LATE afternoon. And after two days of heavy Andalucian rain, which shorted out our electricity supply, the clouds break and Sierra de Lújar emerges from grey. I stand on the roof and feel the warmth of sunshine. For the briefest of moments I am in Scotland . . . Continue reading Just like Scotland . . .
DESPITE being one of life’s essentials, the world cannot agree on the correct spelling of chilli. I’m not talking about the south American country, as homophone experts will have realised; I’m talking about the fiery and indispensable ingredient of Vindaloo and Madras curry, Tabasco sauce, and the Mexican dish that ends with those delightful words con carne. The chilli is to a certain branch of world cuisine what the potato is to Lancashire hotpot and paprika to goulash. No chilli, no curry – so far as I’m concerned . . . Continue reading Getting chilli . . . or chili
HERE comes a fire, crackling and ripping across hillsides of dry scrub and brown grasses. First we see smoke and hear sirens. Then flashes of flame high on the Sierra Nevada foothills. And the wind roars through the olive groves, and the sky turns brown, and all we can do is stand on the roof and watch . . . Continue reading Earth. Wind. Fire.
I HAD heard of Andalucia’s second spring but not paid much attention, semiconsciously filing it away in the mental drawer where curiosities such as the Gulf Stream’s effect on Ullapool are stored. A more methodical person might label this drawer “Questionable phenomena to be taken with a pinch of sea salt” . . . Continue reading The second spring