Sounds of silence . . .

IN Capileira, during summer months, flags come out and hand-woven banners are strung above alleys and pinned to walls. Midday arrives, and no one walks the streets except people with cameras. Capileira is Spain’s second-highest village – but that doesn’t render the air any cooler. Perhaps, because it’s closer to the sun, it’s slightly hotter . . .

Locked doors are barriers against the August heat. White walls reflect the sun’s rays and send them back into space to warm the moon. Water flows from wells to quench the thirst of travellers and the occasional animal, some of which are so desperately thirsty they have turned to straw and bits of wood.

Washing hangs among the flags and bunting; sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between them. At one o’clock the church clock strikes once. That’ not normal for church clocks in Spain, England or anywhere for that matter.

In neighbouring Pampaneira, nothing can be heard in Calle Silencio, the street of silence. Even dogs are quiet; and they regard visitors with disapproval if their cameras click or their flip-flops flip flop.

In front of the barred doors of the church, two children play silently with a hula-hoop. Their spinning halo captures the crosstrees of the door in its frame. This pleases god, because at this precise moment an attentive waiter brings me a frosted bottle of sparkling mineral water and a glass crammed with ice and sliced lemon. Things like that happen in Spain. God makes them happen because he hasn’t got anything important to do these days.

Actually, things like that happen everywhere. It’s just that in the silence, while sitting in the shade as the Earth revolves unhurriedly, you tend to notice them more.