I just wanted to share this sunrise photo with you. In the background you can see the impressive, haunted, Christian-cum-Moorish castle of Almodóvar del Río, stage set for various films and ads. These include:
1967, Camelot, starring Vanessa Redgrave and Franco Nero
1972, the famous Martini advert
1986, Harem / Dardanelos with Ava Gadner, Nancy Traver, Omar Sharif and Silvia Marsó
2002 the children’s Dutch series Pippo
2015, the Russian singer’s Tiger Cave video clip
2019 a Budweiser advert
And more recently, HBO’s Game of Thrones, and chapter 3 of Netflix’s Warrior Nun, as well asvarious documentaries that took place in between.
The castle, its surrounding villages of Almodóvar del Río, Posadas and Hornachuelos that lie in the Guadalquivir Valley close to the historic town of Cordova, are really well-worth a visit! They are steeped in a rich history and culture, and are replete with traditions. The landscape is beautiful too, varying from flat valleys that rise to the imposing Sierra Morena in the north. (You can find a description of these places in my earlier blogs.)
Well, before leaving I would also like to close with a classic poem about Spanish castles, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
Castles in Spain
How much of my young heart, O Spain,
Went out to thee in days of yore! What dreams romantic filled my brain, And summoned back to life again The Paladins of Charlemagne, The Cid Campeador!
And shapes more shadowy than these, In the dim twilight half revealed; Phoenician galleys on the seas, The Roman camps like hives of bees, The Goth uplifting from his knees Pelayo on his shield.
It was these memories perchance, From annals of remotest eld, That lent the colors of romance To every trivial circumstance, And changed the form and countenance Of all that I beheld.
Old towns, whose history lies hid In monkish chronicle or rhyme,– Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, Zamora and Valladolid, Toledo, built and walled amid The wars of Wamba’s time;
The long, straight line of the highway, The distant town that seems so near, The peasants in the fields, that stay Their toil to cross themselves and pray, When from the belfry at midday The Angelus they hear;
White crosses in the mountain pass, Mules gay with tassels, the loud din Of muleteers, the tethered ass That crops the dusty wayside grass, And cavaliers with spurs of brass Alighting at the inn;
White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat, White cities slumbering by the sea, White sunshine flooding square and street, Dark mountain ranges, at whose feet The river beds are dry with heat,– All was a dream to me.
Yet something sombre and severe O’er the enchanted landscape reigned; A terror in the atmosphere As if King Philip listened near, Or Torquemada, the austere, His ghostly sway maintained.
The softer Andalusian skies Dispelled the sadness and the gloom; There Cadiz by the seaside lies, And Seville’s orange-orchards rise, Making the land a paradise Of beauty and of bloom.
There Cordova is hidden among The palm, the olive, and the vine; Gem of the South, by poets sung, And in whose Mosque Ahmanzor hung As lamps the bells that once had rung At Compostella’s shrine.
But over all the rest supreme, The star of stars, the cynosure, The artist’s and the poet’s theme, The young man’s vision, the old man’s dream,– Granada by its winding stream, The city of the Moor!
And there the Alhambra still recalls Aladdin’s palace of delight; Allah il Allah! through its halls Whispers the fountain as it falls, The Darro darts beneath its walls, The hills with snow are white.
Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, And cold with blasts that bite and freeze; But in the happy vale below The orange and pomegranate grow, And wafts of air toss to and fro The blossoming almond trees.
The Vega cleft by the Xenil, The fascination and allure Of the sweet landscape chains the will; The traveller lingers on the hill, His parted lips are breathing still The last sigh of the Moor.
How like a ruin overgrown With flowers that hide the rents of time, Stands now the Past that I have known; Castles in Spain, not built of stone But of white summer clouds, and blown Into this little mist of rhyme!
A very beautiful poem, encompassing many parts of Spain and touching on its history.
Hello all! I hope you are keeping well in these difficult times…
As you can see, this morning I was met with a beautiful sunrise!
I would also like to take this opportunity of introducing to you one of my favourite blogs that I follow, written by a talented lady who lives in beautiful Yorkshire: https://lisafeatherstone.co.uk/.
The posts are very articulate, well-written and enlightening, with topics ranging from hand-knit designs, birds, books, plants and thoughts (wellbeing, drawing and accessibility). There’s also a quiz on Fridays which not only serves as a mental gymnasium but is sure to test and increase your general knowledge too. In short, there is something there for everyone!
Day’s sweetest moments are at dawn; Refreshed by his long sleep, the Light Kisses the languid lips of Night, Ere she can rise and hasten on. All glowing from his dreamless rest He holds her closely to his breast, Warm lip to lip and limb to limb, Until she dies for love of him.
The other day I braved the 37° C temperatures (= 98,6 F) to go for a short stroll along the country track that leads out of my home and wends its way past other fincas…
The stony track passes land populated bycork oak trees. They have been stripped of their bark — a process which occurs every seven years. (When the trucks do take the chunks of cork away, some inevitably fall onto the path, so I pick some of them up and use them for painting:-)
The fresh bark underneath is a lovely red oxide.
Flowers of the carrot family and other cousins of these umbelliferous plants stand proud above the baby blue and pale purple scabious.
The dark seed in the centre contrasts with the white flower, almost seeming as if there is an insect poised there.
