The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society

by Chris Stewart

  I rocked forward and lowered the bota to finish, with barely a drop dribbling down my front.

  ‘Uggh, costa,’ I said, grimacing, and wiping my mouth on my forearm. ‘I mean, you can drink the stuff but you can never really like it. Can you?’

  ‘What nonsense, tonto,’ said Paco sharply. ‘Of course you can enjoy costa, and the one you’re drinking is perfectly good.’ And, as if to illustrate the point, he lifted the bota from my unworthy hands and took a long, satisfying pull.

  ‘You must understand, Cristóbal,’ José explained, ‘that you can’t approach costa like those fancy Catalan wines you favour. You have to bear in mind the fierce conditions up there in the Contraviesa, the hardship and the pain of caring for those old vines by hand.’

  ‘That’s the truth,’ interjected Paco, ‘but you’ve become too delicado to notice. Consorting with all those literary folks has shrivelled your balls – you no longer know the meaning of physical work.’

  Paco had touched a nerve here: having spent nearly thirty years of my life making a living from manual labour of one sort or another, I found it hard to think of writing as a proper job. Somehow, earning money from sitting at a table with a book and a pen, doesn’t feel quite… well, honest. In an attempt to defend myself I told them about the appalling costas I’d drunk on my shearing jobs, and suggested that most of these wines had industrial alcohol added to the vat.

  My fellow members of the Society winced at the very idea. ‘You’ve been prejudiced by your too narrow experience, my friend,’ José chided me. ‘Trust us. We’ll get you some decent costa before the day is out, and see if we can’t change your mind.’ And with that he raised the bota again and took another few mouthfuls. This talk of fine wine was making him thirsty.

  We continued along the cobbled way to the village of Notáez, whose pretty patios and little squares were displaying the signs of an early spring – lemon trees were bursting into bud, bougainvillea draped itself across the stone walls and succulents burst exuberantly over the edge of their pots. Passing through the village we struck up the hill towards Cástaras. As we walked we talked of the demise of local agriculture, and of the caminos, the mule tracks built in the times of the Romans or the Moors and only now falling into disrepair.

  The camino that we were following wound among the village’s few remaining cultivated terraces, some so tiny as to be barely worth the effort. A terrace might contain a single orange tree, surrounded by a dozen lovingly tended haba plants, a clump or two of poppies and a few feathery wild fennel in the corner by the rocks. In places streams of water cascaded over stone walls to spread across a tiny paddy field of deep green alfalfa, or along the furrows of a potato patch. We stopped and admired the beauty of the painstaking work.

  ‘Do you know what a vergel is?’ asked Paco.

  ‘Claro,’ said José.

  ‘No, I mean Cristóbal, tonto. Of course you know!’

  ‘What is a vergel, then?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s one of those old words that come from the Arabic,’ Paco explained. ‘Of course it is, it still sounds like Arabic and it means “garden” but with just a hint of art and a bigger hint of paradise. Anyway, these are vergeles, and by the time Chloë, Paz and Aretx have children they’ll all be gone, and with them the beauty and richness of these villages will be lost for good.’

  Paco loves agriculture with a passion; he’s the sort of man who can be moved to tears by the sight of a well-made dung heap. To walk in the Alpujarras with him is a revelation. He will describe the different agricultural styles of men or villages as if they were painters or composers, each with his own distinctive signature.

  From the endangered vergeles of Notáez we passed by means of an ascending zigzag path into wide open country with rolling hills of almond groves, teetering on the brink of the great gulf of air that separated us from the long range of the Contraviesa. This was what we had come to see. For an hour or more we walked beneath a luminous cloud of blossom amongst the twisted black trunks of the trees. Larks sang invisible from high in the air above their nests, a cock crowed from a distant cortijo and the breeze sighed gently amongst the fronds of broom.

