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 . . .
IT’S cold on Lujar. The beast of a mountain has been growling beneath a dusting of snow for the past few days. The telecommunication masts that crowd its summit are rimed with ice. So different from when I stood beneath them back in 2012, throat parched and boots white with dust. Glad I’m not up there today . . . Continue reading The white towers
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.
A HOT wind blows from the south and brings dense cloud from Africa. We watch it roll in on two levels: white mist flooding valleys and swamping mountains in great waves; and a high bank of greyness blocking out the sun. We hear dull echoes of thunder as the wind gathers strength . . . Continue reading The imperfect storm