A
ll about
www.theolivepress.es
The
Alpujarra
of Granada June 2022
IDYLLIC: Vista over Cañar, while (below) Garcia Lorca and Jo Chipchase
Nowhere to Lorca, everything to me F
EDERICO Garcia Lorca once described La Alpujarra as ‘the land of nowhere’, and this remained true when I first visited in the early 2000s. It was as if time stood still in the charming, white villages and the vast, open spaces with the background hum of crickets. Our trip was to see friends who had bought land near the village of Lobras, a 45-minute drive from the spiritual, central hub of Orgiva, where they could enjoy a slower pace of life, restore a ruin, and keep animals. Fresh off the plane from Malaga Airport, I was immediately impressed by the Alpujarran landscape with its imposing mountains that dropped down to leafy terraces laden with olive groves, and just about any fruit tree you could name. While the winding roads seemed to go on
After a series of holidays in the Alpujarra, journalist Jo Chipchase upped sticks and moved her family to the region over a decade ago forever, the views and closeness to nature more than compensated for the distance. The endless sunshine and – of course - the local vino and tapas was a great bonus. On a later visit to the village of Almegijar, my friends and I lost the booking itinerary and our sense of direction. Hopelessly wandering the Sierra de Contraviesa, miles off-route, we passed through a small village where people were laying down what looked like twigs in the road (years later, I discovered this was esparto grass, used for weaving the likes of shoes and blinds and lampshades).
Lemon As the designated driver, I couldn’t decide what to do – continue over the unknown material or stop and wait for guidance. The famous book on the region, Driving Over Lemons, by Chris Stewart had taken over a new meaning: Were we driving over someone’s livelihood? On that occasion, we waited, I am pleased to report.
We eventually found Almegijar, and discovered that our accommodation was a rustic farmhouse, shared with several generations of the host family. The traditional Spaniards looked bemused as we downed a five-litre bottle of grandpa’s ‘costavin’, before passing out on the lawn, in the true style of mad dogs and Englishmen in the midday sun. Back in those days, I was a ‘townie’ and had few skills that could apply to rural settings. Changing bottles of butane gas to shower and cook can be difficult if you’re used to England’s piped supply. Going out in the mountains with friends, it took me a while to realise that a hot day didn’t automatically equate to a warm night. I remember trying to borrow someone’s yoga mat as a cover, because I was shivering, and was curtly Continues on next page