  Apart from an occasional ‘ooh’ or ‘ay’, we didn’t say much. There wasn’t much to say. To feast upon the beauty of the flowering almonds was the reason for our expedition. There seemed little point in telling one another over and again how impressed we were. Glutted with the loveliness of it all, we smiled inanely at one another now and then or watched with pleasure as José shook his head and whistled quietly to himself, or Paco, with a sprig of lavender behind his ear, caught some falling petals and pasted them to the sweat of his forehead. I suppose the air, too, was filled with the delicate scent of almond blossom, but I’ve never been able to smell it myself. Paco and José both swore that if you cut a branch of almond blossom and bring it into the house, it fills the room with a scent of marzipan and honey.

  ‘In Cástaras we’ll stop for sustenance… accompanied by the fine wines of the Contraviesa,’ announced José importantly. ‘Cástaras is just around the corner.’ But Cástaras was not round the corner, nor the next one. When finally we caught sight of the village it was time to sit down together and take another pull at the bota.

  Cástaras is the last village of the western Alpujarras – or the first, depending on where you’re coming from. Over the watershed begins the different landscape of the east, with its cinnabar mines and parched and deeply eroded hills. As a counterpoint to the change, Cástaras is as lush as an Andalucian village can be. It’s set high on an impregnable rock in a forest of giant poplars, watered by the steep river whose sound fills the valley as it cascades from the towering cliffs above. Until a few years ago the place fell into almost complete abandonment as the population left in search of an easier, less isolated life. But new inhabitants have been trickling in, and little by little the pretty village is coming back to life.

  We threaded our way through the narrow streets and came out in the main square, where a couple of plastic tables from the posada had been placed out in the sun. Both were occupied by couples engaged in gnawing on what looked like crusty rolls filled with omelette – bocadillo de tortilla. We decided to sit inside and drew up three stools to the bar. A tall thin youth with a mane of black hair emerged from behind a curtain, wiping his hands on a rather questionable-looking black cloth. He looked at us enquiringly.

  ‘Give us some wine,’ ordered Paco, ‘and we’ll drink while we think what we’re going to eat.’

  Three small tumblers appeared, to be filled with a deep red wine from a jug that stood beneath the bar. For a tapa came a dish of home-cured olives – little black and purple arbequinas. They were delicious… it boded well. We drank a little wine and started to think about what we would like to eat.

  ‘Right,’ said Paco turning to me. ‘What do you make of the wine?’ I took a few little sips then held it up to the light.

  ‘Mmm,’ I mused. ‘I rather like it. It’s fruity and full-bodied and interesting with no sourness, and it’s a lovely deep red, as opposed to most costas, which are more… brown.’ I hadn’t really a clue what to say. It tasted like a hundred other costas; but I knew all those words in both languages and they seemed not inappropriate.

  Paco and José were both now looking at me with what I thought was a pitying sort of a look.

  ‘This is a foul wine, Cristóbal,’ said Paco.

  ‘Foul is too strong a word,’ said José. ‘It’s not that bad, but it might have been a little better a few months ago. You’ve got to drink these wines young; they only get worse with time.’

  Paco sniffed the wine disdainfully. ‘Unless I’m mistaken,’ he said, ‘this one’s from Los Garcías de Verdevique. They usually do much better than this. I suspect it’s been in that jarra too long.’

  He called into the kitchen: ‘Some more wine when you’ve a moment, but make it a different one this time.’ Out came the youth, wiping his hands on his cloth. He fished about for a minute b
eneath the counter, then came up with another jarra. Oddly enough he didn’t offer to change our glasses, but refilled them with the new wine.

  ‘So, what have you got for us to eat?’ asked Paco.

  ‘I can do you a bocadillo de tortilla if you don’t mind waiting a bit.’

  We masticated this information.

  ‘What else have you got?’ asked Paco.

  ‘Nothing else, just bocadillo de tortilla,’ came the practised reply.

  We consulted one another, considering for a while the ramifications of this extensive menu. None of us particularly fancied bocadillo de tortilla. The youth stood patiently by, chewing slowly. ‘Well then, what’s it going to be?’ he asked pleasantly as he refilled the tiny glasses.

  ‘Hmm,’ mumbled José. ‘It’s not an easy choice… but I reckon we’ll be having three bocadillos de tortilla…’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Three bocadillos de tortilla.’ And he wrote it down on a notepad and disappeared through the curtain.