The grasses that were bluish-green only a couple of weeks ago have already gone to seed as they are now dry and bristly. (Best to wear trousers and not shorts like I did!)
The fragrant myrtle is also in flower. Reminds me of William Blake’s poem In a Myrtle Shade:
Why should I be bound to thee,
O my lovely Myrtle-tree?
Love, free Love, cannot be bound
To any tree that grows on ground…
Some trees have died, but make beautiful, natural sculptures with their twisted, distorted branches and outstretched gnarled fingers.
Cows gaze mutely at me as I pass by…
…simply turning their heads inquiringly.
There is a small, whitewashed cottage where the track bends to the right — it peeps out from behind the majestic cork tree.
Through a clearing between the cork and olive trees and the pistacia bushes, you can just spy the castle of Almodóvar del Río in the distance.
It had been an unusually hot day for the last week of March — reaching about 36 degrees, and so my daughter and I waited for the onset of the evening before going for a spin and a short walk by the Breña Reservoir (which lies between Almodovar del Río and Posadas in the province of Córdoba). We were also taking advantage of the Covid restrictions being lifted a little, now being able to go for a walk after 8 p.m.
By the time we had got there, the fluffy clouds were already taking on a daffodil hue and the celestial blue of the afternoon sky was becoming distinctly indigo. A light breeze picked up and caressed the surface of the mercurial lake.
Then mercury became lead as the buttery sun dipped lower on the western horizon, melting onto the National Park of Hornachuelos…
Meantime, dusk started to descend from the east, from the direction of Córdoba, enveloping the castle of Almodóvar on its way.
Then the honeyed sun made its glorious golden exit.
We had been walking for quite some time now and it was getting late, and we hungry, so we got back in my little Peugot and started heading home, driving some 15 minutes in a westerly direction, towards the village of Posadas.
We noticed that the sky here hadn’t as yet received its goodnight kiss from the setting sun. So we got out of our car on our country track and waited silently for the show to commence. (I say silently, but it wasn’t really, because the wheateaters, thrushes and sparrows decided to give their full repertoire in accompaniment to the maturing day.)
And then the show started once more. Aqua-marine to grey-blue streaked with light indigo. The tall wheat in the fields blushed as the grasses on the wayside tickled and nodded in their direction…
…and now a dewy haze wafted up from the nearby Guadalquivir River, affording light refreshment after a stewy day, making all the afore well-defined lines blurry.
But the colours in the sky took on greater definition…
…what with their pastel of subdued blues, rosy orange and peach…
…violets, cobalt and Prussia softened by rouge…
…toasted pinks licked by silvery tongues…
…mauve, pewter, coral and powder blue…
…cornflower, salmon and ash…
… a rich kaleidoscope, a true marriage of colours…
where the beauty of nature never ceases to amaze…
Thank you for visiting — I hope this blog finds you in good health and spirits. See you soon!
While the population observe confinement in the trying virus-filled days, nature continues expressing itself freely outside, unhindered by our cares.
I have just wanted to share a few photos with you, which I think, underline just how free nature is. To keep this post short and hopefully sweet, I am concentrating only on the sky. I think you’ll like the photos if you like pinks, purples, burnished orange and pomegranate — and even dusky indigos and pigeon greys. Because these are the unrestrained colours of my sky at sunrise and sunset — ‘my’ because I am referring to the sky that forms a mantle and a canopy above my rustic home — a sky in which the colours spread freely, unrestricted in its state of non-confinement.
(And, no, I haven’t photoshopped the photos or retouched them, the skies are often truly biblical skies, especially when Andalusia becomes veiled by the hazy ‘calima’ sand particles in suspension that waft over to the Iberian Peninsula from Africa. These particles diffract the light, accentuating and diffusing the matinal and twilight colours.)
So here goes:
I hope you have enjoyed the photos — (more about the castle in a further post).
This blog recounts my experiences of when I went camping with some so-called acquaintances to our local lunar-landscape reservoir, La Breña, one sizzling August day when temperatures were oscillating around the 42° C (= 107.6° F)! Did I enjoy myself? Did the motley crew acquaintances have fun? And what about the great bristling wild boar?
After we had settled cosily into our Moorish abode we were ready to take on a couple of much-needed money-making projects in the ancient Jewish Quarters, the Judería. As mentioned earlier, we bought the close-by hostel, Mari II in Horno de Porras street, situated in the narrow, cobbled lane that led down towards the humid banks of the Guadalquivir River. An area which, at that time, was regarded as the sleazy part of town: muttering old men would surface from the darkness of certain ladies’ dens, hunched over with hands fumbling deep in their pockets, often simultaneously spitting out catarrh from their nicotine-lined gullets.
There were also the no-good layabouts that would emerge from other dusky squalors, tottering and totally inebriated from their prior visit to Las Cabezas bar which was famous for its Moorish fountain in the central part of the ice-cold, white marble patio and the large, heavy olive-wood chairs with seats woven from typha stems (nigh impossible to move!); of similar fame was its cheapest, sourest ‘fino’ sherry that you could consume plentifully, served straight from a musty oak barrel, at the cheapest possible prices.
(The bar has since been replaced by a beautiful, luxurious hotel, situated opposite the Museo de las Cabezas, and has embellished all the original, historical features.) Well, I think the reasoning of the bar owner, José María (Joseph Mary), went something like: ‘Once you’ve got ‘em, keep ‘em there, even if it is by getting’ ‘em paralytic!’
