Breakfast on the lower terrace.
I’ve often thought the Health Service should bottle the view from our finca and prescribe it to depressed and weary patients back home in England. A stone wall, partly collapsed, provided a welcome resting point for a basking lizard, the moss and lichen coating imparting a brindle effect to the ancient stones; bull terrier writ large.
Stealthy invasion by vine and creeper over a prolonged period had softened any sharp edges into rows of comfortable seats. Inter-twined strands of vine and Bougainvillea clambered over rustic poles and old battered beams to provide precious shade.
A more prosaic extension to the beamed pergola, consisted of lengths of scaffolding poles, tied together by rusty wire and painted a vivid green. Above this eccentric structure was a roof of loose-fitting planks, fastened to the scaffold poles with yet more rusty wire, through which dappled sunlight filtered undulating shafts of light on to the rough tiles of the terrace. The very definition of the term ‘rustic’ and the only part of the finca I’d absolutely refused to even consider as a renovation project.
This was the view I gazed upon every morning. The sun shone for an average of 330 days a year and the sight never failed to lift my spirits.
Refreshed, we drove into the village to collect letters from the post office and buy bread and milk. The dusty track eventually led to the tarmac road and the first signs of other human occupation. The village was busy, all hustle and bustle, in marked contrast to the absolute tranquillity of our finca.
We collected our post, chatted to a couple of friends and after dividing our forces on separate errands met up at our favourite bar, technically Bar Alfonso, but invariable called the Bodega.
By now the village was getting busy and we realised our good fortune in being able to park in the shade when we saw the difficulty new arrivals were having in finding anywhere to park. Cars lined both sides of the narrow road, bumper to bumper. Seemingly, always the same dust-encrusted cars.
Why don’t the bloody things ever move?
Opposite, a builder, recognisable as such by the cement dust that coated his overalls and face, was attempting to manoeuvre his pick-up between a gleaming Mercedes and an old rust-streaked van. Modern Spain in microcosm; conspicuous consumption cheek by jowl with the peasant economy. The panel van had been inexpertly painted, endeavouring to remove the name of the previous owner from the side panels. Like the attempt at matching the blue paint with the rest of the bodywork, it had been a dismal failure.
The sound of touching metal brought the builder’s progress to a grinding halt.
Literally.
A middle-aged man rose reluctantly from his seat outside a café and walked across to the van, keys in hand. He’d sat and watched the endeavours of the pick-up driver with total detachment until the two vehicles locked horns. He climbed behind the wheel of the panel van and drove forward six inches affording the pick-up driver enough space to extricate himself and drive away with a cheery toot of his horn.
Much later, at the end of a long day, we sat on the terrace, sipping a glass of wine.
There can be few better views on Earth than the view looking out across the terrace to the distant Rif Mountains of Morocco, the Mediterranean glinting in the foreground. All around us, vivid bands of oleander dotted the hills, clumped together where rainwater had scoured deep grooves in the mountainside. The sun dipped below the distant mountains leaving pale rows of lavender and pink across the broad expanse of sky, a gentle breeze following in its wake. A soft bruising as glorious in its own quiet way as any of its vibrant flame-red companions.
As we watched, crepuscular light visibly faded to blackness over the far reaches of the sea and the last vestiges of daylight vanished like party guests who’d just remembered the babysitter charged double rates after midnight. Within moments, the terrace was enveloped in absolute darkness, the faint breeze carrying with it the subtle scent of exotic herbs.
I’d love to be back there again today as I sit here watching the clouds roll in and a typical dreary February day in England unfolds with absolute predictability.
Brings it all back to me, Jake. Wonderful read. Wonderful country. Miss it.