Birthday Cake

There's a village not too far away which is high up on top of a hill surrounded far below and all around by crops of mango trees, oranges and other hanging fruits. Its whiteness from the highest point to the edges seems to sit like icing on a cake, more so as the hill it is on is a dark muddy stone as rich a brown as any fruit cake I have seen. There are two ways of getting there, I could sound facetious and say one in and one out but in reality it is exactly that. 

Hundreds of steps take you to the top of the town to views that seem to stretch to Africa itself, where sweet little old ladies with scales in their hallways entice you with dried raisins (1 kilo €7) mangoes (1 kilo €6) and almonds (1 kilo €4) and show pictures of their son or nephew in his priestly robes, just in case you decide to haggle. 

Alleys with moorish footprints (a perfect fit) in the path guide you around the historic part and lead down to the market square and cafe and a kinder and more gentle slope to the car that I realised could have been a better way in.

By night a hundred orange street lights sparkle across the valley like candles ready to blow out, though not even the strongest winds have managed so far. On misty days it disappears, on others it is clear as day. 

It just comes and goes, rather like birthdays.