Last night we watched a documentary about a Masai Mara tribe in Ethiopia, in which a young man had to prove his manhood by jumping across the backs of four cows (maybe in days gone by he might have had to kill a lion, but of course there are not enough of those left). After that he was lathered in butter by his fellow bachelors then taken to meet his child bride, whom he wouldn’t actually marry for another ten years! The old grandfather was very happy with his life. He watched all the women do the heavy work, and responded to the interviewer, ‘I don’t work because I have a penis.’ Wonderful!

It is so nice to be home. Yesterday I did the laundry and I thought it would never end. As I was ironing shirts and dresses, memories came back: this was the dress I wore to the Alhambra Palace, or this was the T shirt John bought in Marbella. But now they are all fresh and put away and we can relax.

Spain was a whirlwind of action, art and culture. I felt a bit like Heraclitus: ‘Everything is in flux’, and ‘Upon those who step into the same rivers different and ever different waters flow down’ – usually rendered as ‘You cannot step into the same river twice’.

When we first arrived in Madrid, full of expectation, we were not the same people that returned to the same hotel two weeks later. I wanted to see the art in the Prado Museum. I didn’t really know or want to know about anything else, and I would have been content on going home after that. Instead I learnt so much more. In the first days we watched a wall of a tall building being transformed into a ‘living wall’,

and two weeks later it was almost complete. We did visit the Prado and met ‘old friends’ and it was wonderful to see Goya’s lady glimmering in gloom two rooms away, she was luminescent and ethereal.

I suppose in real life she might have been a lover or some aristocrat but now she glimmers forever. We saw Tintoretto, El Greco, Caravaggio, Titian with his array of ‘proper thighs and bellies’, and Picasso (with his lovers that later became the mothers of his various children), but best of all (for me) was Velazquez. I loved the doll-like child that stares out of the picture of Las Meninas,

and the Spinners with the wonderful tale of Arachne

and the fabulous faces of The Drinkers.

Later while walking the streets in the evening John snapped a modern day ‘Bacchus’. He was just as colourful as an artist might envisage!

At first we felt at a loss in Spain – we didn’t like the food much and we didn’t know what to order. But that would all change in the next couple of weeks.

We left Madrid for Malaga. The train was a speeding bullet, and before we knew it, we had arrived in ‘sunny Spain’ and the Mediterranean, and holiday makers. We drank thick, luxurious hot chocolate and wandered the streets and came upon the Cathedral. Our visit seemed to coincide with a protest by Amnesty International on the rights of women.

The square was covered in pairs of red shoes, it was very eye catching, then suddenly elderly men dressed in Elizabethan bloomers and tights arrived to serenade us with lutes and guitars. It was very surreal being surrounded by troubadours and red shoes!

And finally we met up with the tour. We were driven up into the mountains around ragged corners and chicanes, passing whitewashed villages snuggled into the hillsides on the edge of Sierra Tejeda Natural Park, in the shadow of the Atalaya and Verde Mountains. Our village was called Canillas de Albaida. We had signed up to walk the Moorish trails of Andalucía, and this was the real point of our visiting Spain.

Our group was a fine mixture of folk and we had plenty to chat about as we trailed along behind Mick, our super-fit tour guide. He weaned us nicely on the first day, taking us over the hills to Competa where he deposited us in the square to eat tapas.

On the way back he thought it appropriate that we should visit the local Bodegas and to sample the local Muscatel wines. I did love number 1 and number 3, but honestly, by number 4, I was beginning to love them all!

The wine was accompanied  by bread and ham and cheese, and raisins so soaked in wine that they had grown to the size of small plums. It all was just so decadent, sitting under an awning with the sweeping valley below. We walked back to our hotel on the old mule track (I wouldn’t have said no to a mule at that stage) but I did sail back to the hotel, feeling very relaxed and with little memory of the olive trees, flowers and lemons that we passed.

The following day we climbed up and along the old silk route that once ran through the limestone landscapes to Granada. We heard about the times of Franco and the bandoleers that once hid on these hills. I was intrigued with a large cocoon in the arm of a fir tree,

and Mick told us that it belonged to the killer processionary caterpillar. They march nose to tail in groups of over three hundred or so. Great efforts are made each year to kill the little blighters. Their urticating hairs are particularly bad for getting stuck in the throat, and already this year three dogs had died from inhaling them. My word! The park rangers spray the caterpillar nests with hair spray before burning them apparently.

We trampled through rosemary, thyme and sage. The smells just rose up, and sometime the sweetness of a passing flower would engulf us. In the evening, the jasmine hanging over the walls of a house near the hotel was intoxicating.

The next walk we were very glad of our walking poles as we descended down an old Roman path, across a Roman bridge,

and then walked through a haven of avocado and citrus groves.

The oleander was like a living archway, as we followed the stream. Up on the hillside again, we passed a plaque of a poor Englishman who fell to his death on that spot. It was a nice place to have it all end. It was also nice he got a plaque.

