Beginnings

Dawn strengthens with every minute I stand staring out of my window. My new view. I am waking to a new life here. I take a sip of tea, black Earl Grey; I don't think I will succumb to drinking coffee first thing.  Gone are the damp grassy paddocks with horses, the fields with grain, the trees and the smell of cut grass. Here, here is heat, dust, granite and the overwhelming knowledge of the preciousness of water. 

Olive trees in neat rows pom-pom up hills to villages, clichéd white with hints of orange where the roofs are just visible, narrow lanes and alleys so close that the houses merge into one. Sandy straw pasture and rich sienna coloured soil make up the farmland for other purposes: mangoes, figs, oranges. And nearby the earthy smell of goats wafting from a small holding adds an olfactory richness to this undulating hilly scenery. 

And these are hills. Mountains hazy-hid by day slowly reveal themselves as dusk spreads across the valley, a theatrical almost card like backdrop of darkening shadows looming behind the hills, threatening to consume all that is below so dramatic is this place.

Whilst new found chaos, the chaos of most house moves, the chaos of settling into any home, will ensue behind me as the morning progresses (water pump issues; electricity issues; no gas, no oven, no shower; workmen and their boot marks) a low angry buzz dominates the valley becoming louder as it comes near. Large and yellow with streaks of red, it flies overhead, so close I duck a bit even though it is not really within reach. It turns and drops into the valley where its source of water is, before rising again, and again. Motors drum, belly full, it turns and heads to its destination. This is the valley of the firebird. This is Axarquía.