy offices on Avenida de la Constitución, where I waited half an hour while Fred's camera was electronically disembowelled. 

Thanked and dropped off where we had parked, at the Neptuno complex, we tottered into smart new café/restaurant Moment O2, where we tried to forget with grappa, wine and coffee.  It didn't work, and we snickered happily all the way home to Lanjarón.   

PS:  See the review and Fredfoto in today's Granada Hoy arts pullout, and some great visual moments about to go on his Flickr site (scroll down right hand column of this blog to access).

Below: In a tragic twist at the height of the inaction, the heroine loses her contact lens and can no longer see the point.

Honey, it's good for you!

I'm surrounded by stalls selling sweet, sticky, fragrant edible things, and a smooth Spanish voice is whispering that they're good for my health and I should eat as many different types as possible.  Am I dreaming?  I dip a cracker into the earthenware bowl in front of me.  Thicker and darker than molasses, with a burnt sugar edge, the flavour of miel de madroños is too intense to be anything but real.  (I can't find a translation for this fruit, any ideas from this lovely photo)?

I'm tasting my way around the Feria de Miel Andaluza, the Andalucian Honey Fair, opening today for its seventh year in Lanjarón.  Dare I say that the building opposite the town's famous Balneario is buzzing?  Young, old and in-between, visitors are congealing contentedly around the thirty or so stalls selling everything from clear amber to chestnut brown honey, as well as soap, hand cream, candles, and even wines containing the magic ingredient.

The honey from Granada has its very own D.O. (Denominacion de Origen) quality mark to protect its purity, a status it shares with only one other Spanish region.  At the stall of local specialist Al-Andalus Delicatessen there are honeys made from chestnut, rosemary, thyme, lavender, orange blossom and even avocado.   A little further down the hall, Apicultura Jeronimo has cuddly beeswax cow candles, plus the oddest-looking chicken version and even Santa candles if you want to make an early start on your festive buying.

Apicor from Cordoba, where I tasted the mysterious miel de madroños, is a honey heavyweight.  The dignified elderly gentleman behind the counter lists the medicinal properties of each honey with the gravitas of a surgeon:  Cantueso (French Lavender - please correct me if you know better) honey is good for colic, flatulence and indigestion. It has powerful antiseptic properties too, so you can wash wounds with it.  Perfect for the greedy guts who has tripped over on the way back from the restaurant.  Romero, or rosemary honey, is good for the kidneys; Azahar, or orange blossom, helps with insomnia.  I try another speciality honey, miel de meloja, flavoured with pieces of pumpkin or squash.  It's a world away from the squeezy bottles of anonymous honey, 'Product of Several Countries' that line most supermarket shelves.  Apicor also sells big, chestnut-brown bars of pure beeswax, for furniture restoration and the like. 

A particularly enthusiastic bunch of visitors is gathered around La Bodega de Maria, based in Laroles.  Her family recipe produces  a  flowery, dark red 'honey wine' that she says is unique.  An elderly man standing next to me says he's been taking a medicinal glass of it every day for thirty years, and has hardly ever suffered colds or sore throats as a result.  If he's a 'plant', he's very convincing.

Other local/natural products are also on sale here.  I bought soaps with extract of caviar (they had a version with extract of snail-shells too), and there were plenty of local naughty treats: Exquisitos Mulhacenes, charmingly named after Spain's highest mountain, are golden brown meringue 'peaks'.  There are the deceptively pure white rounds of queso de almendras, or almond cheese, which must pack the world's greatest amount of calories into the smallest area, and hefty sausages of pan de higo, the dried fig sweet that thinks it's a giant chorizo. One smart tap from a pan de higo could fell a mule.

Spend a delicious hour or so absorbing this important Andalucian cultural mainstay - it's your patriotic duty!  The Fair is open all through the holiday weekend, from 11.00 am to 8.00 pm. And if you still feel hungry when you get out, several local restaurants are doing special honey dishes.  Try classic berenjeñas con miel (aubergine slices fried in honey) or costillas con miel, (honey-glazed spare ribs) at Volante (opposite the petrol station at the Orgiva end of town), or  lomo al estilo Luisiana con miel (Louisiana fried pork with honey) at Casita de Papel, the last restaurant at the Granada end of town.   For more information, you can call: (+34) 958 77 11 96/31, or email: apinevada@terra.es.

¡Buen provecho!

PS: Ever wondered what it takes to make the Spanish dream job work?  I spoke to Jonathon and Rosie Miles at Kaliyoga retreat to find out.  Their story is on the Guardian Abroad website.

42 Steps to Heaven

My triplet kid sister Sosi (she's 15 minutes younger than me) and her partner Alan are staying with us this week.  They are the holiday guests from heaven, so Fred and I love to hang out with them, which makes my week of serial work and study deadlines seem even more ill-timed.   

They're here partly to put their Lanjaron town house up for sale.  168 Barrio Hondillo was an unlikely haven for us when we left the States four years ago.  'Oh no,' said my sister when we half-jokingly asked about living there, 'not for you two, it's far too small.'  Whereupon we spent two and a half years there, living, working and entertaining.  Then our possessions and Fred's artwork started to overflow onto the landings and our ageing bearded collie was in constant peril of taking the short way down the 42 stairs.  So we moved to a house that had only thirty.