His wife, also at one time during her former days of culinary glory served a restricted repertoire of dishes which included plates such as ‘flamequines, croquetas, calamares, chorizo, morcilla’ etc. which are, more or less: breaded pork loin rolled and stuffed with egg and Serrano ham; croquettes made from béchamel with diced ham or chicken; spicy cured sausage; and black puddings—the last two sausages being homemade, prepared from their most recent slaughter of their garden pig, the meat of which would definitely not be tested by a vet (the then true Andalusian way). She would concoct this fare in her tenebrous, squalid kitchen amid the odd, balding chicken or manky cat that she kicked out of the way with her holey, threadbare slippers.
Anyway, to get back to the main thread of things, the Cabezas neighbourhood, being a rundown, dodgy and plebeian area was responsible in bestowing upon our hostel a very interesting clientele, some of who decided one day to ‘volunteer’ (uninvited) to join our summer camping weekend at the local reservoir, La Breña (situated some twenty-two miles west of Cordova, between the villages of the castled Almodóvar del Río and Posadas). And as for me, being polite and English— having been brought up in East Sheen and educated at Gumley House Convent School run by the ‘Faithful Companions of Jesus’ nuns— I couldn’t really refuse their self-invitation, could I? But I wasn’t at all happy with the idea.
And so one sizzling summer’s day, we (who were as yet childless, footloose and fancy free) arrived at this reservoir, together with the bunch of said ‘volunteers’.
It looked like an innocent enough place, even if a little bit lunar what with all its cracked schist and volcanic nuggets peppering the parched sand; there were also sparse, rough-stemmed and thick-bladed weeds poking out all over the place. Pinkish-green Salix bushes and other willowy sort of bushes grew lower down close by the muddy water’s edge, wavering in the dry wind, while hostile, sharp-edged grasses and velvety rushes protruded out from shallower depths. There were crumpled, soiled tissues strewn about here and there together with the odd, billowing plastic bag that was tossed from one pebble to another as the wind caught it like a kite; and the occasional squashed, miniature carton of juice completed the scene, giving it a semblance that would have been more appropriate of a public rubbish tip. (But then again, the throwing of litter here and there, whether in areas of natural beauty or built-up places was, when I first arrived in Andalusia— and still is to some extent— a typical habit of the Andalusians.)
Then there was the worrying fact that one shouldn’t really swim in the waters of the Breña reservoir (which is what we were about to do), mainly for two reasons: firstly, the water is reserved for human consumption and irrigation purposes only; and secondly, there are numerous hazardous objects that lie hidden under the water’s surface which are decidedly treacherous to the unsuspecting swimmer. Some of these objects include sharp, snagging branches that can hold the bather back or pull him down under; there are tree stumps with rotting branches yawning wide welcoming the swimmer into a last confining embrace, while various cables and wires (which weren’t removed before this natural lake was dammed) stretch dangerously from one corner to another. Within the water there are strong, unpredictable undercurrents and dark, circling patches that eddy round and round, ready to suck the swimmer down to perilous depths.
There is also a large population of hungry and menacing, carnivorous, generously-jawed Pike, Carp and Catfish, as well as slithering eels and water snakes that glide quietly through the water; there is also a poisonous variety of mollusc that is native to the Ebro River in Burgos (but how it made its way to the Breña in Andalusia remains a mystery as there are no connections between the two water sources). And last but not least there is also the caiman that one of our gypsy friends, Jesús, let loose in the lake when pursued by the Civil Guard after a tip-off.
So if those aren’t enough convincing reasons for not swimming in the Breña, then the bather must be the sort of deluded greenhorn that went on a camping trip like ours.
But getting back to our intentioned trip with these ‘friends’: basically they were an assorted motley crew, the number of which was not determined by the level of friendship, but more by the number of freeloaders that could be stuffed in our old VW camper van— true to the saying: ‘The more the merrier’.
The crew consisted mainly of poor, young university students and backpackers who were staying in our hostel and taking advantage of the cheap prices that reflected this lowly location. (However, this area has since been given a face lift, especially for the sake of pulling in the tourists, and one can now find Arabic hammams together with upmarket bars, restaurants, boutique shops and jewellers. Gone are the days when curly-haired Lola with her glossy, bright-red fish lips would poke her head out of her ‘panadería’ shop door and shout up the street to her mother; or when you could hear the cries from the subservient wife as her chauvinistic husband directed a torrent of abuse at her and delivered his children an almighty thwack while all the neighbours listened on, unaffected, having been brought up in these traditional methods of discipline and machismo. And gone are the days when the original owners of the tourist shops and bars, many of them dark-skinned and with greasy hair Brylcreemed back would stride up and down the roads with their long, green, pressed-wool cloaked overcoats hanging from their shoulders in mafia-like manner, shrouding them in all self-importance. And when chickens were crammed into small patios: undersized kitchens were dimly lit by just one central, yellowish, low-wattage light bulb that hung from the grimy ceiling—it was only the woman’s domain after all—and the whole freezing, stone-floored and tiled walls that formed an icebox of a house were heated by just the odd brazier or too;
and when the only form of comfortable seating was the highly uncomfortable, but brightly-painted wooden ‘Sevillana’ chairs; when neighbours would sit out on their doorsteps till late on a summer’s night, chatting away under the intoxicating jasmine; and when English was only just being introduced into the National Curriculum and there was plenty of demand for English teachers like me; or even when locals would gawp with lower jaw hanging wide when they heard an English native speak Spanish with an English accent… But times have since changed.)
