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Finding La Alpujarra of Gerald Brenan + 80 Years Arriving at Coruna on the northwest coast of the province of Galicia he was discouraged by what he saw but nevertheless spent a few days walking there before travelling south through drab landscapes in a train that seemed to be in no hurry to depart from any of the stations en route to Madrid. After a brief miserable rain soaked spell in the capital and eager to encounter more pleasant surroundings he shouldered his sodden backpack and moved onwards south to Granada. He found a university city spectacularly sited below the northern slopes of the Sierra Nevada and while the snowfalls upon the city are very moderate the highest points of the Sierra seem to be eternally draped with a speckled white mantle. Lying before Granada is an enormous fertile vega {plain} where a diverse and astonishing quantity of crops are produced. Brenan’s chosen destination was an area deeper into Andalucia known as ‘La Alpujarra’. He walked south from the city and upon encountering more pleasing countryside across the western flank of the Sierra Nevada strode out swiftly with resolute, confident strides South from Granada. Reading Gerald Brenan’s book of that name I had been fascinated by his descriptions of everyday life during those early years in Spain and enchanted by the sights, sounds and smells that reached out to me from the pages. Travelling on foot in September 1919 his desperate need to preserve money obliged him to sleep rough or in cheap ‘Posadas’ where the culture was such that the evening meal was eaten with spoons from a communal plate set in the centre of the table. In these hostelries where men and beasts were quartered close together he might lie on a straw mattress sharing the floor with snoring, scratching, snorting muleteers. As the animals were under the same roof he would hear their scraping and neighing, interspersed by sounds of after supper droppings, throughout the night. The climate was yet warm enough for stillness in the air so that the odours from fully clothed unwashed humans, fortified with Anis spirit, intertwined with the stench and steam from the beasts to hover like a heat haze in the moonlit space above the figures scrunched upon the stone floor. Brenan was an athletic man endowed with a sturdy constitution and real love of adventure and it was clear from the outset that he would need all of these attributes aplenty. Gerald Brenan began searching for a place to settle when he reached the western limits of La Alpujarra, a lush fertile band embracing some eighty villages and hamlets that have the appearance of having been strewn across the slopes of Southern Sierra Nevada like blown petals but are in fact snugly situated in accord with the terrain. Finding a suitable house in a pleasing location took three weeks as he first walked southwards towards the Mediterranean but turned to the east short of reaching the coast to search among the hidden away villages on the lower slopes before finally heading north again where he found his desired haven in a little village called Yegen. With one of Europe’s highest mountains, the mighty snow draped Mulhacen, rising to 11,412 feet behind him he could stand on the roof of his house and look south to the coastline some 40 kilometres below and yet further across the sea to Africa. During his years in Yegen he walked all over La Alpujarra and the high sierra and in his book he describes many of these journeys. Taking a short break from his studies and the routine of village life in the summer of 1921 he set off to explore the mountains mindful that robbers were known to roam these heights. Close to the summit of the Mulhacen there are numerous lagunas [lakes] and a curious legend is attached to one named ‘Laguna Vacares’. In the depths of this Laguna a Moorish king built a palace in which there dwells for eternity a stunningly beautiful woman who has an insatiable lust to sleep with men. At times she takes the form of a white bird by the edge of the laguna tempting shepherds and hunters to approach and then pulling them beneath the icy waters. During darkness she walks the area of the laguna in her own voluptuous shape seeking sleeping travellers to lie beside and seduce before carrying them off exhausted to her palace in the deepest water. Wanting to test the legend and be on the summit to experience a sunrise Brenan passed a cold night close to that lake in his sleeping bag but fortunately for his readers no houri princess squirmed in beside him to warm his wait. At daybreak he was on the highest point of the Mulhacen watching the sun arcing as a golden ball across the sierras to his east as before him the night coverlet folded back over the coast of Africa from Oman to the Strait of Gibraltar. There was an occasion when, suffering from an attack of dysentery, he had need to travel to Malaga and complains that because of his condition it took him five days to walk the 215 kilometres! More staggering is his feat the time he had the idea of walking home across the mountains to Yegen from Granada in one day. Leaving Granada at three in the morning and crossing the sierra at a height of 8,000 feet he was home in the village at ten o’clock that night having made two short halts for sustenance. The distance was not less than 100 kilometres but he demeans his effort by saying that one can walk forever on the high mountain! This was the man whose presence I sought to be aware of on my trip -
‘South from Granada’. "The fuel gauge is at the 1/2 point so please return it the same way. Here is the roadside assistance number. Leave the car in this car park with the parking ticket and the car keys in the boot. If you decide not to leave it here contact me by telephone and we will agree another pick-up location. Adios y buen viaje!" Another handshake, a smile, and I was alone with the car. My rucksack went from my back into the boot of my modern mule - La Alpujarra was calling and I was impatient to answer and immerse myself in exploring the places brought to life for me by Brenan. From Almeria I took a tour via Guadix, Cordoba and Granada thence over a well-paved road that carried very little traffic to the entry point of the western Alpujarra at Lanjaron. The name of this small town [there are no large towns in La Alpujarra] is extremely well known for the qualities of the water bottled there and sold in huge quantities all over Spain and abroad. There is also a health spa and baths dating from the 17th century where the water is reputed to possess exceptional mineral and medicinal properties. In the cool of the evening the devotees can be seen strolling along the road taking in the clean, invigorating air. As it was early February business was slack. When asking about accommodation I was informed there were lots of rooms available but no hot water. The plumber was apparently on his way to effect repairs though when I enquired as to his expected time of arrival received the customary, ‘your guess is as good as mine’, without a word