Now i'm in Espagna. I left Portugal, and readily admit i felt the saudade, the pang of remorse for a country i've grown close to. I don't know why but there's a bias in me against Spain, something silly and teenagery, about not wanting to like what everyone else likes. The language is easy enough to pick up, just the basics, but with my 'pouco' of Portuguese im quite bewildered about pronouns and conjugating verbs.
The day after xmas, after the epic flooding, i fled Nagodinho on a bus south, through Lisboa and ending in Faro. My parents both gave me some money for a xmas present, so i decided to use it on a holiday in civilised warm cities, paying for my accomodation in cheap hostels. A friend called Galia, met in Tamera, was in Faro, and we frolicked together in bars and markets, trying on shoes as though we hadnt spent 3 months on farms under layers of grime.
Another bus took us across the border to Sevilla, a city of indescribable grandeur, a marvel of architecture round every street corner. We ate delicious tapas every day, we wandered and gawped, drank tinto de verrano in Triana quarter. In the Plaza Nuevo we fed one another a grape for each chime of midnight of the last night of 2013, danced the new year in then stuffed ourselves on churros and belgian waffes dunked in chocolate. It was sublime, such a relaxing break. My estimation of the advances we've made as a race in order to provide hot showers in most buildings has skyrocketed.
On New Years day i hitchhiked to Granada, first with a moroccan who bought me orange juice, who i spoke french too, and then with a catalunyan couple. It was a great confidence boost to me, im a little nervous to hitch alone in a foreign country. I was elated afterward. The aim was to reach my friend Jons friends house, as he was passing the holiday there, him and his brother and partner. I got to celebrate it with them all, make a new friend for myself, and feel safe in the company of known parties again. And in so doing, found my next place; here, La Granja.
It makes so much difference to have met the owner of this farm beforehand, that she is a friend of the woman i stayed with, Delia, who introduced me to her. Instead of turning up at an unknown place with no idea how it is.
There are quite a few of us here, wwoofers - 9 maybe. And half of us turned up this week, so we have the chance to get to know one another and create a community. We're also largely the same age, but one couple who have been at the farm for months is in their sixties, and awesomely inspiring - they live on their bicycles, and tour europe very summer. In the winters they occupy a campervan in New Zealand. Another encouraging individual cycled halfway here from Sweden. I had to leave my bike at Fundao in order to escape rapidly on public transport, and i regret it now. Im sad to have left it behind, especialy here where the weather is so much better.
The finca is down in a deep valley in the Alpujarras, so - south of the Sierra Nevada, you can see the snowy peaks from our place. The sun doesnt shine on us till 11am, but on the other side of the sierra lujar, or in Orgiva, the nearest town, its been boiling all day these weeks - bikini weather. WWOOFers all have their own self sufficient accomodation, which is strange to me - we are provided a brunch and lunch which we eat together, but otherwise we cook our own meals on our own fires and are separated. The plus side to this for me, is that the first time i my life i am living truly alone. And way out from the other 'casitas' too, at the bottom, by the rushing water, and under 3 trees: sprawling smooth fig, ancient gnarled olive, and soaring eucalyptus. The moon shines bright 4 days from full, through twisty horror film branches.
The work seems nothing compared to last month: 6 hours a day, with weekends completely off. And much reduced urgency, no stress to it - a much more sorted and established place. Wow. Ive been skivvying on the build of a hexagonal solar shower block, at the stage of sawing and fixing canas - canes - to fit each underside of the roof. Today we put up the plastic membrane, just before it started raining, lucky. Ive done some hefting of olive branches for the future wattle and daub walls, where we will use the grey sand and clay extracted from the asequia - the giant Moorish-made irrigation channels bringing water from the snowmelt up top. This grey clay - lauma or launa - is the topping of the flat pueblo casa roofs here too, edged in broad stones, sometimes made entirely of these stones atop rafters of chesnut or eucalyptus. The roofs step down the steep hillsides, everybodys roof terrace atop the next lowest house. All the casas really are limewashed white, standing out against the scrubby dull mountain vegetation.
My casita is tiny, with a gas cooker and woodburner, table, chair and bed. All to myself. Ive taken in commissions for baked goods, including gluten and sugar free cookies, made of almonds i crack from farm grown nutshells, and dates and carob - algaroba. Squishy and yummmmy. Its interesting to discover what routines i make for myself, by myself, just the daily chores. I wash up after every meal, sweep up every day, - i want to cook on the fire so the landowner lends me a pot that fits the top hole, which i take up to her house every morning, bring down every evening. I read every night, and while i eat my fresh fruity muesli in the morning. Normal things, that reassure me, that i allow myself to enjoy, to notice in their simplicity. On Sunday i finished sewing a pretty bag i started in Lisboa, just laid in the sun all afternoon sewing the trimmings by hand. Plunged into conversation with a woman who has a parallel journey to me - hummed along to a guitar playing strummer. I still give myself a hard time imagining i Should be running about doing everything there is to do: climb a peak, visit Beneficio the hippy village, draw draw draw.
And I've bought a ticket to fly to Israel...