Anyway these hostel recruits of ours immediately volunteered, or rather insisted on coming along with us once they heard it rumoured abroad that we were planning a quaint little camping trip to the Breña Lake where we could cool ourselves down. What had initially been an offer to a French couple was soon extended to the multitudes. In a nutshell, it included those who wanted to have a free ride, free grub ‘n’ booze, and a free touring weekend!
So the motleys consisted of: one Canadian flamenco guitar student (a poor-little rich boy) accompanied by his Australian counterpart (sweet, shy, not well off, having to give English classes in flip flops but also attired in a suit forced on him by the director);
four very flirtatious French girls who were spending a year in Cordova to study philology and Spanish men; three of their male and very effeminate co-students; a poor, elderly, highly-eloquent English gentleman with a great weakness for classic literature, art and alcohol of any sort, together with his potty, Welsh lady friend; a German lute maker recently arrived to hone his skills during his apprenticeship with a master craftsman; an effeminate male engineering student with pouting lips who hadn’t as yet emerged from the closet as it would have wounded Mexican family pride and Nationalistic sentiments; a fair-coloured, blue-eyed, sleazy Berber student whose mouth used to water at the sight of anything in a skirt; a vivacious male student from Peru who gave salsa classes in our downstairs room; and last but not least, a Venezuelan Don Juan who, after putting his Malagueñan girlfriend in the family way, soon upped and ran (taking another girl with him) and was never heard of again. The van was big after all, and in those days seat belts were not the order of the day, and although Spain had just recently entered the European Union (in 1986) it hadn’t yet felt the full effects of peaceful discipline and conform on its society.
But to linger no longer, off we set, unaffected by the limited space and accompanied by raucous laughter, eager cheering, guitar strumming, alcohol-smelling breath, wafts of ‘grass’ and the general muddle, commotion, cacophony and disorder that personifies youth. (Luckily I had reserved my place in the front seat, and unaccompanied. Doubts had already started crowding my mind!).
After about an hour we finally arrived; we slowly and painfully alighted, stretching legs, arms and rib cages. The spanking summer sun was already suspended directly above me and the gang, and was heating the stones relentlessly with its direct waves, causing the air above to shimmer and waver like a mirage. Once we, or rather they, had erected tents, rolled out mats, made and prepared food on the camping-gas stove, drank plenty to get into the swing of things, and donned bathing suits and all sorts of paraphernalia, we, or rather they, made a steady way downhill towards the water’s edge. I followed up the rear, gingerly picking my way over sharp pebbles while trying to avoid the unavoidable sun’s rays. It was mid-July and we were too poor then (or too thick-brained really) to do the decent, logical thing which would have been to head north to Cantabria or Asturias, Galicia or even País Basque (in other words, to the cooler, breathable and more humane temperatures of the ‘Garden of Spain’) where we would have been able to enjoy a proper holiday. But we didn’t have children then, so we were caught up in that whirlwind of illogical and impracticable thinking, where one acts first, later reflects, and in the end, pays the consequences.
Anyway, we tiptoed our way across those hard, angular, quartz-rich rocks— a painful experience for those of us who hadn’t been sufficiently anaesthetised by the lunchtime Valdepeñas followed by the ‘cafe carajillo’— that is, coffee cranked up with a ‘realman’s’ measure of anisette. (It could also be with brandy, rum or whisky, as drunk originally by the Cuban troops in order to bolster their courage.)
Soon we reached the ruffled waters where we let our feet sink into the oozy, slimy, brown-grey, amphibious-insect-infested mud. The sensation was disgusting! The substrate was neither sandy nor firm, but simply gloopy and muddy. (I couldn’t for the life of me imagine why certain beauty victims go for aesthetic mud treatments.) I felt ill at ease, to say the least (obviously not having been sufficiently prepped by the carajillo) and was expecting something nasty to sink its incisors into my flesh.
After a few seconds I was sure that I could feel an itching, pinching and biting, and when I withdrew my legs from the murk, sure enough my feet and ankles were covered in a myriad of raised, angry-red blotches and spots. I wasn’t going to have any of it—I legged it out of those dubious waters as quick as I could! The silty water soon dried off my skin leaving behind a pattern of mica flakes that scintillated and glistened over the sore red patches and resisted being scraped away even though I was now scratching myself frantically like an incensed dog. Luckily I spied some dock leaf growing under a low Salix bush not too far away, so I crawled off in that direction, plucked off a few leaves and then applied these, poultice-like to my sore feet and calves. I then remained there, like a wounded dog, crouched low under the parched willowy branches, trying to cheat the sun’s rays.
However, the braver recruits continued on undeterred in their valiant, inebriated state. They plunged into the water and were soon swimming out quite far despite their vague awareness of the chubby, torpedo-like Carp that lurked about in the obscure depths. (Although my brother assures me that these fish are total vegetarians, I wasn’t willing to hang around and put his theory to test! What’s more, I had also heard from our local fishing group in Posadas which hold their regular contests in Miguel and Rita’s bar— the corner one near the train station— that the slithering Wels Catfish has also been spotted in that lake, and apart from their size being menacing, they do have multiple rows of razor sharp teeth.)
