Almanzora - Aileen Cleave- short story

 

Almanzora.  The word has the sound of beauty , especially when pronounced the Castilian way - Alman th ora.  I first heard the name 22 years ago whilst holidaying in our tiny, sea front apartment in Torrevieja.  Retirement was only a few years away and spending much of it in Spain was definitely in our plans.  However our tiny flat, while great for two or three weeks  twice a year, was not a comfortable longer term prospect.  

There was talk on the complex of a place further south where building plots were selling relatively cheaply.   The year was 2001 and Torrevieja,  which had been  a tiny fishing village when we bought in 1989 was now a buzzing, sky scraper metropolis with matching sky high prices.  The famous British antenna for a bargain was alerted seemingly all over the province and cavalcades of holidaying Brits could be  witnessed on the N332 heading south to Andalucia. This migration was further propelled by an article written in The Times detailing the hereto unheard of Almanzora valley as the site for a new golf course, with all the attendant infrastructure.  We joined the cavalcade and headed south.

 As we left the motorway and took the aptly named Ruta Rural towards the Sierra de las Estancias, we were aware of a feeling of isolation.  This feeling intensified when we left the autovía and headed towards the village of Arboleas, a name that for me conjured up images of tall, leafy trees.  Well, trees there were aplenty, olive trees, citrus trees and almond trees, great swathes of them all over the mountain sides and down to the dry bed of the Almanzora river.  I had never seen a landscape like it.  The month was April and the sun, already strong, cast contrasting swathes of sun and shade over the low,  seemingly endless mountain range, reminiscent of a jewellery box of undulating velvet. Between the trees in the olive groves and orange groves was a carpet of yellow, the oxalis flourishing unhindered.  

We had been told that in order to find the building plots, we should follow the ancient route of the Arroyo Aceituno, (Olive Stream)   a tributary of the Almazora, meandering through the many beautiful villages north of Arboleas.  First we found Arboleas itself, which then had one single file bridge into it over the dry river bed of the Almanzora.  Fortunately the traffic was nothing like today so a stand off happened only rarely, and still then to the surrounding villages, the donkey was a popular form of transport.  Looking down on this bridge was the ancient Torre Vigía , watch tower, thought to date back to the 12th century.  

Leaving Arboleas, we were on the Carretera de  Arroyo Aceituno.  I have to say I thought then that we had lost not just the hustle bustle but also a whole century of modern day life.  The overriding impression was isolation, perhaps even desolation.  Clouds covered the sun and the former velvet vista of mountains became almost menacing.  But we carried on, and as we dropped down into The Valley we would come to know as home, the clouds moved on and the sun highlighted the hamlet of Los Carrascos, which at that time had less than a hundred houses.

 I remember what followed very clearly.  We parked on the what is now the main road but then was little more than a donkey track up the mountain to the tiny villages beyond.  We followed the road on foot and just before a sharp bend in the road we turned right and immediately stopped. And there it was.  A very long thin strip of land festooned with  wild flowers against a backdrop of rising mountains and sporting,  in a prominent position at the front, a Se Vende sign.  

We stood side by side, John and I, and without a word being spoken, we joined hands and nodded. And so was our fate decided for the next 20 years - and hopefully beyond.