Devious Pete and The Great Leaf Robbery

Agatha Christie, eat your heart out...

Sunrise does not come early at this time of year and being shielded by mountains to the east, it arrives even later in Alfacar. Even so, those welcome morning rays flooded in through my bedroom window just before the church bell struck nine o'clock today, a welcome sign that Spring is preparing to stir all those tightly wrapped buds and dormant shoots into action.

Realistically speaking, the first clear signs that the season is turning don't appear until later in the month when the almonds begin to blossom. That is a marvellous sight which I'm sure I'll be sharing with you when it happens. But the high levels of winter sunshine here do mean that it is possible to keep some outside windowsill plants in flower all year round. The mainstay are the Pelargoniums which - if they don't succumb to the dreaded alien geranium butterfly which has become such a nuisance here - can happily survive and flower in sub-zero temperatures as long as they get plenty of sun.

Cyclamen, both big and small, are equally resilient and keep showing off their colours all through the colder months, whether they are in pots or troughs or planted out in gardens. But it is another winter bloomer that captured my heart shortly after I came to live in Spain and has become a permanent fixture with me, not to mention a source of great cheer when life is at its lowest post-festive ebb. For gardeners and especially for bulb fanatics, it is one of those "must have" plants. In fact, this flower was to be responsible for my temporary but shameful descent into the murky world of criminal activity!

Lachenalia bulbifera.

This is Lachenalia bulbifera, one of the Cape Hyacinths from South Africa. As the name suggests, it is distantly related to the hyacinths and bluebells but the plants in this relatively small genus produce flowers in an astonishing variety of colours and forms from golden yellow to an almost surreal turquoise. And of course, our flaming beauty with its masses of waxy tubular flowers tipped with green and blue and a dash of yellow pollen. As soon as I saw this lovely plant, flowering in profusion on windowsills and in patio pots all around the town, I knew that I had to have some too.

But how to achieve this? I had never seen them for sale in shops or garden centres, so I was going to have to resort to more drastic measures.

Yes, I am afraid that I resorted to a little petty thievery! This is not quite so despicable as it sounds, as I had previously read that it was possible to reproduce this plant from leaf cuttings, a rather unusual method of propagation for a bulb. So, one dark and drizzly evening, hooded to conceal his identity, Devious Pete the infamous leaf thief set out to pilfer said greenery, armed with a plastic bag marked "Loot" and a whole load of audacity.

Never fear, oh law abiding citizens - I was very discrete and only removed a few leaves which on my return home, were duly potted up with nobody the wiser about my brief sorty into the criminal underworld. And sure enough, when they died down later that year, I emptied the pot to discover a host of fat little white bulbs. These were planted up again in the Autumn and the following January, they flowered for the first time.

Now, five years on, I have eight pots filled with these gorgeous brilliant red beauties. They multiply each season and bloom for weeks on end, happily surviving the cold as long as they are in a bright and sheltered position - indeed, they actively dislike high temperatures and will repay you for such well intentioned pampering by wasting away.  

So, who says that crime doesn't pay..!

(PS: In stereotypical Cockney accent: I am now a completely reformed character - erm, yeah, honestly...).         

The Rise and Fall of the Arco de Somera

This blog post is dedicated to our lost heritage, great and small, wherever it may be.

Sometime towards the end of the fourteenth century and the beginning of the fifteenth, a stone archway was constructed across a narrow alleyway in the Andalucian town of Alfacar, and above it, a store room with a narrow balcony off to one side, a tall shuttered window, and a tiled roof to protect it from the elements. Nobody knows the names of those who constructed it, nor whether they went about their work cheerfully and stood back to look at the results with pride, or if they grudgingly hauled the stones and timbers into place while dreaming of a better life elsewhere.

 

Arco de Somera, Alfacar.

However it came into being, it endured. Over the years and the decades the plaster cracked and the timbers weathered. The searing heat of midsummer rippled in the alleyway, the fogs of Autumn made of the arch a forbidding dark maw, and winter snows muffled the sounds of doors and windows being closed tight to seal out the cold. Repairs were undertaken, fallen tiles replaced, owners came and went. And still it endured.

