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Sounds of jingling bells and lowing cattle draw me to the veranda at the back of our house. Our village with its centuries of history is perched on the skyline, so white against an azure background, glinting in the rays of brilliant sunshine. There is a nip in the air this early January morning in 2003 as the goatherd stands high on a hillock, snug in his woollies and cap. With the sharp mountain range that they have descended just behind him, the goatherd holds a staff in his hand; his shaggy dog stands close to his legs. They watch the braying goats as they tear at what greenery they can find, rushing greedily along in what to them must be a lush valley, only days before we welcomed the deluge of precious rain.
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Fifteen minutes and they have passed by and I force myself to turn away from the view that can hold me for hours, bare mountains that must have stood there for millions of years, at their feet, houses, popping up here and there amongst the sparse ruins of cortijos from more recent times. In the 1940’s my son-in-law and his sister were born in one of these roofless little dwellings, now very overgrown by cacti and other fascinating desert-like shrubbery, poking its way through the crumbling stone walls. Their mother tells tales of how, in those days, she would walk overnight with her donkey laden with oranges and tomatoes, the sixty or so miles as the crow flies, across ramblas, along the tracks and lanes to the city of Almería, where in the morning she would stand in the market and sell her fruit, before riding her donkey back home to arrive the next day.
Later the family moved up to the village, which in the fifties and sixties was rapidly becoming derelict. The walls of the houses had blackened with time and many had fallen down. The narrow streets were paved only with mud, and when it rained rivers ran down as the water poured from the gutter-less rooftops; rain was the only water to come to the top of the village. This particular hilltop had been chosen for habitation due to the fast flowing fountain in its lower region, it was not until the seventies that the villagers had the luxury of water in their homes. Every day, the womenfolk rode down the hill on their donkeys, to the fountain where they gathered chatting whilst washing their clothes, before filling pitchers for the donkeys to carry back up the hill to their homes. For many years after their washing machines had been installed, the women still came to the fountain, as no modern gadget could take the place of the companionship that existed as they washed out their smalls. We still now go every week to fill containers with the beautiful water, so much better to drink than the desalinated stuff that flows through our taps, for which our parched country must be so grateful. Today, the fountain is frequented by tourists carrying cameras. They love to listen to stories of how in the eighties, the mayor would turn off the village supply so as to water his tomato plantations. This practice could last several days so once again we would flock to collect water,
I wander through the house until I am standing on a terrace from where I can peer across rows of rooftops, with their satellites and blackened chimney pots. The sea is quiet and calm today between palm trees swaying their heads in the breeze, what have all the years done?
In 1970 very few people in Britain had heard of Mojacar, we certainly hadn’t. An Andalucian village, one and a half miles inland from the barren, stony, rocky beach, protected from storms and evils by a totem god, to be seen painted or inscribed on doorways and caves everywhere, dating back hundreds of years. The easiest way to describe the Indalo, is to compare him to a pin man, holding up a rainbow. Public transportation was nil, so the only way from the airport of Almería, if you could find a flight to get there, was by car. It was not any wonder that it was so little known, but something was happening, a British tour company was opening a hotel in the village and starting to bring holiday makers, one flight per week from Gatwick.
Just Cast a Pebble
A newspaper column by one centimetre was to change our lives, and after a long, long drive from Malaga in a hire car we arrived. The ingenious mayor at the time saw a future for his village. To bring revenue for restoration and perhaps development of tourism, he offered free plots of land to people who would build immediately. Two young American brothers saw this potential as well. The younger man threw a pebble and where it landed would be one corner of our boundary, the second another, the third corner marked by a fig tree and the last a rock. The brothers could build us a house on this plot for £2,800, which would have three vital bedrooms and when we would be old, we could retire here for the rest of our lives. Nine months later we came to Mojacar again, and stayed in the new hotel. We found a promising shell of a house, to be completed in 3 more months, a few other shell-like houses stood convincingly around and a track ran down to the main road, where the only building was a rustic ‘hostal’ surrounded by pigs and chickens. Children could walk to the beach and safely cross to the rocks and sand, being seen for miles.
School broke for the holidays and six of us piled into the car, taking pillows and pans and as many necessary items as would fit in, with the tent on top, needed for the overnight stop in Madrid. Three glorious weeks ahead to establish our new home… we thought!
Some six or seven miles before reaching Mojacar we stopped in a town with a furniture shop and bought beds. The shopkeeper must have known a shortcut as when we arrived at the house, the beds were propped up against the outside wall. Then our bubble burst, not a stone’s more work had been done since we left three months ago. The houses around ours were finished and occupied. Sympathetic neighbours offered help and advice, we were to spend several more nights in our tiny tent, this time on a campsite a mile away from our house, but with showers and loos.
Next morning we returned to the town with the furniture shop as we were told that here we would find the local Notary’s office. He sat in a huge swivel chair at the top of a beautiful old building where my limited Spanish was enough to explain our plight. He told us to be at the house at mid-day the following day. Our Notary duly arrived together with the elder of the American brothers, what was said I am not quite sure, but I think that somewhere amongst the jumbled words, extradition was mentioned.
An army of builders arrived, carpenters, painters, glaziers and Hungry Harry, named so by our children as he ran everywhere with his wheelbarrow. Wardrobes and kitchen units were built, and painters with long handled brooms, splashed cal everywhere from their buckets. After three more days of rigorous cleaning up after the hundreds of seagulls who had been tenanting our house before our arrival, we left the campsite, for good this time. More furniture arrived and another meeting with the Notary produced our deeds and documents. A wizened little Spaniard called Diego sat in the corner of the Notary’s office, it seemed he was the vendor of our piece of land, and not our two American boys at all.
Now as I stand on the terrace and stare at the hundreds of homes gracing Mojacar Playa, the development of such began over thirty years ago, when only a handful of houses, shops and bars existed, I can hear the noise of lorries, cars and buses as they pass on their way. The peacefulness of times gone by lies behind me in the mountains and the noise of modern Spain comes from all the new roadways towards the sea.
Our present home built by our Spanish son-in-law, supersedes several others since the first little house, much grander now as more recent owners have made many improvements since our day. The fishing boats from nearby Garrucha still leave before sunrise, I often watch them chugging home in the evening, bringing us the freshest fish you could buy anywhere, this much has not changed. Yes I am old and retired and live in my beautiful town where I can enjoy my now grown up Spanish granddaughters. It would take a novel to fill in the progress of the years, maybe one day this will come. |
