Introduction
Downstream from the Guadalhorce river, where Andalucia of palm trees, beaches, shopping malls and designer clad tourists meets the real Spain, the valleys fill with oranges and lemons, almonds flower, olives are pickled in the hunched down, provincial homes, fields of cane collide with the vegetable patches between hamlets and isolated farmhouses, deep voiced cante flamenco is sang in the smoky bars and to the north-west of the Montes de Malaga, lies the last stretch of the Guadalhorce Valley.
This is the land of verdiales and lost vine-stocks, that in forgotten times promised lingering
reputation to sweet Málaga wines and to bandoleros plagued mountains.
This is the land of time-warp villages and lost hamlets with a medieval air.
This way, the lively and the spirited high-cultured Malaga leaks out towards the north, climbs over the hillsides and hummocks of the great Mediterranean slopes and extends over the seemingly monotonous lands of creeks and stream beds.
Just 23 kilometres from Malaga, the time moves slowly, the almond blossom colours the hills, the wild rosemary and thyme perfumes the air and the sound of the bells of the goats amid the squeels of hawks, eagles and the bird chatter pleases the ear.
Here the Spanish veneer wears out thin to reveal the true cross cultural fusion, merging the secern reality of the present ethnic concoction and foreign communities amalgamated with the great lost civilisations of before.
The blend of past and present, the mixed origin of the local Moorish and Christian history is wondrously evoked in the traditions of this singular village, ostensibly by-passed by the twenty first century.
Almogía.
Discovery
The almond petals fluttered in the air, heavily fragrant with the wild thyme, rosemary and wispy lavender.
They twirled above my head, and then, prompted by the wind, disappeared over the edge of the rocks.
The narrow windy road curled left and right and left and right and straight and right again, higher and higher, some few hundred metres above the sea level.
Steep gradients and abrupt corners were inching towards the aggressively plunging tarmac.
The bells rang and my heart almost lost a beat as the untidy heard of goats suddenly appeared and made way across the road. The elderly thin goatherd waved a relaxed greeting and threw a couple of stones under the feet of his flock with a little pocket sling catapult.
Two curly dogs followed the livestock down the vertical hill.
The potholes larger than life, teeth-chattering driving and livestock threatening your supposed
right of way - added a certain frisson to the ride.
An almost pleasurable sensation of fright accompanied the look down bellow, where the labyrinth of valleys blended with the hills, creating gorges and streams and platforms of rocky mounds, ingrown with native palmettos – a wild, low and slow growing bushy palms, pale green oleander with clusters of pink, red and white blossom, silvery branchlets of olives and stumpy
almond trees.
The long depression in the surface of the land on my left, contained a riverbed, while antique oak forrests that once seeped across these mountains were long gone, only some of the trees survived the hatchets of time, and tired ruins of ancient mills leaned heavily onto the hillside of the riverbank.
Country houses were loosely scattered here and there, left and right and above and below, with a prickly bougainvillea and a patchwork of bushes distributing vivid colours across the countryside.
The city of Malaga was now twenty minutes safely beyond and in front of me, to the north, the road wind up in several curves, until I passed, on my right, a small roadside Venta, ‘La Tinaja’.
A little further on I reached an unappealingly narrow bridge.
Good enough for one car, I thought, and drove over it to the other side.
Under the bridge gaped a threatening ravine with the Campanillas riverbed beneath. The road was good but felt somewhat unsafe as road side safety bars were missing and one could easily not see the curling road and hurl the car down the deep narrow steep-sided valley.
On my right sat the dam Casasola, built to retain the mountain waters in the valley and to prevent the flooding of the surrounding areas. The dam held a water reservoir during the rainy season. Remains of the old roads, peeping out, were visibly submerged under the water and crowns of trees also hidden under the water level, were lending the area somewhat strange look.
The mountain, facing me, was bold, old and wrinkly, marked with creases and furrowed like a face of an old Spanish Gypsy matriarch, whose inguen bread the lively music of local cante flamenco and the full bloodied rhytm of verdiales.
Another ten minutes of hairpin bends and frizzly cornered ride later, the village of Almogia spilled down the hills on my left, the little white houses clung to the hills with a historic urgency.
The oblong, elongated mountains on the backdrop of the settlement faded one behind the other, changing colours and contours, from clear dark greens to blues to shady, fainter and wanner, the final pallidity reaching an almost transparent greying hue.
The ride halted to an abrupt stop.
Eleven cars patiently waited in the queue, while the herd of horses, donkies and mules accompanied by a middle aged farmer crossed the road. He flashed a black-teethed smile, cocked his head backwards in a salutation and threw his hands up in the air.
The horses panicked. He exhaled a deep low pitched sound, while pushing his animals across the road.
His red acrylic tracksuit contrasted wildly with his dark weathered face, the old style shepherd’s purse and his palmetto leaves covered drinking bottle.
He seemed stuck in a deflection of time.
Ill-sorted and mismatched, yet curiously perfectly be-fitting the yore of affinity.
The livestock locomoted. Some horses obediently followed the route, others stood in the middle of the road, contemplating rains and greener pastures.
The messy herd vanished up the hill after a few minutes and the last few animals confusedly zig-zagged along the road, a new born foal obstinately rooted to the road centre, until the nearest car tooted and the foal run off after his mother. The cars moved on.
The village from afar appeared unsurprisingly spectacular in its rugged raw peasant beauty.
The mountain architecture reflected on the past, the white-washed houses looked plain yet peculiar. They clung to the hillside, positioned one above the other, seemingly tumbling down and spilling sideways like sugar cubes. Above them, hung the insolent bright blue sky, while the burnished, buffed-up sun-rays menaced the visibility.
The air was sharp and the glary brightness made me slow down to the point of stopping. Suffused with crisp cornea cutting sunbeams, I tried in vain, to wave the sun away.
I was blinded.
The road disappeared and all I could see was an acute nothingness. I inched forward with a hand above the brow, hoping to catch the glimpse of the road ahead.
After a few metres, the small hill cast a merciful shadow and the road re-appeared in front of me again.
I parked just before the village.
The mirador on the right hand side, looking out towards the protected area of an outstanding natural beauty, offered a breathtaking view.
The valley ..... leading to the river Campanillas transversed by the Roman bridge, was picturesque, almost to the point of disbelieve.
The versant and the views looked like a painting executed by a crafty artisan.
The smell of the thyme trailing under my nostrils was twitching and mixing with other new smells. The roadside was dotted with colourful flower combinations, woody bushes of yellow and purple and blue, the white of the wild rocket and pale yellow scraggy mustard plants. The wild fennel spiced the air, teeny violet crocuses studded the ground cover and to the far sight, the views looked out onto the incredulous, strikingly expressive bird view dip.
The riverbed beneath coiled and spiralled to the levee, accompanied by the woody pink oleanders, with a secured foothold amongst the river boulders.
A large smooth mass of rocks detached from their original berths by the water flow was happily engrafted by the riverside, constellating a studded rocky river patterns.
Several old men rested on the wooden benches, smoking and playing cards, oblivious of the offerings of the nature.
I returned to the car and and drove to the village.
The first time I visited Spain, I wasn’t particularly called by this Mediterranean country.
My vague knowledge and blurry belief had it, that it was too coarse, too and too infused with foreigners.
Yet, the combination of my husband’s visceral madness, his Italian spontaneousness and inevitable destiny brought us to the very heart of the mountains of Andalucia, where underneath the blanket of everyday life I have discovered the secrets of true local sapidity.
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