DRIVING down the concrete track towards the house I pass a girl thumbing a lift. She’s carrying a big bag and a plastic bucket that’s full of stuff. I stop and she clambers into the front of the van. She’s going to El Morreon, an alternative community down near the Rio Guadalfeo. I can take her about halfway, which suits her fine. “What’s your name?” she says in a German accent. I tell her and ask hers. “Carlotta,” she replies. Pleasant girl, Carlotta – early twenties I would say, been in Andalucia a few months. Two minutes later I drop her off and she continues down the track with her bag and bucket . . . Continue reading Little donkey . . .
SITTING in October shade sipping black coffee as people drift past at the annual feria – the festival during which the Spanish town of Orgiva bursts into life for three days . . . Continue reading Ladies in red . . .
WHERE do I start with something like this? This isn’t really the beginning because it feels more like the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end. Did Churchill say that? Probably. Something like that, anyway . . . Continue reading Beginning at the end . . .