Lanjaron….Land of springs

Green, how I love you. Green Green wind. Green Branches, boat on the sea and the horse on the mountain. On the face of the cistern, the gypsy woman rocked. Green Flesh, green hair , with eyes of cold silver. An icicle from one of them holds her over the water. Green how I love you, green wind. Green branches. Can’t you see the wound I have from my chest to my throat? let me climb at least to the high railings and let me climb. Let me reach the green railings. Railing of the moon where the water rumbles” Frederica Garcia Lorca

This is a direct translation from the Spanish writing on the fountain. Like many other fountains, dotted around Lanjaron, situated at the foothills of the Alpujarra mountains in the Granada province, they all have inscriptions from Frederica Garcia Lorca, famous Spanish poet and playwright.

It is no wonder when I first visited this quaint little town, that I felt quite at home. It had a nice quiet yet welcoming atmosphere. Typically Spanish and surrounded by the most magnificent breath taking mountains.

As we drove down the centre of the narrow town, eyeing the pretty balconies, adorned with plants and colourful flowers I watched carefully, the people slowly going about their day. Some sitting on benches, chatting. Others watching the world go by, and the ladies inside the grocery shop, baskets hanging in the crook of their elbows, ready to carry their fresh produce home. I knew then, before I even looked at the house, which I was there to view, that I would buy it.

A town steeped in history and deriving from pre-roman and significant moorish settlements, this town has survived and thrived and is known as the gateway to the Alpujarras.

As you leave the motorway and head up the winding road the 12 minute journey to the town is truly remarkable. As you pass under the modern metal bridge, on the first stretch of the road, an ancient bridge, hidden below, known as Peunte de Tablate, used in yesteryear in the many battles which occurred in this region.

A whitewashed church sits to the side of the bridge as the ravine unfolds this ancient structure.

Modern day and bygone days bridges sharing space and time side by side, but if the mountains could talk, the stories they could tell!

Further up and past Lanjaron, some 45 minutes takes you to a pretty little town called Capileira. This is the highest village in which cars can travel and its elevation is some 1,436 m. A great town to base if hiking is your thing.

Even the beautiful flowers love this little tourist town. A red heart climbs the wall as it reaches for the stars.

Pampaneira, below Bubion and Capileira is another pretty and quite a bustling town on the way back down toward Orgiva and ultimatley home, to Lanjaron. The spring waters running through the middle of the town, the musicality of its trickle, soothing. The scent of the jasmine, honeysuckle and the showstopping vibrant colour of the bourgainvillea are abundant as you meander the streets of this town. The geraniums line white washed streets in terracotta pots and immediately make you smile. The church in the plaza towering over the restaurants and street vendors is a site to behold and a santury, not only for prayer, but for shade and cooling down from the intense heat.

A nice way to spend the day and discovering the part of the Alpajarras, taking a slow drive up, up, up the mountain. Tasting the local cuisine. Having a cold beer or a cold glass of water and drinking in the scenery, the scents, the history and remind yourself, how very lucky you are to discover such a beautiful place, and even, for a short while, call it ‘home’.

Jackdaw

Creatures of habit, the birds build in any chimney, nook an cranny and return year after year., until someone or something gets in their way, it creates a loss and a gain for all involved.

gathering…. authors own

Persistent in the building, the jackdaw

Searched and found

The twigs, the moss, the leaves and tuft

All settled on the ground

He swooped and gathered and up he flew

To place them in the pot

Chirping merrily and proudly

Preparing to weave his lot

His stash, lined bricks and mortar

A home to build his nest

Only to find he’d been locked out

When off he went to rest

The cowl they placed upon the pot

His access had been denied

Not merrily chirping any more

His dreams for ‘home’ had died

No more the morning singing

Inside the house could be heard

Now only a strange quietness

Oh how they’ll miss this intelligent bird

But off he flew, quite undeterred to build

Another nest

A home, a house a habitat

Of where his chicks can rest

authors own

Resilient is this little bird, he’ll seek and he will find

a tree, or steeple, a nook or cranny

he will not be confined

for he is ever working, with tenacity and grit

he will not be deterred, he will just get on with it

and so the chirping will stay with him as he sings

his sweet sweet tune

and where the chimney has been blocked

no twittering lifts the gloom……