Dragging our suitcases together with bits and pieces up the 250 stone steps from the car to “our” house in Frigiliana, the romantic ring of the words I wrote last year, had a hollow ring to them; “ …300m above sea-level, it appears to be from times past, with its praised historic quarter of Moorish heritage where the narrow streets, winding and steep, encase a network of small houses perched on top of each other…” I was very taken with it then, and that’s why we decided to come here for our holiday!
It is charming and so much easier to negotiate the streets without suitcases, we found out. It is a place to amble in, take each step and cobbled street as a discovery, with delights to see round every corner turned, assisted by the story told in tiles on the walls of the houses of how the last stand of the Moors took place here; an era of tolerance ending with the battle and defence from the Penon, the Fortress and cliff face from where they hurled themselves to death instead of becoming slaves to the Catholic Christians.
Is there any place in Spain where something heartbreaking has not happened?
And sometimes, on the faces of the older people, one can see life has not only been Tapas and wine, so dear to the tourist heart, but a never-ending battle of survival. Two haunting photos I found in our house, let you peek into the black and white lives of hard labour and merciless toil, before the filigree balconies took over.
But the golden liquid of Olive Oil has been here for a long time to sooth with its silkiness and flavour. It is sold in big plastic bottles, far from fancy designer glass sculptured ones, at the small, dark local shops where the shelves are stuffed with the necessities of life; bread, wine, olives, canned fish and picked right from the trees around, lemons and oranges and avocados.
Elderly ladies trotted carefully about on the cobbles, knocking on doors to see who was home, then took a nap in a chair conveniently placed. Gone are the black scarves, now coiffure and coloured hair are in, but the black dresses still look like sharp shadows against the white-washed walls. Men in snappy hats look who is in too, a pass-time that is taken seriously. They care. Then the sweet local wine is drunk at the square, each glass lasting an hour, watching the tourists huff and puff past, with a bemused smile on their faces.
It is the quiet part of the season. Vines are trimmed and burned, the scent of the smoke like incense redolent in the air, restaurants close at 4pm along with the rest, and even though some tourist busses empty their well padded populace to explore the streets, there is a tranquil silence present that only the school children and the goat-herd break. There is always an empty table for you at the local Tapas Bar, the church square slowly waking up with bird song and in the evening the laid back appearance of the star studded sky like a cupola at a planetarium, watched with awe from our balcony as the colours were swallowed by the stealthy night. A slim hammock of a new moon rose one evening. One felt far from the madding crowd. Not all of Spain is a tumult of sound, though after Barcelona one has ones doubts.
The TV in the house only showed one Spanish channel, where one loud domestic catastrophe followed another. We turned it off.
We never tired of watching the dawn break. Or insidiously endear it self, more like, to the day, as the insubstantial pink spread from the east, the air diffused with delightful bird song, practising roosters and a few barks from dogs. Then the soft clang of the morning bell announcing the beginning of another day just a few streets below us, chimed. Time for the morning cuppa as we saw the tiny fishing boats arriving in time for the fish-shop below us to have a little selection of the catch ready on ice for you.
A few days were stormy and windy as the gale whipped up the sea into white froth and the tattered clouds swung past felling curtains of rain. In the night the windows rattled so hard we had to wedge knives in to stop the racket, and the next morning most of the pots in the streets lay scattered on the cobbles. Mostly the sun soothed us though, with its warmth, but the real heat was far in the future as yet; down to +2 in the nights, as the streets lay empty and quiet and only the early sanitary brigade picked up the plastic- bagged rubbish hanging on hooks. Like sacrifices for the night spirits.
Frigiliana is, as afore mentioned, full of narrow, steep streets, climbing in steps up towards the hills. What is so charming is the care and love taken to make them lovely; the owners of the houses have festooned pots of overflowing flowers on the walls, the balconies and along the streets almost blocking them in places, defying the reckless mopeds that dare to venture there. If you happen to walk past at watering time, you get showered from the pots above, as the black-clad ladies lovingly weald their watering cans.
Climbing ever on, the cobbled streets change into rough stone paths, winding their way up to the largest houses in the village with views that catch your breath. A bit worn with time, the old mansions were, but enchanting. From one of them there emerged from a dark doorway a very elegant elderly lady who was looking for the two “burros” or donkeys who spend their days foraging at the top. Obviously of a more aristocratic race, maybe Casa de Lara, the noble family who ruled here in the Middle Ages, she still cared for her two donkeys and bestowed a smile and nod to us.
The whole valley lay there in the evening sun, smoke rising from bonfires, the goat-bells faint ring telling us the herd was passing along with the smiling shepherd who mingles with the rush traffic every afternoon on the main street. A blue range of mountains turned into white peaks, the Tejeda, rising as a backdrop to the village and wispy trails of jets left feathery paths in the sky.
Broken stairs lead to the old fort and abruptly end, as if this really was the epilogue of Frigiliana, which in a way it was. We scrambled up and got lost among the pines, trying to find a way back without having to climb up again as we came to a 9ft iron gate: the sun was setting and I was tired, so we decided to be daring and enter private property by shinning up the gate and ending up in somebodys garden! But we found a way out and onto the rough path, just as the two “burros” were trotting home.