A multitude of voices were heard beneath its span and from the windows and gallery that overlooked the narrow street. Voices of infants bawling in their cots and mothers scolding their children, voices of merchants and tradesmen, voices speaking in Arabic, Hebrew, Castillian. Kisses were shared between lovers sheltering from the rain, whispered secrets never to be known beyond this narrow private place, harsh words of unforgiveness and a thousand other human dramas left their echo in the air and their imprint on the stone. Homecoming adventurers passed through the arch, made rich by plundered Aztec treasures from the Americas during Spain's magnificent Golden Century. The weary tread of soldiers returning from war in the Low Countries echoed in its confines. A hundred newly wedded couples made merry as they passed under the arch and into a new and unknown adventure of life, and a hundred sombre funeral corteges left behind them a hushed solemnity of doffed hats.

Into the 20th century and times of fear and dread came to the town. Civil War, neighbour set against neighbour in the madness of political strife. Night after night, gunshots reverberated through the alleyway from the nearby hills as the Nationalists executed their prisoners and threw the corpses into mass graves. There were years of repression, arrests, assassinations, and tears of pain and loss were shed in the gloom of the arch.

Then came modernisation. Electrical cables crisscrossed the alleyway, and the first television sets brought tantalising visions of other worlds to the town. Democracy came, and with it, new hopes and new challenges. At some point, the arch and its ancient storeroom were designated as worthy of preservation; a marker on a metal post was erected at the mouth of the narrow street. This was something precious, something that the authorities deemed worthy of protecting against the onslaught of the construction boom that was devouring the heart of old Alfacar.

But the centuries had not keen kind to the Arco de Somera. Mortared walls cannot endure forever without attention, timbers crack and sag then give way under the slip and slump of crumbling masonry. Yet nothing was done. It is true that in times of economic crisis, the protection of ancient buildings is not a priority when you have to put food on the table. Yet it seems that those same authorities that had once recognised the arch as noteworthy, were now turning their backs on its increasingly deeperate plight.

 

The Arco de Somera today.

And so to 2013. Finally, the storeroom that had survived the centuries was unable to hold up any longer against the persecution of age, nature and neglect and it began to collapse into the alleyway, a dangerous situation that put everybody passing below at risk of injury. Who knows if even then what remained could have been conserved by a rapid intervention. Whether the owners approached the relevant bodies and requested their help to preserve one of the last, iconic fragments of the town´s fascinating history, I do not know. Bot one day, the alleyway was closed to the public and the storeroom was pulled down. The rubble was carried away in a skip, to be dumped who knows where. Five hundred years of passion and joy and sorrow and life and death, thrown onto a rubbish heap and forgotten.

The bare skeleton of the archway survives, capped off with ugly grey cement. The marker remains too, but who now would go out of their way to visit these sad remnants that today speak eloquently of our disregard for the past? And lest I be accused of singling out Spain in this respect, this is a scenario that is repeated a thousand times every day across the world, where the little treasures of vernacular architecture are being lost because they are supposedly too expensive to maintain, while at the same time, multi-billion pound/euro/dollar excrescences of metal and concrete are being frenetically thrown up in a wild crusade to rid our towns and cities of character and atmosphere.

Rest in peace, Arco de Somera. You live on only in paintings and drawings and memories, and your loss should be a reminder that the loss of our historical, architectural and natural heritage diminishes us all.

         

Conquest Day - El Dia de la Toma

 

View of The Alhambra, Granada.

One of the great successes of Spanish National Television over the last few years has been the epic historical drama, "Isabel", a glitzy, no-expenses-spared retelling of how Queen Isabel and her husband Ferdinand united the Christian States of 15th Century Iberia and vanquished the last of the region's Moslem monarchs to bring about the birth of modern Spain.

