IT’S the season again, the season that allows time to slow and moments in the campo or chance meetings in small derelict bars where one can meet old friends and spend some hours with them catching up. The fall is my favourite time in Spain and makes me truly feel rejuvenated. One had to stay in the house to keep cool this summer in front of a bank of fans or go to the bank and feign a problem but remain inside and cool (and alive).
At last we’ve returned to a few breezy and cooling nights. If you are lucky enough to live in a small Spanish village you can now smell the aroma of food being cooked over a wood fire. Returning sons and daughters know just when to come back so they are a welcome addition of new faces and catching up on old gossip. Fall is for wearing boots of Spanish leather, chilled rosé during the day and more deep red as the night wears with tapas of thin spicy chorizo.
Besides NOT understanding as much flamenco as I wish I also bear the psychological cross, apparent to anyone near me, that I cannot ‘clap’ in rhythm. Go, and you’ll see each table has someone that each time they put their hands together it sounds like a rifle shot. They also know when to clap and not to.
Nothing worse than having lived here going on for 47 years and I still can’t clap. A total and absolute disgrace in the world of the flamenco macho! A good cover up is keeping your hands filled with a wine glass.
I note with relish there is another top flamenco show at Tomas’s hotel Rural, on the other side of Turre as you drive towards Cortijo Grande.