being spoken. Maria Carmen, who runs the place, charmingly indicated this in typical fashion by raising her shoulders, eyebrows, and lower jaw while looking at me and extending her arms to show open palms. Declaring that I was hardy enough to survive an overnight stay without the comfort of hot water I was at once accompanied upstairs and shown a room for my approval. This was the norm in La Alpujarra rather than the present-day attitude of having a key dangled and hearing - "Room 206, second floor, turn right.". To reach the accommodation on the first floor I had to climb an outside staircase that led on to a corridor running the length of the building and giving access to the rooms. Between the stair-top landing and this corridor was a door of metal and wire mesh to which I was given a key and advised to use it if I went out, and before retiring for the night. Maria Carmen was in charge and the general factotum who attended to everything including the preparation and serving of my food although her husband was in the restaurant, {looking after the television} when I was the only person dining. There were but one or two customers in the bar while a covey of small children laughed and ran around playing by the front of the building, underlining the absence of traffic. I went up early to my room and it was not too long before all sounds from below ceased, lights went out and I was completely alone in the sleeping quarters atop the deserted bar-restaurant. As Brenan used to sleep out rough in all kind of localities I welcomed my solitude as a wonderfully peaceful experience almost as though, like him, I was with nature on the high sierra. Before retiring for the night I had been asked about my breakfast needs and at what time I would like to eat. As I could let myself out early in the morning to take a stroll I said that there was no rush for breakfast and asked what time would be suitable for her. "Well, by the time I get ‘los ninos’ ready and off to school, around 9 o’clock would suit me." And so, at that hour I was enjoying the so delicious café that all of Spain serves. Having lived in Andalucia for a number of years and become accustomed
to their café I do not in the least enjoy the instant brews that are served
in Britain under the name of café. In a local Indian-owned store at home
I bought a Spanish made percolator for about £15 and using good ground
coffee enjoy a taste that at least suggests the real thing!
As the team, for really they appeared to be old friends knowing what had to be done before they could set out for home together, opened a furrow the ploughman’s wife followed behind carrying a blue plastic bucket containing pieces of cut potatoes. As the women of Brenan's era she sported coloured clothing and was dressed in a white polka-dot household smock with a turquoise coloured front and red piping around the neck opening. Alas, there was no head-handkerchief adorning her short modern-styled red hair. With accuracy achieved from many years of planting she threw potatoes
into the furrow at precise intervals. She then stood aside as the team
manipulated the turn to take yet another cut in the soil in the reverse
direction that had the effect of covering the potatoes she had thrown
down. Exchanging greetings the ploughing halted just long enough for me
to learn that the couple were from Mairena and that the potatoes would
be ready to eat towards the end of the month of June. I took two photos
of the enchanting scene and when I visit Mairena at the end of September
am confident will need only show them to the first person I see to be
given the names of the couple and directed to their home. Of course I
shall hope to get hold of a potato or two as I had willingly made myself
a partner to the sowing, if only in my thoughts! Water was supplied via an aqueduct from a spring close to Alhama. It was from Los Millares, or a settlement a hundred kilometres away close to the town of Antas, that a small party of these people set off in search of land with more abundant water and better pastures. They travelled up the east coast of the Mediterranean then north through France and, after wandering for several generations, arrived at the English Channel. The distance of water to cross was shorter at that time and so these doughty nomads, desperate to find a new land where they would be safe from attack, constructed skin coracles to carry them and their animals across the sea - westwards to landfall. Reaching their new land they settled in fenced villages on the chalk downs, cultivated the soil, kept sheep and cattle, spun linen, made their style of pottery and now and then ate each other. Their ancestors had left sunny, arid Spain some generations ago to find land that was well watered and Brenan muses upon them sitting shivering in damp huts watching the rain bucketing down while singing their version of ‘Rain Rain Go To Spain’ and perhaps contemplating the odyssey in reverse! Millions of British people visit Spain and so, perhaps unknowingly,
a number of us are returning to what was the land of our ancestors some
4700 years ago. Excerpt of 3400 words - from article of 11200 in total
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I
spent one evening here in venta ‘El Bunuelo’ a pleasant pension located
by the side of the little used main road at the eastern exit from the
town. The name comes from a very popular sweet treat that is a type of
doughnut fritter. My room was large with bathroom suite, a sun terrace
and small balcony that looked across a green ravine to the main group
of buildings that is Lanjaron proper. The cost of my night’s stay
was £6 plus a modest sum for an enjoyable dinner served exclusively for
me with no obligation to share and the use of a full silver service with
which to eat!
hamlet I stopped to watch man and beasts perform one of the most typical
and ageless of rural tasks as they cut furrows in the land with an ancient
plough. The strip of ground was approximately 50 x 30 metres with a
lone somewhat dishevelled olive tree clinging to its space in the centre
line of the plot though nearer the right side. The ‘hombre’ steering
the simple slender blade through the fertile soil was small of stature
and was dressed in blue jeans with a v-necked sweater worn over an open
shirt while, seeming to be part of him, a small black beret sat somewhat
jauntily back from his forehead. As the width of the plot was narrow
he had to turn the plough frequently and this involved him in considerable
lifting and manipulating of the instrument as he cajoled his ‘helpers’
to change tack and restart pulling. Apart from his voice the hombre
carried a 4-foot strip of cane that he used more to show rather than
use upon his beasts. These were and aged duo of grey mule with ears
sticking straight up in the air and a small dark brown donkey whose
long ears stuck out parallel to the ground. They looked a pretty cute,
if not cantankerous and conspiring, pair of pals who would doubtless
do, or not do, things their way if it were not that persuasion was seen
to be on hand. 