Our Village, Frigiliana
Its winter.
The rain falls like a mist, a wet air that enfolds the valleys and mountains around so you feel as if you lived in a cloud. The church bell tolls the end of day, the hours having been recorded with various chimes throughout, and with a whole crowd of the devout noisily going back to their homes along the narrow, cobbled streets.
The first morning here I woke to a pink dawn and with oranges like mini suns brightening the view as I lifted my head from the pillow. Birds sang, dogs barked, and one could discerns the clip clip of donkey's hooves as they carried bread and sand and water in the street too narrow for cars. It's been quite bewitching to live in a society still run on pure man and donkey power in alleys so steep no machinery can be brought here. The building and mending is done by men, lots of them, constantly chattering and advising each other, carrying heavy loads and with no stress factor that can be seen.
Women potter about in slippers and dressing gowns totally ignoring any tourist with a camera, busy exchanging the news and popping into tiny dark shops to get the days food. We are using them too, and now that we are here for the second time they remember us and wish us welcome: we fill our basket with fresh oranges from the trees, avocados, lemons, local cheese, bread honey and wine, not to mention the delicious olive oil and handmade orange chocolate!
Frigiliana is a lovely place, though we have noticed that more cars traverse in the Main Street and even the one that goes past the church, a small passage that is hence blocked and you have to plaster yourself against the walls, but I guess people need to come closer to their houses some way or another. We trot up and down the 250 steps at least twice a day, keeps one fit anyway and gives an excuse for a Tapas afterwards.
In the valleys around, smoke rises like drifting veils and scents the air. It’s a sweet, woody smell, totally different to our bits of wood.
As is my wont, birthdays are celebrated away from home, and so too this year. How fortunate to have the privilege of adding numbers to your age. So I celebrated with cake on a wet balcony overlooking the sea at a lovely cafe, and later in the evening had a wonderful meal of lamb chops in the Plaza Igles small restaurant with a silky Reserva bottle of Rioja. When the desert came it was accompanied by the whole family who sang for me and kissed me on both cheeks as they lit one candle in the middle of the Catalan custard...
Even with some rainy days when towels are put on floors to soak up the rain leaking in, you knew the sun would soon again be there, blinding you with its glory.
Its winter.
The rain falls like a mist, a wet air that enfolds the valleys and mountains around so you feel as if you lived in a cloud. The church bell tolls the end of day, the hours having been recorded with various chimes throughout, and with a whole crowd of the devout noisily going back to their homes along the narrow, cobbled streets.
The first morning here I woke to a pink dawn and with oranges like mini suns brightening the view as I lifted my head from the pillow. Birds sang, dogs barked, and one could discerns the clip clip of donkey's hooves as they carried bread and sand and water in the street too narrow for cars. It's been quite bewitching to live in a society still run on pure man and donkey power in alleys so steep no machinery can be brought here. The building and mending is done by men, lots of them, constantly chattering and advising each other, carrying heavy loads and with no stress factor that can be seen.
Women potter about in slippers and dressing gowns totally ignoring any tourist with a camera, busy exchanging the news and popping into tiny dark shops to get the days food. We are using them too, and now that we are here for the second time they remember us and wish us welcome: we fill our basket with fresh oranges from the trees, avocados, lemons, local cheese, bread honey and wine, not to mention the delicious olive oil and handmade orange chocolate!
Frigiliana is a lovely place, though we have noticed that more cars traverse in the Main Street and even the one that goes past the church, a small passage that is hence blocked and you have to plaster yourself against the walls, but I guess people need to come closer to their houses some way or another. We trot up and down the 250 steps at least twice a day, keeps one fit anyway and gives an excuse for a Tapas afterwards.
In the valleys around, smoke rises like drifting veils and scents the air. It’s a sweet, woody smell, totally different to our bits of wood.
As is my wont, birthdays are celebrated away from home, and so too this year. How fortunate to have the privilege of adding numbers to your age. So I celebrated with cake on a wet balcony overlooking the sea at a lovely cafe, and later in the evening had a wonderful meal of lamb chops in the Plaza Igles small restaurant with a silky Reserva bottle of Rioja. When the desert came it was accompanied by the whole family who sang for me and kissed me on both cheeks as they lit one candle in the middle of the Catalan custard...
Even with some rainy days when towels are put on floors to soak up the rain leaking in, you knew the sun would soon again be there, blinding you with its glory.