We wanted to escape winter in Blighty so took up the invitation to visit the Malaga region in January 2009. We, consisted of six of us, friends from way back plus husbands, and the plan was to stay in Malaga center for the processions and sweet throwing, then make our way to the mountains of Axarquia to stay in a villa just below the highest peak, "La Maroma,"(The Rope), named after an ancient ice house located close to the summit. We were looking forward to mild temperatures and a glimpse of an Almond tree in early blossom among the Olives.
So far, so good. It was wonderful to be in such a remote place and have it to ourselves. We set off one evening for the local village of Camares dressed appropriately for Spring and the local taverna "Raffles." The owner was permanently wheelchair bound after falling from the mountainside some years ago.
We were on a narrow, unmade street, when we entered the bar, our intention was to stay some time. In under an hour of tapas nibbling and wine sampling the scene changed to shrieks and arm-waving, people rushing in talking in high-speed dialect, then we made it to the doorway. In the time we had been happily consuming it had snowed heavily, over 9 inches in old money. I glanced at my silly, flimsy shoes.
It was falling like inflated golf balls and we hadn't a coat between us not to
mention any transport. An angel, in the form of a local woman of the village found
waterproofs and fitted her size four boots onto my feet and off we went. It was blinding, driven, lots of words would fit. People were joyous, out celebrating, clinking wine glasses and bottles along the deepening road. Washing was stiff and white on lines. One man was in tears as he hadn't seen any snow for 47 years and now there was snow we could hardly trudge through. The village left behind, with darkness at our backs for the first time we felt a twinge of fear.
Now we were on our own some of the excitement diminished but this was an adventure wasn't it? Then, a 4 by 4 pulled up and offered us 'girls' a lift so we piled in leaving the men behind reluctantly. The snow filled the windscreen as he talked incomprehensibly and we tried to respond. We reached a fork in the road got out and stood together with steep drops on either side, white everywhere and suddenly the lights were switched off, but where? The village of Solaris, in the valley to the left of us was as black as pitch. I remember that moment now and how otherworldly and magical it was walking in the silent night, arriving back, the men returning safely.
The next morning the roads had been cleared. We were amazed but most of the snow had thawed leaving the odd patch on a few surprised plants, the experience remained fixed into ours and the villagers memories, where it is still casts its spell.
Real Weather at LastI haven't brought my glassesyou wear someone's hat, not a street-map between us, or clue whose borrowed boots I'm tramping in. Flakes drive us, huge as fists, in the photos they'll be glowing ballsof hellish fire, lighting our fadeto indistinct. We could pray, but we pass a man's unsullied joyat white not witnessed for forty-seven years. His laugh absolves us as we striveyour jacket wraithed in sleet. This world feels for us, lets us go, two half realised ghosts, you supporting me in my lagging, borrow-booted crawl.C Kitchen. Thank you for reading. Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