Anyway, I stayed put, cowering under the thin, willowy branches of the Salix bush, that now and then whipped my bare skin as the breeze mustered up an increasing strength.
I say that ‘I stayed put’, but that was only for a while, until a new idea dawned on me which was as bright and illuminating as the midday sun: ‘Why don’t I go and look for firewood up there in that dusky, mysterious coppice that crowns the top of the hill?’. It seemed to me at the time, a helpful and practical idea and I was putting my ability to foresee the future in play (and also the sardines and other food that would need cooking) — and with some effort, I hauled myself upwards, dusting off the annoying little angular stones that had become half embedded into my bare calves and thighs.
Well, what I thought would be a good idea in fact turned out to be a very bad idea. I’ll give you a clue…Grunt! Grunt! Oinks, screeches and screams, and me dicing with death.
But, although I would love to recount the full story in detail, I think that I should abruptly bring my tale to a close for fear of this blog becoming too lengthy. However, it was an eventful day, where not only the raucous, drunken, over-enthusiastic, self-invited motleys were the protagonists, but also the menacing wild boar — (‘jabali‘, in Spanish!). If you would like to learn more, then these and other amusing stories can be found in my book, An English Lady in Cordova (see link in the above first chapter).
Hi folks — I’m back! As I briefly mentioned in my first blog, I moved over to sunny Cordova about thirty years ago. And so this is how it all started (and as described in my illustrated book, An English Lady in Cordova – the alternative guide)…
I first came to Spain in 1989. I thought it would just be a short-lived experience, lasting only about three years, but as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, before I knew it, twenty-nine years had passed. Working as an English teacher, translator and artisan were just a few of the factors that held me here, but these determinants soon grew as so too did both my children: they were born here and maintaining their schooling and home environment constant was a priority.
And then there was also another significant, influential consideration: the asthmatic lungs! Inland Andalusia offers a much drier climate for a pair of wheezy, respiratory organs that don’t take too well to the rainy and humid conditions of Good Ol’ England. So following the doctor’s enlightening recommendation of, ‘If you want to get better, you’ll have to head south to more arid, desert conditions…’ we packed a couple of suitcases with most of our belongings (which were few—we were young at the time) and squeezed them, together with an outsize army tent, in our crimson, semi-battered, open-top Alfa Romeo (the one I passed my driving license in even though, unbeknown to me, the tax disc was out of date—it was 1989 then and conditions were a little less sticky than today). Soon we were heading south to Andalusia.
After hardly any prior consideration—we were young then—we decided on Andalusia, preferring it to the other desert possibilities of Texas, Siberia, Mongolia etc., because above all things, it was closer to home and family.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, we ended up settling in Cordova, where the lungs improved due to the extremely dry conditions and the 120°F summer temperatures; but then the bones started to ache terribly from such intense heat…
We took up residence in a flat on the first floor of an ancient ramshackle house that was full of medieval echoes and harked back to the times of the Moors and Romans.
This dwelling had a typical Arabic-style, square-shaped, cobbled courtyard with an orange tree in the middle, encircled by fragrant box bushes.
There was a timeworn statue of a bronze horse’s head of Moorish design that emerged from one of the whitewashed walls and spouted water into the creamy, shelly sandstone fountain. At higher levels, indigo-coloured pots of vibrant hanging geraniums spilled forth trailing blooms over tangles of perfumed jasmine and unruly masses of intoxicating ‘Lady of the Night’. To top it all, a maze of grape vines with interwoven branches that resembled curving Olive Whipsnakes invaded the terracotta-tiled roof that had seriously sagged with time. This weatherworn roof provided a haven for all the swallows, rats, geckos, dormice and thieves that wandered the vicinity.
The patio was peppered with Roman and Moorish artefacts such as reddish pillars and ornate capitals that had previously been pilfered from the remains of the Caliphal medieval palace-city, Medinat al-Zahra (‘The Shining City’)—the original site of Cordova, ruled by Caliph Abd al-Rahman III. Unfortunately the area was only recently declared a UNESCO heritage site, so before this, the familiar maxim, ‘Help yourself!’ then prevailed. In other words the site (already having been heavily ransacked during the 1013 AD Berber vs. Umayyad Caliphate Civil War) was regularly pillaged with the result that numerous priceless archaeological artefacts came to rest in the courtyards and on the whitewashed walls of many local houses. And ours was just such an example.
Anyway, raised location was to our advantage mainly because we could easily spot all the burglars that would prowl the aged rooftops at night before then plopping down into our patio to stealthily rummage through the remainder our still-unopened boxes of belongings; the burglar would stop occasionally for a drag on that tell-tale cigarette with the incandescent butt smouldering away in the obscurity of the night, revealing his presence. It wasn’t long before we became well-known to the local Civil Guards who would often attend our calls at night; they would check the shadowy downstairs rooms one by one, pushing each heavy wooden door open wide before pouncing around it, revolvers at the ready. But by then, the burglars would have already shinned up the drainpipe or Olive Whipsnake vine and scuttled away over the midnight roofs.