The price of DVDs being what it is, I will wait until the box set of all three seasons of Isabel loses ground to the next big budget blockbuster and settles at a rather more affordable price. But I have seen enough of it to engender much scratching of the head in bemusement as I try to reconcile the glamorous, blond haired fantasy Isabel with the portraits and historical descriptions that present her as plump and with the round faced aspect of  a "peasant girl".

Cosmetic enhancement in order to create a more aesthetically pleasing Isabel aside, the historical events of the 2nd of January are celebrated in Granada as a local holiday, because it was on this day in 1492 that the forces of Isabel and Ferdinand entered the city of Granada, thus drawing the curtain down over nearly eight centuries of Islamic Al-Andalus and completing the Christian Reconquest of the region. The anniversary is marked by a ceremony in the Royal Chapel of Granada's cathedral, a parade combining both religious and secular elements, and culminates in the waving of banners and a salute to the victorious Catholic monarchs.

But what about the other player in the story of the demise of Moslem Granada? Abu abd-Allah Muhammed XII, far better known as Boabdil, was the last of the Nasrids, the final line of Moslem rulers to reign in Iberia. Short-lived though it was, the Nasrid dynasty flowered briefly and in spectacular fashion for it is the Nasrids who constructed that paragon of Islamic art and culture, the world-renowned Alhambra.

The story of how Boabdil gazed back tearfully at Granada on his way into exile and was reprimanded by his mother for doing so, has entered into popular myth and bears all the hallmarks of a romanticization of the truth. But the real story of Boabdil and the demise of Al-Andalus makes for fascinating reading. Sadly, Boabdil has been so eclipsed by the glory of the vanquishing Isabel and Ferndinand that it is difficult to track down a cohesive history of his life that does not merely concentrate on a rehashing of the myths (for anyone interested in this subject, I have written an article entitled "Boabdil - Spain's Last Moslem King" and would be happy to send you a copy.)

As anyone who knows anything about recording the past will agree, written history is usually a prerogative of the victorious and of the movers of church, business and the state for whom detailing unbiased fact is often not to their advantage. To add to the problem of getting an unbiased overview, modern historians love to bicker amongst themselves and challenge each other's take on the past. All to the good, maybe, in arriving at a more balanced understanding? Well, sometimes this leads to a disjointed picture of stark opposing monochrome that lacks the subtle shades of in-between that really make up this complex world of ours.

This is certainly the case with Al-Andalus and the Reconquest, depending on which of the more polarised accounts you read. For example, the Islamic era saw a flowering of culture, artistic achievement and scientific excellence, and the various Moslem dynasties exhibited a remarkable degree of tolerance towards the Jewish and Christian inhabitants of their domains. According to others, it was a period of intolerance, cruelty and the suppression and subjugation of women. In a similar way, the Reconquest and founding of modern Spain was either the glorious culmination of a holy crusade to vanquish the infidel Moors, or it unleashed the horrors of the Catholic Inquisition with its torture and burning of heretics, and the sustained persecution and expulsion of the Jews and the Moslems.

Look at it this way, and the 2nd of January is more than just a holiday. It seems that Isabel and her dramatized ascent to superstar status has the upper hand, while even something as seemingly innocent as a procession through Granada and an "All Hail to the Catholic Monarchs" has the power to perpetuate this imbalance. But spare a thought for Boabdil today, and let's not forget the marvellous legacy that he and his predecessors gave Spain in the form of their culture, architecture, music, cuisine and language.     

       

The Rain In Spain

It is cold. Very cold. Penetratingly and achingly cold. The last day of 2014 was one of searingly blue skies and towards mid afternoon, it was possible to feel some genuine warmth out on the terrace and in the more sheltered parts of the town centre, but once the shadows begin to lengthen, so do the temperatures plummet. Last night in Granada the chill was forecast to drop as low as -6 Celsius, from which we can knock off another degree or so for Alfacar and add in the wind chill factor. This all led to a shivering, tooth chattering walk to my local bar for my customary holiday coffee and glass of warming cognac.

So what, I hear you say? These are rather unexceptional temperatures for the New Year, aren't they? Well, yes... but bear in mind that we are talking about the south of Spain here, with its reputation of being the favourite and meteorologically predictable sun, sea and sand destination of the package holiday multitudes.

