I'm missing Oliva. It was a superb week. Felt as if we had all of the time in the world and then it was over. And we filled our time well without rushing, feeling as you do, that you belong more and more in that space, place, time.
On waking the first morning, slightly cloudy, I thought that I'd seen the view from the terrace before. It was the same view I'd seen in Brazil, in Sao Paula and Rio. It was a view of the favelas. Chickens in cages on terraces, lines of washing, chairs, tables, higgledypiggledy, bricks and stones, white washed and rough, cracked and flaking, builder inducing sucking in of breath, shaking head and calculating rebuilding.
This is what I love about European buildings. Non-UK buildings and attitudes. Let the walls crumble, it's what's going on inside that matters. And as we explored the old town, more each day, it was clear that this wasn't anything like the favelas of Brazil. It was spanish, from the clapping, guitar playing, wailing group, to the sunbaked streets, the dark shadows, the geraniums, ornate doorways, the church with the passionate priest (more about that Sunday service later)the breezes, the smell of a sweet flower at night, the sense of humour.
Let me find another photo.
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