A second advantage of having our flat on the first floor was that from the broad sitting-room windows we could see the bell tower of Cordova’s famous Great Mosque-cathedral (built in 784 under the orders of Abd al-Rahman I) topped by the town’s patron saint, the archangel San Rafael, who offers eternal protection to all the citizens.
But the real noise would take place on Friday and Saturday nights. It was on these nights that the university students would celebrate their end of week with drunken brawls and revelries, sometimes accompanied by ‘tunas’— (small but high-spirited musical groups composed of students dressed in Renaissance outfits, playing guitars, lutes and tambourines — and oh, of course, singing).
I enjoyed the romantic, sentimental serenading, but not the rest of the general riot which was made worse by those stragglers who, as the wee hours of the night approached would desperately look for a place to have a much-needed wee; and because the main door of our building was a little away off the Roman cobbled ‘Encarnación’ street, up a few granite steps and flanked by a couple of pilfered Arabic Medinat al-Zahra pillars, the highly educated scholars would find this a most convenient place to relieve themselves. So in the morning, on my way out of the house (armed with the house pipe and a 5-litre bottle of bleach) I would be met by a vast, yellow-green, murky, ammonia-pungent puddle—one which represented the collection of numerous wees piddled out there over the weekend.
However, as I soon became accustomed to this regular procedure I grew all the wiser, trying to catch the culprits out: I would crouch low on my moonlit balcony, half-hidden by my Hibiscus bushes and Madonna lilies, preparing for the moment of attack. When I spied that the offender was ready to take aim, I would grab the watering can and chuck all the water down onto him: this would immediately stop him in midstream, making him shove his ‘churro’ back in his trousers whilst scurrying away like a rat down the moonlit alley. Or if the offenders were being really vile and rowdy, then it would be all the earthy contents of a terracotta pot that would shower down onto their heads. However this would be only a temporary solution, as the following weekend they would be back for more!
The plaza outside the nearby archaeological museum was also the stage set for such drunken revelries, and often fuelled by drugs. (This area has since been given a beautifying facelift!)
Apart from suffering teething problems due to the raised decibels in our street, we also suffered the consequences of an insufficient electricity supply. And at first, we had none at all. The house was rickety and old, and had been in a state of abandonment for many years, and since we had not as yet managed to acquire our residency permits (a long and arduous process then) we were denied connection to the mains supply by Sevillana—the major electricity company in Andalusia (analogous to ‘corrupt’?). So we were surviving on candlelight alone and only hand-operated fans (which was quite taxing given the summer temperatures oscillated around the 115° F mark). However, we soon managed to acquire a small trickle of electricity which our neighbours, some humble students who rented the neighbouring house, illegally directed our way (we were young then!). The dodgy wiring that stretched between our two flats was, needless to say and in accordance with the Spanish safety rules at that time, void of the green, safety earth wire.
Neither could we have a telephone connection via Telefónica, the major telephone operator in Spain then (which was at the time, government-owned and, once again, ‘corrupt’?): so communication was limited to either writing letters or going to the Telefónica’s main building in the Tendillas square and making very expensive calls. (And despite being privatised in 1997, the company still charges in its favour!) But with time, the necessary connections were made, which were not just with cables and wire, but also with the people (a factor of great importance here in Latin-Moorish Andalusia). And gradually, once all our papers were in order and we were classed as legalised aliens, we started to eke out our living.
From my cosy sitting-room in our flat that overlooked the courtyard’s orange tree I gave English classes to many people. Some male students were of a very dubious nature where their main interest was more along the lines of deflowering English roses. I also did a lot of handicraft work which I sold in the tourist shop that we started on the ground floor. The shop opened on to the well-known Calleja de Las Flores square and was always graced by budding Flamenco guitar artists.
The house was well positioned, being in the heart of the old Jewish quarters of Cordova—a bustling town built upon the banks of the Guadalquivir River (christened thus by the Moors); a town steeped in history and culture, known for, amongst many other features, its famous Great Mosque-Cathedral and the Fortress / Palace of the Christian Monarchs (King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella—parents of our King Henry VIII’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon). These renowned buildings are encased by the Roman and Arab walls of the city. Cordova is also a town characterised by much celebration and jubilation thanks to all its fiestas and cultural festivities (of which we partook assiduously!).
And within these old Jewish quarters we also opened a hostel. The area was, in those days, located in the sleazier, disreputable and not surprisingly dubious part of the neighbourhood.
In fact, just round the corner was the notorious Calle Cabezas (Streetof the Heads)—a narrow, cobbled lane famous for its legend dating back to the middle ages when the blood-soaked, decapitated heads of a nobleman’s seven sons were displayed as trophies along the street, one hanging from each of the seven arches. Well, this is where our hostel was situated. It seems as if the tone of the neighbourhood had already been determined many years ago when the medieval, reconquering Christians were in serious combat with the Arabic Moors in order to regain their lost territories. (This was the famous Reconquest of Spain which occurred between 718 and 1492.) And local skirmishes still persisted in our early hostel days: conflicts which were usually fuelled and ignited by the cheap, traditional ‘fino’ sherry that was sold in the antiquated Seven Heads bar that lay just opposite those notorious arches.