But there's so much more to Spain than the holiday costas, crammed into a tiny coastal fringe that occupies a fraction of the country's landmass. I am convinced that the huge majority of tourists heading for Torremolinos and Marbella have no idea that the highest mountains in Europe outside the Alps and the Caucasus are just an hour or two up the road, nor that these same mountains, the Sierra Nevada, are the location for Europe's most southerly ski centre. If I go to the window after nightfall and look out, I can see the cold twinkle of its lights huddled beneath the 11,148 foot peak of Veleta. What I cannot see from my terrace is the summit of Mulhacen which, at 11,413 ft, is the highest mountain in the Iberian Peninsular, and one that presides over a unique and highly endangered alpine ecosystem that has been completely isolated from similar montane habitats for thousands of years.

Veleta from Alfacar



To put this into perspective, the highest point to which you can ascend to in faraway, chilly England is the 3,209 ft Scafell Pike. Alfacar and I are situated just a little over 200 feet lower than this, where altitude plus latitude certainly make for some very interesting weather. Us Brits do like our seasons neatly ordered, as with so many other things in life. Winter should be cold but not excessively so, and there must be an acceptable number of days during which it snows moderately. Spring is a time of gentle rains and ascending temperatures; it may be blustery in March, but certainly not in May. Summer should permit a modicum of decently attired sunbathing in parks and gardens but woe betide the weather if it dares indulge in a drought or a hosepipe ban, because then it will get its bottom spanked by the BBC and sent to bed without any supper. And so forth into Autumn, the proverbial season of "mists and mellow fruitfulness" which if it knows what's good for it, like likewise not risk upsetting those delicate British sensibilities.

The climate of Granada is, in comparison, positively misbehaved. From biting winds, black ice on the roads and more snow than I ever saw in the north of England, Winter can lurch with scarcely any warning into the flood zone, with torrential downpours and cataracts of muddy, gravelly water charging through the narrow, poorly drained streets of Alfacar. The following day might be warm enough for you to strip off all those stifling winter woollies and venture out in attire more suited to a London July. The day after might bring enough snow to accumulate and linger for several days, especially if followed by a hard freeze.

 

View from Viznar towards Alfacar and the Sierra Elvira

Spring, like Santa and honest politicians, is something that few people here actually believe in. There is a saying in Granada that there are only two seasons - summer and winter. While this is not exactly the case, the transition from cold to heat is pronounced and so rapid that if you blink, you are liable to miss it. The first signs of Spring, however, appear during the coldest months because even at these altitudes the first brave almond trees venture to flower in January. A brief fuzz of green and a gorgeous kaleidoscope of wild flowers occupies a transient window of opportunity before the sun reclaims its throne and banishes any hint of rain for months on end, and for many people any chance of a comfortable night's sleep. In July and August, daytime temperatures remain in the mid 30s, peaking at a little over 40 now and then, and this is the way things are until Autumn sneaks past unobtrusively, turning the odd leaf yellow as it tries to remain un-noticed. Then, suddenly, Winter is here, throwing open the door and making itself completely at home like an unannounced and not entirely welcome guest.

The Granada climate has the ability to surprise by coming up with everything imaginable with which to spice up the two-season system. At such altitude, we often have our head in the clouds, while at other times Alfacar floats above a mysterious sea of fog that obliterates the Vega (the plains around Granada). There are violent showers of giant hailstones, sudden hot winds that blow up from Africa and create havoc on the terrace by throwing container plants around, even the occasional tornado (I saw a small one here a few years ago and recently, a spectacular water spout was caught on film down on the Granada coast). With such incredible views over the plains, I can watch storms brewing 50 kilometres away, and the peaks of the Sierra Nevada give rise to the most spectacular lenticular clouds I have ever seen.

The weather helps create of Granada a veritable photographers paradise and opens up opportunities for keen gardeners like myself that I could not have contemplated in the endless damp of northern England. But that is something for another day. In the meantime, here's wishing you all an excellent New Year.