168 is one of a group of tall, thin houses built around a pretty placeta, or courtyard, whose 24/7 burbling fountain has occasionally featured in my dreams.  The house itself has a kitchen and dining room on the ground floor, a sitting room and an office/extra bedroom on the first floor, two bedrooms on the second floor, and a laundry/utility room and tiny rooftop terrace above. 

It was always worth toiling up the steps to see the view.  When we finally flung open the terrace door, we could look across Hondillo rooftops to the Sierra Lugar (someone's going to correct me and say it's the Contraviesa, but either way, a dramatic mountain range).  The terrace was just big enough to drag five friends up there for dinner, and at least the return journey was always downhill. 

Anyway, they're selling it.  And because the 1970 bathroom is hilarious and the whole place needs a coat of paint and the kitchen's just OK, they're selling it for a pretty reasonable sum.  So if you or anyone you know is interested, drop me a line.  There are some more pictures below. 

The mountains make a great backdrop for your breakfast tostada!

Here I am gazing at the exterior of the house on the first day of Lanjaron's annual Fiesta of Water and Ham, which takes place at the end of June. I'm probably wondering where to put Fred's latest batch of framed photos!

Road Warriors

Lucky Lanjarón - not every Alpujarran pueblo boasts an energetic couple with big ideas, big hearts and an open-air meeting place to match. The Corral, in the grounds of La Joya in Lanjarón, has already hosted a carol service, a family wedding and a season of 'Charlas' (presentations by and for local people about aspects of Alpujarran life).  Most recently, two distinctly different types of road warrior were rounded up just long enough to give us a glimpse into their lives and histories. 

One fine evening at the end of July, Lanjarón builder and gitano Pepe Heredia Cortez galloped on stage to tell a packed house about the gitano tradition in Lanjarón.  Pepe has worked on several building projects for British homeowners here, so he's quite well known.  And what with his smouldering good looks and manly form....ahem.  Anyway, my mild but well-publicised obsession with The Chest of Pepe is not the topic under consideration here.

Pepe stated that the gitanos of southern Spain originated in the Indian Punjab, not in Egypt as many believe. Much discriminated against as they travelled down the centuries through Europe, in Spain they were not granted legitimacy until the 20th century, when Franco offered them householder status if they would renounce their travelling ways and settle in towns and villages like Lanjarón. 

Today, gitanos make up around 30 percent of the population in Lanjarón.  And while discrimination still exists, ongoing integration and improving prospects are creating a better environment for them.  Read more about Andalucia's gypsy heritage on the fine Andalucia.com site (warning, slightly PG content in the linked article).   

Pepe also spoke about the supreme importance of family ties in the gitano tradition.  Children grow up in the extended family, and women 'are treasured and expected to run the home rather than go out to work.'  This must be great news for gitano gals as long as they never develop a passion for further education or four wheels to take them anywhere they want to go.  I think Spanish-version copies of
The Women's Room by Marilyn French just might be distributed throughout town in a clandestine operation this weekend.  Anyway, Pepe's presentation, together with Hildy Fuller's elegant translation, was judged a model of crispness and clarity before he sped home, no doubt to be taken care of in the approved manner.

The rustic beams supporting the Corral had no sooner settled down for a few days' sunbathing before they  were playing host again - this time to A Very Big Birthday Party.  Lindsay's mum Agnes was here to celebrate her 88th year and we were honoured to be part of this great occasion.   (Along with two kinds of quiche, five luscious salads, salmon poached in white wine, frozen cheesecake and Mummy's Yummy Birthday Cake dressed in fresh cream and fresh raspberries).** 

Born into the historic lowland Scottish Clan Lindsay in 1919, Agnes married in 1939 just as war was announced.  With her husband Stuart, a civil engineer, she created homes and lives in Scotland and Wales, in Iran (then Persia), the Sudan, Qatar and Abu Dhabi, before settling in the Cayman Islands for almost 30 years.  And during much of this time, Agnes taught yoga and related wellbeing practices.

I must have drunk lots of wine and expressed some interest, because a couple of days later I found myself with six other slightly bewildered women unrolling yoga mats at the Corral and taking an hour long pre-breakfast class led by Agnes herself.  As a commercial for the benefits of yoga, Agnes was superb.  Her voice never faltered, she demonstrated every move, and while we lay meditating, she stayed standing to watch over us. Amazing. Inspiring.  Worth getting up for.

And finally - wallow in empathy as Ben Curtis of Notes from Spain blogs about the delights of high summer in our adopted country.  While you're there, do check out the great range of podcasts on the sister site, Notes in Spanish - an excellent language learning tool.  It's a permanent link on this blog.   

 

**The excellent catering for Agnes' birthday party was done by super-couple Martin and Astra (shown here calmly supervising the meal), while battling extreme heat and strategically-timed power cuts. They are currently building their internet cafe mini-empire overlooking the Variante (bypass) at the Orgiva end of Lanjarón. We can't wait!