The area was also regularly patrolled by ladies of the night, and so being located in such a setting, our hostel attracted clients of very questionable nature. There were the more-straightforward clients such as the lowlier, foreign backpackers who arrived poor as church mice but all eager to experience the delights of eras gone by; and there were the flamenco music students, fresh from afar who were seeking cheap rentals so they could spend their pesetas on guitar classes imparted by maestros in the local ‘peña’ bars. These lessons would invariably be accompanied by a glass of ‘tinto’ or ‘fino’ along with Spanish tapas, all being consumed and performed amidst a grey haze of cheap ‘ducado’ cigarette smoke and in tempo with the clapping of palms and stamping of flamenco heels. And then there were also male immigrants from poorer countries who were seeking out Spanish wives in order to obtain legal residency (they would quietly confide in us saying that this one was just for the papers, whereas the proper one was still back in the country of origin).
There was also the shady, crooked lot who were on the run from the police: these included a peculiar and intimidating ensemble of drunks, drug addicts and wife-intimidators— but as soon as we suspected anything dodgy we would report it to the ‘policia local’ (who already knew us ‘giris’ well by then): they would arrive in a handsome jiffy, handcuffs clinking against their sides, walkie-talkies in hand, revolvers in holsters and truncheon thrust in belt. A good few criminals were whisked away. And finally, last but not least, there were the straight-forward, peaceful tourists who, after having experienced both the irregular goings-on and the dark nature of some of the hostel inmates would check out the following morning, nervously looking over their shoulders.
It is not surprising that after a few months of this hostel lark we decided to sell the business!
However, in the meantime, we gradually negotiated our way amongst this strange assortment of people and amid the Cordobese, though it was not all smooth-going and sometimes involved a good deal of pain. And more often than not there were many embarrassing, god-awful moments caused generally by my inexperience of both the language and customs (recounted in full humiliating details in my amusing and fully-illustrated book An English Lady in Cordova—the alternative guide). There were also some serious cockups and blunders committed, such as those related with my work as a teacher (both privately and in schools), or resulting from my indiscreet dealings with the locals. Additionally there were some serious errors of judgement during my encounters with wild animals. And crowning it all were those little ‘slip-ups’ involving me, my misbehaved jalopies and the general misinterpretation of Spanish road signals.
These little faux pas were fortunately neutralised by my positive, hassle-free encounters with the many good-natured, warm-hearted people who adopted me into their very familiar social circles. There were also many amusing, humorous and curious events involving those from not only the historical-rich town of Cordova but from the nearby villages (in particular Posadas, our local village). Characters that ranged from the sophisticated to the more simple and naive; and the incidents—well, some were experienced first-hand, whereas others were recounted by locals and jotted down by me; some are contemporary, spanning the Civil War and the present democratic times, and others are stories from the past, including ancient legends rooted in the Arabic and Christian medieval eras shrouded in their particular veil of mystery.
We did eventually move out of Cordova’s Jewish Quarters after about ten years of trial and error, and we took up residence in an olive grove on top of a hill five miles from the village of Posadas del Rey.
I think there were various factors that contributed to our decision. Perhaps it was the puddle of urine on the doorstep that grew too pungent and deep, or maybe the din from the cathedral bells combined with the non-baffled mopeds clattering down the narrow street that encouraged our exit.
It might have been the result of the uneven, cobbled pavements over which my daughter’s pram and son’s pushchair bumped over in a detrimental sort of way; or perhaps the distinct lack of green areas for children to run around and play, and where instead they were confined to cobbled plazas and granite-slabbed avenues.
(I admit I did feel intimidated by the young, hoity-toity mothers of those provincial bygone days who would gather together in the central Plaza Tendillas Square showing off their infants who were immaculately dressed in accordance with the overdone Latin way—something I never managed to achieve with my more ‘informal’ toddlers: their children were prim and proper, the girls with wide, satin bows clamped in their hair or topped in frilled bonnets, ears pierced and clothed in dolls’ dresses or finely knitted suits despite the summer temperatures; and the boys dressed like little men in starched shirts, knee-length shorts and highly polished shoes, where the only item that was missing from the whole ensemble was the moustache; and all the while the mothers would warn them not to play on the floor or rub against the railings otherwise their clothes would get dirty. But how else were they supposed to play? And in the dreadful event of dirtying their clothes, they would receive a short, sharp slap and a torrent of heated Latin abuse. Like me, these ladies were new to the experiment of motherhood, but unlike me, they celebrated this newly acquired status by caking their faces in makeup and relinquishing their jeans, track suits and plimsolls—which was, yet again, unlike me, because this was my standard wear. Though things have since changed…)
Could one of the reasons for our exit have been due to the gypsy mafia that lived nearby? The dark-skinned, voluminous matriarchs of the clan—dark hair piled high, golden filigree adorning their ears, though clad simply in flip flops: they would corner me, in a bullying, intimidating sort of way against a Roman façade or Moorish cornerstone, insisting to read my palm whilst forcing a twig of rosemary into my hand—and me being young, naive and fresh from Richmond Park and Queen Elizabeth’s deer, just could not evade this uncomfortable encounter. It was a scene that repeated itself time and time again, until I grew very cautious and weary.
Though perhaps what also encouraged our departure was our hostel, frequented by those dodgy characters that performed their unsavoury business—a drawback heightened by the disreputable, ghostly ambience of those ancient, fino-smelling, macabre lanes inhabited by spirits of the past and dubious souls of the present.