We trudged down to Salares, where there was a lot of evidence of Islamic architecture. The church is a perfect example of hybrid styles, built on the site of an old mosque, but retaining the minaret as a church tower. We were just glad to get to Theo’s bar and gobble up the tortilla and pork and fruity salad. A very welcome lunch.

John and I and some others on the group took a taxi to the Alhambra Palace in Granada for the day. We lined up in the queue to get our tickets, under the watchful eye of a right spiv with wraparound sunglasses and a very large pistol in his holster. I suppose he needed it to keep the fifteen or so tourists in check! We wandered around the gardens and I was truly amazed. Here was a palace that is heaven on earth.

The walls are carved with such intricacy and beauty, the water features and myrtle trees and statues of lions were just so perfect.

I bought a book by Washington Irving, called The Tales of the Alhambra, written when he was travelling through Spain. It is poetic and lyrical, and brings the rooms alive with supposed stories of kings and concubines. I do love hearing the odd tit bit about Pedro the Cruel.

He actually was from Castille, and was a right rapist, murderer and evil so and so. I heard the story of how he acquired the famous Black Prince’s ruby, by foul means. The Moorish Kingdom of Granada was being attacked and reverted to Castilian rule and Abu Sai id who was the then ruler was ordered to surrender to Pedro the Cruel. Pedro had Abu Sai id’s servants killed then he may have personally stabbed Sai id to death himself. He found the spinel or red ruby and pocketed it, as he would. Then later after more wars and revolts, Pedro made an alliance with the Black Prince, the son of Edward 111 of England. The prince demanded the ruby and it now sits in the crown of Elisabeth 11. Such tales of evil deeds.

Our last walk was up to the summit of Cerro Verde, a peak of similar height of Ben Nevis.

The day was hot, the flowers were in profusion, and the butterflies were flitting. I wondered if there were any from the killer caterpillar variety. We all sat under a tree and ate lunch.

There were no eagles, or wild boar to be seen, the day was quiet, the views were wide, as far as Africa and Gibraltar, but there was a haze so all the blues and greens were awash like the stroke of a watercolour.

Descending the mountain was a strain on the knees, the way was slippery over the exceedingly long pine needle carpet and a few of us toppled. We found huge pine cones that caught my attention. My walking partner at the time was bemused at my excitement, and for a moment thought I may have wanted to juggle with them. He could not envisage them sprayed silver and gold on a Christmas table!

And nearby was a spider’s web, with the spider on fierce look out duty!

The last day we walked to Sayalonga, passing the three mountain villages that we had come to know, Canillas, Competa and Archez. We passed olives, vines, avocado, lemons and marvelled how the farmers could harvest on such steep slopes. It was all very idyllic and beautiful and very hot.

The icy beer, anchovies and tapas were perfect, sitting in a square under a large umbrella where so much history had taken place.

So goodbye to our group, and the friends made, and stories told. For a few days another life touches us, we are allowed to share, just for a few moments, a new friend’s life and history.  The experiences change us in subtle ways. I look at the photos of the barbecue night, and the elderly singers who had come from England to make a new life under the Spanish skies,

and remember the night of drinking sangria and waking with a sharp headache but most of all I think of the mountain trails, and the long sweeping plains, and the indescribable silence and lonesomeness of it all.

After the tour John and I went on to Marbella for a couple of days to dance in the sea and sit and watch the young and beautiful strut their stuff along the promenade. I have never seen such high heels or such whimsical clothes being worn by real girls in my life. I thought they just belonged to photo shoots in glossy magazines. Well, not so. They are sashaying along the catwalk in front of the beach restaurants and make excellent viewing as you sip your wine and nibble an olive or two!

And back to Madrid. As I said in the beginning, we were slightly altered. We saw Spain a little differently, and we walked the streets with more confidence. The living wall was nearly complete.

The tapas tasted familiar, the menus easier to understand. We found a fabulous market that was a riot of food, and colour and tapas and wine.

We enjoyed it all, and later we watched the most famous ‘tablao flamenco’ in the world. On the wall were pictures of Omar Shariff, Lauren Bacall, Marlon Brando, Marlene Dietrich and so many more famous faces.  It was unthinkable that we should miss this showcase of ‘quintessential flamenco art’. We sat and watched the dancers nearly destroy the stage with their stamping and cavorting.

They swept about, telling stories that we couldn’t understand but we could feel the passion and the angst generated by their dramatic arm movements and whizzing feet. Jesus Carmona was our star man. He was dramatic and powerful, and I was worn out with all the swashbuckling and arm throwing. We think that he was enacting a matador, but who knows, he was pretty good!

Now we are home and the garden is burgeoning and the familiar bits and pieces are all around us. We watch TV and become involved with the day to day acts of living. But sometimes the trip comes back. I found a walnut in my pocket which I had picked up from the forest floor and putting it on the hall table I asked John,

‘What did you like best?’

‘The walks,’ he said.

‘Me too.’