  The three of us were left alone in the bar. From a tinny loudspeaker came a radio programme of jazz and flamenco. We addressed ourselves once more to draining our glasses. This one was a more costa-like costa, pinkish brown and viscous. We all sipped and sat back. It really didn’t seem bad this time, but I decided not to commit myself; I would wait for the experts to pronounce their verdict. As I watched them they seemed suddenly to be suffused with pleasure, to swell a little with the bloom of well-being that a good wine brings you.

  ‘Now, this one’s a better wine, Cristóbal,’ announced José. ‘Can you not perceive the difference? That last one, though rich and ruby red as you say, caked the mouth with a layer like pig fat does and would therefore be useless to accompany a meal…’

  ‘Whereas this delicious little wine,’ continued Paco, ‘fills your mouth with a blossoming vapour as it warms to your body temperature. It prepares the palate for the pleasure of food just as it prepares the soul for the pleasures of love.’ José and I both put down our glasses and stared hard at Paco, who was watching out for the youth to order a refill. ‘Paco,’ said José, ‘I should never have let you see those letters. I’m afraid the poetry’s gone clean to your head.’

  Later, in the heat of the afternoon, we got lost on the hill; the path vanished, and after crashing ineffectually about in the scrub for a time, we found ourselves beside an espartalón, a patch of esparto grass that looked like a reedy marsh, stranded on the dry hill. Esparto – Stipa tenacissima – is one of the defining plants of the Mediterranean. It grows abundantly in the wilder parts of Andalucía higher than a thousand metres above sea level. It’s a tough, wiry grass, coarse and virtually unbreakable – you can even tie knots with it. It was traditionally one of the great resources of the rural poor, used for making shoes, ropes, mats, baskets – anything that is now made with plastic or rubber.

  We sat on a rock for a while and tried to get our bearings, while Paco absent-mindedly began plaiting some strands of grass. ‘Have you ever met Agustín?’ he asked.

  ‘Which Agustín? I know at least four Agustines.’

  ‘Agustín Góngora, the old man who has the esparto museum in Torvizcón.’

  ‘Ah, no. But I’ve been wanting to meet him and see his museum for years.’

  ‘Then let’s go and see the old comunista right now,’ said Paco, jumping to his feet and heading off down towards the river.

  My enthusiasm was genuine. I had been intrigued by Agustín Góngora for years, ever since filling up the car with petrol in Torvizcón. Some years ago a certain Pepe Vílchez, a native of the village, had a big win on the National Lottery and with the spoils he decided to indulge his oldest and dearest fantasy, and built a colossal petrol station by the bridge at the bottom of the village. The crowning glory of this Herodean work was a niche set into the wall by the Coca-Cola vending machine, wherein was displayed an esparto statue of a mule accompanied by a couple of officers of the Guardia Civil. They wore the unmistakable patent leather tricorn hats and belts and were properly hung with holsters and guns. But that aside, they were buck naked – and stupendously endowed – with every feature exquisitely fashioned from esparto. This deliciously irreverent tableau, I was told, was an original Góngora. It was there for years, but (sad to relate) the last time I went there it had disappeared.

  We passed through the tangled back streets of Torvizcón until we reached a large house with a broad vine-shaded terrace. I remarked on the crowd milling around, chattering and enjoying the warm evening air.

  ‘That’s not a crowd,’ said Paco. ‘That’s Agustín’s family.’

  We negotiated the throng of squabbling babies and children, mothers, fathers and aunts, until we came to the man himself, a brown-skinned, white-haired ancient, the undisputed king of this lively court. Paco embraced him warmly.

  ‘Hola, Agustín. I’ve brought a couple of friends to see you.’

  Agustín rose and shook our hands, studying us with his quick smiling eyes. ‘Encantado,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ll be wanting to see the museum.’ And, so saying, he led the way round the back of the house and unlocked a low green door. ‘There was talk of installing my museum in some grander building down in the town,’ he told us. ‘But I prefer to keep it up here so the family can enjoy it and I can exercise some control over how it’s run.’