Combined with all the emotionally-trying factors mentioned above, the weariness was as well due to the shattering summer heat that was amplified by the narrow cobbled streets and concrete buildings. I think that these factors finally heralded our exit, pointing us in the direction of fresher, greener pastures.
So we sold our hostel, closed our tourist shop (that had started to dwindle anyway due to tourists preferring more distant, exotic locations) and waved goodbye to our Englishy-cluttered flat with the balconies that were permanently overloaded with delicately swaying blooms reminiscent of the English countryside and the mix ‘n’ match of more southern, intoxicating varieties.
It was not long before we moved to our new rural environment set close to the Villa de Posadas, and over the following six months, with the help of the locals, we built our humble, white-washed rustic dwelling.
From the local plant nursery in La Carlota village we bought some plants which we nurtured with much love and care—the result is now an oasis-like garden bursting at the seams with evergreen creepers and bushes and tall, deciduous flowering trees that afford the much-needed shade: Indian Bean tree, Pride of Persia, Jacaranda, lime, apricot, olive, bougainvillea, jasmine, Lady of the Night, wisteria, yuccas, aloes, trumpet vine, roses… just to name a few.
There is also a small, raised pool which we use for both watering our plants and for splashing about in once the all-consuming heat of summer is full upon us. The birds also take advantage of this crystal mountain water: the owls, swifts, swallows and sparrows all swoop down to wet their beaks and to pluck out the diver beetles that flourish in the water. (As yet I have never spotted a cuckoo, or crested hoopoe, neither one of Marco Polo’s azure-winged magpies drink from the pool—nor from our stream either.)
But it is not only these feathered friends that are our regular visitors—we are also frequented by all sorts of creeping, crawling, slithering and hopping things: clades of camouflaging chameleons; colonies of rats; knots of snakes; clusters of spiders and scorpions; long, thick, bristling centipedes; lounges of lizards and geckos; clouds of flying crickets and grasshoppers; and hordes of stick insects and praying mantises. The snakes, centipedes and scorpions fill me with dread, especially when I see the latter come marching out from under the kitchen sink in an orderly file, or when I almost trip upon the poisonous centipede that is waiting for me in my bathtub or on my bedside table. These creatures are one of the reasons why I always have cats (the numbers of which last year totalled fifteen). The other reason is because I love a furry feline, and so too does my daughter. The cats also provide great entertainment and sport for our burly but laid-back mastiffs.
And so, to cut a very long story short, once we had finished building our country abode, and the smouldering September was upon us, we enrolled our two toddlers into the village nursery and primary school; they adapted to these institutions well as the atmosphere was so friendly and family-like. In the meantime, we started a craft workshop selling hand-painted furniture, paintings and other crafts, in what was a derelict farm-house on the edge of Posadas.
With time we made more acquaintances, and with the passing of the years and improvement of the language, together with the appreciation of the people and their customs, we became well-integrated into Spanish society of Posadas.
This village is set in a beautiful corner of the province of Cordova, bounded by the low-lying agricultural plains of the Guadalquivir River to the south and flanked to the north by the Sierra Morena Mountains. These rocky, steep hills offer a very contrasting scenery and have many villages, hamlets and fincasthat sprawl along the flatter plateaus and nestle in its folds—each one with its own set of peculiar characters and with intriguing tales to relate.
In fact, just as I write this from my porch I can spy the haunted Medieval castle of the neighbouring village, Almodóvar del Río, rising proud from its hill; and when I look in the other direction, I see our village, Posadas, which has its own particular mystic tale associated with the archway that was the former entrance to a castle; and looking out to the west I can just spot the first whitewashed house of another village, Hornachuelos—a lofty and sloping village famous forthe legend of the haunted monastery and the flying monk.
It is surprising just how fast time spins away. These past years for me have been ones filled with a rich array of experiences. New lands, new people; a different language, a different culture; stories from the past, stories from the present; my experiences and adventures—many of which have been recorded and narrated in my book and blog. I have wanted to share some of these locations and experiences with others, while at the same time, do justice to what I think are lovely, warm-hearted, accepting and welcoming people; an intriguing and extremely rich culture, and a very diverse land which offers something for everyone. If you would like to read more about my experiences and stories and about the different sites and history, then you can find out more from my amusing and fully-illustrated book An English Lady in Cordova—the alternative guide. For now, I will talk about some of these locations within the province of Cordova (Córdoba in Spanish) in my blog.
It is almost thirty years now that I have been living in Cordova, Andalusia. It certainly wasn’t easy at first — it was difficult to adapt to such a different culture, a mix ‘n’ match of warm-blooded, Latin-Moorish people, and a hard climate where summer temperatures soared to the 122 degrees farenheit mark. It was a shock to the system — hard to adapt at first, and I made some real cock-ups where the language and culture are concerned!
But if you would like to know why I came here, or would like to accompany me and experience my journey, laughing at my many faux-pas while learning about Cordova and the surrounding villages — the people, their culture, customs and very rich history (all illustrated!) — then you are welcome to follow me and embark on my journey. Let me introduce you to my life and those special people and places around me — and oh, of course, that’s not forgetting the Celtiberian, Phoenician and Roman-Moorish ghosts of the past …