Two Middle-Aged Ladies in Andalucia by Penelope Chetwode

Author:Penelope Chetwode [Penelope Chetwode]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781906011857
Publisher: Eland Publishing
Published: 2012-11-16T16:00:00+00:00

Saturday, November 18

Early in the morning, when it was still dark, I had a call to the stables and in stumbling down to answer it I woke the two little pigs under the stairs who woke my landlord by their screams who thought it was a thief. ‘It’s only the English Señora!’ I shouted nervously: whereupon he kindly switched on the light to reveal me crouching under Española, and discreetly returned to his bedroom on the ground floor.

When I came down dressed, at eight o’clock, the ceiling decoration excelled the most beautiful Adam plasterwork both in colour and design; for added to the purple loops of black puddings there were carmine loops of sausages and shell-pink loops of white pudding, all of them exuding a most delicate scent – which an Adam ceiling does not.

Maria and Juanito now accompanied me on a farewell visit to the vast and mysterious cave. I wish I could convey something of the simplicity of these Andalusian village children: they possess no toys bar those provided by a pig’s inside; they eat the plainest of food and have no outings to the seaside in luxury motor-coaches; they have never been to a cinema nor watched television; they live in a non-atomic age knowing nothing of the world beyond the two pueblos on either side of them, Quesada and Pozo Alcón. And yet even the older ones appear to enjoy a sense of fun and wonder which it is increasingly difficult to find in a land of plenty where God is the Internal Combustion Engine and children’s teeth are ruined at an early age by surfeits of sweets. What is the answer? How can one preserve a balance between poverty and plenty so that true happiness is not corrupted by a false sense of values? Of course I do not know. If I did I should have solved the riddle of the Universe.

On our return to the posada I was given a small earthenware bowl containing the pig’s brains grilled on pinewood embers. Eaten with bread and salt it was a breakfast to remember.

Sorrowfully, tearfully, I gave Española a farewell pat, then kissed and hugged each of the children in turn, thanked my host and hostess for their marvellous hospitality, and reluctantly rode away.

Tiscar is far more impressive from the Quesada side than from that of Pozo Alcón and I kept having to stop to take photographs of the great rock screen and the tiny Moorish tower and the grey mountains which appeared through the cutting and which seemed to be floating towards the infernal regions on a sea of white cloud. About five kilometres beyond the village I noticed a boy with two donkeys turning off along a track to the left. I followed and passed them as it was obviously a short cut to Quesada. It rejoined the road some way further on and then another track branched off, so that three parts of the journey can be made by mule-tracks.

When I got to Quesada I had half a mind to proceed to Cazorla.

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