Before the sun gathers too much intensity, we take a walk with the dog to see what there is to see. We follow a chalky white path that winds around the crown of this low mountain top. Scruffy, dry vegetation surrounds us. The overall texture of thin, spiky leaf shapes fit for this dry climate look strangely delicate and lacy. What look like dried flower bouquets are all around, as if one day late spring the sun decided it was time to kick it up a notch and just baked the wildflowers to a crisp mid-bloom.
As the mountain slopes down from the road it is lost in olive trees and Spanish broom. The valley and opposite mountains alternate in a patchwork of rolling plowed fields and stripes of olive trees. White farms nestle into the folds of the hills here and there. Further in the distance, imposing grey mountains rake up into the sky in points and massive domes. All mountains are their own hue of mysterious. These stony mountains seemed so stern and aloof. Some mornings their domes were capped in a blanket of clouds. Other mornings thick fog shifted in and around their faces as if heavy curtains were being drawn to shield serious goings on somewhere between stone and sky. Most often though, their formidable grey faces lay sharp and bare and staring into the blue sky. The softness of the rolling foothills of olive trees and plowed fields brings the contrast into high relief.
Dexter, the dog, charges ahead darting from one side of the path to the other inspecting and sniffing everything, tail wagging so hard his back end wags along with it. His soft ears flop as he runs, and he constantly pauses and looks back with the most slap-happy grin on his face. As if to see if I also see how amazing right now is; just how great this walk is. As we turn up the last stretch, the sound of cowbells fills the air. A cacophony of clashing bells; which if it weren’t for how loud, incessant, and arhythmical they were, it would almost be melodic. We crest the hill and find ourselves walking into a herd of horses wearing huge bells around their necks. All different colours and by the dozens, they graze on whatever bits of green they can find. They sort of mosey out of our way as we walk through them- only minorly concerned about the dog. Dexter seems quite at a loss of what to think about these four-legged creatures towering over him. His main course of action is to plaster himself to the ground splayed-legged and just bark like mad.
Nearby, stands an old man in a blue shirt loosely tucked into pants held up by a bit of rope. One hand holds a pear he’s munching on, the other holds a thick rope that he snaps in the air like a whip to get the horses to move. He shouts something to me in a lisp-heavy Spanish with a big grin. I don’t catch it but, really, it’s in way of a greeting so I answer in kind. We talk for a while- he always in a torrent of words, me always grasping at familiar phrases and stumbling along to answer in broken Spanish. He seems to be loving it and tells me “it’s great that I speak Spanish” since “he doesn’t speak any English” (a good joke I think to myself). But we manage. And across the mornings I stop regularly to talk with this old horse herder whose name, I come to know, is Cristobal. He always greets me with a big gap-toothed smile; two front teeth missing. And then always proceeds to offer me some food. Once it was some rustic looking pears. After rubbing them on his pants leg, he sliced them with a quick flick of his old wooden handled pocket-knife and handed both halves to me. Melt in your mouth pears go so well with kind, gap-toothed smiles and fresh Spanish sunshine. His seems like a simple life.
One day I crested the hill to find Cristobal leaning against his jeep petting his favourite old mare. “Tormento” as he called her with a gest upwards and accompanying glance up at the sky. She was a large, wide, 17-year-old white horse who constantly nudged him for treats or attention. When he saw me, and his face creased into his customary big grin. He yelled a good day, and would I like some almonds. Sure, I said, why not take an almond break. Rather than reaching into the open car window to his bag on the front seat as I suspected, he ambled over to a tree all the while still chatting away. After a minute or two he had pulled down a handful of almonds and begun cracking their shells with a rock. Another 5 minutes later and he handed me a fistful of almonds straight from the tree. Brilliant.
Cristobal and the other herders spend long days with the different herds rounding them up and moving them from one side of the mountain to another. This is accomplished by driving circles around them and honking like mad. It’s quite a raucous when they get the horses running.
The weekends bring the hunters who add high-pitched yelping dogs and gunshots that echo across the valleys. On my morning walks I see them stalking down in the brush with long rifles. Another tradition here is for people of all ages to go walking for exercise before the sun is even up. We see them walking alongside these winding roads. The older men wear button down shirts tucked into nice pants with hats and canes and of course their reflective safety vests (as much for hunters on the weekend and for the cars!) They stop to talk in little groups wherever there are benches.
Meanwhile back on our mountain, Cristobal never seems surprised to see me in the mornings. And he never fails to ask if I would like some food. On my last morning he offers me half of his “bocadillo de desayuno.” I refuse saying how could I eat his breakfast?! But he insists and says “It is a joy to share food.” I am then instructed to grab an end of his sandwich so he can cut me however much I am holding. Another flick with his sharp old knife and I am holding fluffy bread freshly baked by himself with a dense slice of tangy, buttery cheese. From his sheep- he says with his mouth full. Amazing how something so simple could be so, so delicious. Cheese and bread never tasted so good! I wasn’t about to share any with Tormento who was incessantly nudging, and nagging, and reaching for our sandwiches. Cristobal chatted away undisturbed, keeping one arm raised to push Tormento’s head out of the way. He asked if I was sad to be leaving my “abuelos.”
I said yes, but that they were just our friends not our abuelos. He corrected me however, by putting his hand over his chest saying that they were still our grandparents, like he was. I said of course, I was sad to be leaving all my abuelos and that I couldn’t wait to come back!
Words by Lydia
Photography by Rachel & Lydia
