Flames in the Foothills

The smell of burning Olive is unique. A pungent herbaceous aroma, sweet as rosemary on the barbeque, but with a hint of something darker and more sour. The hill is on fire. The smoke visible on the approach from the nearest main town. 

My initial reaction that it was far away, another hillside, another mountain, maybe even Granada way, confused by twists of the road, left, right, up, down, straight along then back again, put the plume everywhere we thought it could be, everywhere but our hill. And there it was. 

The firebird didn't leave it's hangar nest. It was not grand enough a fire for the biggest of the fleet. Instead, helicopters with orange sacks below plundered the local reservoirs of their precious water, minions to the queen. Five working in a ballet, dowsing then rising, hovering then circling, all to stop the flames spreading.

Nature's ire has a vicious twist of humour. Wind, strong and temperamental, fanned the flames, and turned towards us. The smoke, already dulling sharper images with its haze, turned stinging eyes to teary torrents. Thankfully, her prickly mood was temporary, our need to panic diminished.

Only small flames were visible in the evening light to weak to spread further chaos. With the smoke gone, only its smell lingered long enough to remind us of the fire's presence the following morning.