  The museum was a typical Alpujarran house, a maze of small rooms with whitewashed walls and low beam and cane ceilings, also whitewashed. It was populated by a fantastic array of improbable characters and creatures. I walked from room to room, spellbound by what I saw. People had told me that Agustín had an extraordinary talent, but I had no idea that he was this good. And the man was just the same, his sparkle and wicked wit undiminished by his eighty years or more, giving us a running commentary as we passed among his fabulous creations.

  The singer Lola Flores was there, demurely clad, as was Miguel Ríos, the Granada rocker. A hoity-toity schoolmistress sat sidesaddle on muleback, going home for the holidays, while a voluptuous poultry-maid stood naked amid a hilarious gaggle of esparto chickens. There were local characters and satirical political figures, most of them semi-naked and all artfully and wittily crafted from esparto grass.

  ‘Now what do you think this is?’ the artist asked with a wicked grin, waving a couple of unfathomable creations at us. ‘Not the first glimmer of an idea…’ I ventured.

  ‘It’s a bra,’ he snorted. ‘And these are esparto knickers. It’s all that’s left of my lingerie line. I’ve been working on this for ten years now, but most of the more interesting creations are in Madrid. They’re going to get models to wear them on a catwalk for a TV show. The producer rang me the other day and complained that the knickers were too big and kept falling down, so I’m making some esparto braces to keep them up.’

  I wondered aloud if I ought to buy a set for the wife. Paco shook his head. ‘Do you really want to go home stinking of costa and bearing a pair of esparto knickers?’ he asked. Perhaps not. A stunt like that could bring the reputation of the Almond Blossom Appreciation Society into serious disrepute.

  THE WAVE OF COLD

  IN 2004 IT RAINED IN JUNE. Two hours of torrential downpour made rivers in the dust and the hot pine trees steamed, filling the air with heady scent. Then it stopped, and we knew that it wouldn’t rain again till autumn. September came in hot and dry and, though there were some tantalisingly cloudy days towards the end of the month, not a drop of rain fell. And the same in October. If it doesn’t rain in October people start to scratch their heads and worry: this is the time when most of the year’s rain tends to fall, not gently like the spring showers, but in great bursts that wash away mountain tracks and flood the river-beds and acequia channels. The lack of rain that year became a talking point, as old sayings were dusted off and bandied about. The Spanish, who are much given to pithy and often meaningless rhymes, have a doom-laden saying for just about any weather condition in any season. The air that autumn was thick with gloomy predictions in doggere
l, but still there was no rain.

  So there was no grass, either. The baked earth of summer stayed the same, whereas normally one of the beauties of autumn is the film of fine green grass that spreads like a low-lying mist across the parched land. In November the coolness turned to cold, and the days were filled with a beautiful clear autumn light. Some clouds gathered around the tops of the Sierra Nevada and in the morning we woke to see a sprinkling of new snow on the peaks. But that was all; no rain fell in November. It doesn’t rain a lot in December anyway, so by Christmas there was a tangible feeling of concern. And the incipient drought was not just confined to Andalucía; the whole of Spain was affected, including dank Galicia in the north. Reservoirs throughout the country were low, and in the mountains the springs began to dwindle as the aquifers that fed them dropped to critical levels.

  By Boxing Day the Indian Ocean had erupted, taking three hundred thousand lives in a monstrous welling of waters, and leaving millions in destitution and misery. It seemed foolish and distasteful to complain of anything after a cataclysm like that, but here in Andalucía we had our own climate disaster. Rolling down from the north and intensifying fiercely as it crept over the heights of the sierras came what the Spanish call the ola de frío – the wave of cold. To the north of the mountains, in Guadix, the temperature sank that first night to eighteen degrees below zero, freezing the life from all but the hardiest shrubs and trees. As the mass of icy air came down off the mountains and moved south, it warmed a little but not enough to save the crops in fields and greenhouses from Málaga to Almería.Well-established avocado trees hung limp and brown; the bananas, mangoes and papayas that had thrived on the semi-tropical coast shivered and died. In the greenhouses, the tomatoes, peppers, aubergines and beans – after tourism, the economic engine of this region – turned to mush. Tens of thousands of small farmers saw their hopes of a harvest crushed and their future in ruins.