Frigiliana is a small enough place for people to get to know you, or at least recognize you. Even after such a short time the shopkeepers knew what you were after, the Tapas bar knew which wine you wanted and offered a new taste from the chef, and the old men smiled with their wrinkly, walnut faces a “Buenos Dias” to you.
We have been in contact with Margareta, a Swedish lady of 82, whom we got to know last year in Torrox Puebla. She still runs her own little pub, max seating capacity 8, from her house and her “joie de la vie” is quite catching! We had lunch together and we caught up with the latest news and got to know she takes no medication and believes one should keep moving till one drops down; a good life philosophy after my heart. Though she has been enlightened to the contrary by her daughters. “I don’t take any notice…” she sniffed.
Nerja Notes
“A real friend is someone who takes a winter vacation on a sun-drenched beach and does not send a card.”
--Farmer’s Almanac
Just 1o min drive away, (and the decent of 250 steps) was Nerja, the town with sunny beaches and a warmer climate, at least by a few degrees, a busy little town we often visited for its coffee shop with a tiny balcony hung on the cliff over the beach. Sheltered from the winds it was always a cosy place to come to, even if you had to share your space with iPads, coffee cups and expat Brits who flung their Spanish about with an air of belonging as we, pasty short term sun-seekers, made do with a more simple vocabulary.
The expanse of water and sky was invariably changing and charming, as we sat and nursed our second cups of coffe con leche, deciding what to do next, or maybe nothing, thinking how long it was till one could decently have lunch.
All kinds of stairways snaked down to the little beaches below Nerja. As the coastline is gradually chomped at by erosion however, some parts are dangerous, marked by rusty gates and padlocks, but on sunny days the coves and appealing shingle beaches gather people. All from children with wonder in their eyes, engrossed on inspecting a world grownups cannot see, old men in roomy pudding bags, ladies with skirts up their thighs and some so intent on an even tan, they stand on the beach rotating, reading a book like an old ballerina clock.
Some practise yoga, watching the ships passing on the horizon and there go three men, trying to get into a small boat, oars splashing, to gather shellfish. Bobbing on the water and messing about like Mole and Ratty, a charming pastime on turquoise waters in the sun.
We liked finding our way over rocks and tidal pools as far as we could go, finding places nobody else occupied. The pebbles were round and kind to your bare feet, but the water cold! Sometimes we met this lost man, with tatted hair and dirty clothes, clutching a plastic bag and your arm if he could, telling you that: “ Kidnapped, the baby has been kidnapped…” with alarm and an emergency in his voice. Lost in the system, trying to make a living. Like the young men sitting with their dogs patiently beside them, silently begging in the streets of Nerja and all over Spain.
The Sovereign Sierra Nevadas.
The hills behind Frigiliana steepen into the Tejedas, gently brushed with snow and continue to augment themselves into the Sierra Nevadas where skiing is the in thing to do.
Terraced slopes, sculpted by the Moors, still rise layer after layer from the villages in the valleys, planted with almond, vines and olives, right to the tops of ridges overlooking the sea, glimpsed even far from inland. The air was remarkably clear, we could see the peaks in Morocco, 150km away, like islets in the blue mist.
The road wound higher, always cutting right through villages and the chill wind got chillier. Abandoned and solitary farmhouses dotted the hills, some just in ruins, some still so beautiful in their desolation you felt sad nobody lived there. In the villages not much was going on; a lady in her morning gown tightly belted, went for the post. A boy carried bread, his hair blowing in the wind. Were all huddled inside for warmth? It was so different from Nerja where on a Sunday even the Spaniards crowded the streets. An air of despondency hung over many places here, as if this was far removed from the sunny Spain we knew. Probably because it was.
Limestone cliffs reared up around us like cathedrals, the sun playing solos and orchestrating the light like on a stage, making them appear close, afar, jagged or soft. The wind whipped the pine trees marching like a line of soldiers along the ridges, clouds moving as a swathe of white across the peaks, a band of palpable hail and snow, ready to drop. The road swinging and making sharp turns from one magnificent view to another, was a challenge. It was zero degrees with a numbing wind and soon ice crunched under our wheels; we had come to a place where winter reigned and pretty road signs of snowflakes warned of the hazards.
The only person we saw up there was a woman who was paying a hasty visit to nature by her car, otherwise the houses sat there silently in the almost monochrome landscape, barren while waiting for spring. Almond trees were sugared with white frost, though a little further down on a southerly slope, the first, faint blush of almond blossom had become visible. Close to Granada they were already pink and frothy, not unlike candyfloss.
Climbing up the stairs again, after each of our little trips, we felt we came home. Below us a family was having a party, and laughter and no doubt rude jokes (them being Danes, don’t get me wrong, I like Danes!) flowed with the generous wine. Crickets sung us to sleep through our last night, and we felt this was a place we would love to come back to. So much more remained unexplored.