I’ve mentioned before about the pleasure I get in reading descriptive passages in novels. I like to write them, but the genre I’ve had most success in as a writer, the crime thriller, is unsuited to elaborate descriptions as they slow the pace and, worse still, lead to accusations of overwriting or pretensions of a literary nature! One day, I’ll indulge myself in this manner.
I used to live in Andalucia, right down in the southern tip of Spain, in a house I reclaimed from its former condition as a ruine. Sitting on my newly reclaimed terrace one day, I scribbled a few notes on what I saw about me. The odd passage found its way into one of my novels, this one set in the region, entitled Heat. Here are those original handwritten notes, written almost ten years ago and with every word I read I yearn to go back and sit on that terrace again. ‘Never go back’ has stood me in good stead throughout my life, but there are places and times in one’s life that are indelibly etched in memory.
Sunlight cleaved its erratic way through the early morning cloud cover, the distant hills a shimmering dusky pink while the vast expanse of sky was a vivid lazuli blue. Faint traces of dew lingered on the sparse scrub nestling beneath soft rounded boulders, the freshness of the preceding night soon to be overwhelmed by the impending day.
In the heat of summer every day was the same. With each brilliant shaft of light that invaded the landscape, fresh colours burst into life yet by mid-day the heat would bleach the scene to a white glare, painful to the eye, and the valley would bake under a remorseless sun.
Tiny creatures scurried and darted, frantically seeking out shade in meagre patches of sage and bracken. Later still, the encircling hills would turn to gold as the sun dipped lower in the sky until each successive peak was tipped with vivid pink, the lower slopes marked by ever-deepening shades of indigo. Flocks of birds would plunge and soar in a final riot of activity before settling down to roost, the last vestiges of discernible colour slipping away, marking the final passage of another day.
The arrival of each succeeding sunrise pushed the barriers of light and shade to the limit and the old house standing as still as any of the ancient encircling stones had experienced nature’s wonders at first hand for well over three hundred years.
The setting was close to perfection. Perched high up on a ridge with mountains rising steeply at the back, the house faced south with the blue Mediterranean sparkling away towards a horizon that ended at the Rif Mountains. A view that stretched all the way to Africa; a different continent where a band of cloud lay across the horizon like a dirty purple scarf.
The land in front sloped down in steep terraces of grape vines; olive and almond trees forming a veritable paradise for butterflies and exotic birds. A matched pair of eagles rode the thermals, hovering motionless against a perfect blue sky, every detail of their plumage clearly visible as their keen eyes scanned everything that moved far down on the valley floor a thousand metres or so below their widely spread wings.
An old man leading a mule as decrepit as himself bowed deeply from the waist and raised a gnarled hand in greeting as he walked past along the dusty track. A spider’s web of narrow red veins crisscrossed the pale globes of his eyes and grey stubble, like a burnt-out cornfield covered his leathery cheeks. His age was somewhere between sixty and ninety-five, stooped and creased by time, but with a roguish twinkle in his eye. Bony shoulders and sharp angles everywhere else. The smoke from his cigarette swirled in the faint breeze like sinuous wraiths glimpsed across a distant riverbank.
A stone wall, partly collapsed, provided a welcome resting point. The moss and lichen coating imparted 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. Seen from above, the old house was a delight, well worth the effort of the climb. 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. A patch of shade that was scarcely more than an un-substantiated rumour in the heat of the day.
Wild herbs produced bright splashes of colour against the dull green of olive groves and wrinkled outcrops of rock on the vine-clad slopes. Below the terrace, the land fell steeply away to the valley bottom far below. On either side were mountain peaks, thrusting skywards with a sharp clarity until softened by distance where they faded and merged into a dusky smudge against the backcloth of a vivid blue sky.
Exposure to the fierce sun and occasional violent deluges over several centuries had softened the crumbling stucco of the attached former mulehouse, the next project. No more than earth, rubble and lime the walls resembled a patchwork quilt. All colours and textures were represented in the metre thick walls. The original door, stout oak planks roughly fastened together with studded iron bolts had long since given up the task of preventing entrance. A few broken tiles littered the packed earth floor of the terrace, but most were still in place, their weight having proved too much for the roof supports. Huge beams, reduced to a shadow of their former glory, were bent and sway backed, like a crippled old horse whose former strength and vigour was just a distant memory.
Far removed from the rustic simplicity of the finca, the distant hillsides were thickly planted with a burgeoning crop of nearly identical villas. Each with a strip of well-watered garden. Pale oleander and deep red hibiscus mingled with Bougainvillea of every conceivable hue while long-necked palm trees towered over the vibrant undergrowth. Ornate wrought iron cages defended windows and doors, the brand new development attempting, and failing dismally, to re-create the ancient hill villages, with each house set tight to its neighbour, pushing upwards in a classical pyramid of interlinked dwellings.
