Over the past 11 years since I’ve been living in Spain, I’ve acquired one husband, two children, and two dogs (in that order). Now our family has grown again, with a new arrival – a baby donkey.
It’s a long story – isn’t it always? We were out for a walk with the dogs one sunny Sunday afternoon, and we came across a donkey, as you do. It wasn’t tethered, it didn’t have any food or water, and looked pretty sad and lonely, if in good health and well-fed. As it was a hot day we decided to take it home to give it some water, at least.
Gentle Lucero was a donkey delight.
Luckily we had a fenced off area of our large garden which had been used for growing vegetables, but was currently abandoned and overgrown. So in went Lucero, as the kids christened our new four-legged friend, and we went out to buy him a halter and some food. Lucero was a quiet, calm animal, male but not “whole” as they euphemistically describe it. Right from the start, I made it clear to Zac (8) and Lola (5) that the donkey wasn’t ours to keep, that someone would come and collect him and take him home soon, that we were just looking after him.
Their dad took them out for rides on Lucero in the olive field next door. The donkey nuzzled them and followed them about – I had never realised these gentle creatures were so affectionate. Before long Zac and Lola were donkey-doped, hooked on this furry creature the same height as them, with soft, kind eyes and nibbly lips. Zac, who is a typically bouncy and active eight-year-old, spent hours in his enclosure just talking to the animal and being with him.
Our Labrador Buddha gets to know Lucero the donkey.
Inevitably, given that everyone around here knows everyone else and their animals, word got back to the owner that we were looking after his beast, Pepe. He came to collect Lucero/Pepe on the Wednesday night, when the kids had just been out for a ride on him. Who would have thought that in just four days (three of them spent at school) two small children would become so strongly attached to a burro? They were both inconsolable when Lucero was loaded up to be taken back home.
The owner stayed chatting to my husband for while, and I had to ask him abruptly to go, losing my usual excessive British politeness (Not “I say old chap, would you mind awfully slinging your hook, the nippers are a little upset”, but “LEAVE NOW!”) as they were prolonging the painful agony of farewell for my weeping, desperate children, something no parent can cope with well.
Men are often a softer touch as fathers, in my experience (“Daaaad, Mum won’t let me watch TV/have some biscuits/buy a PlayStation – pleeeeease, go on, can I, pleeeease?”) and my husband couldn’t bear to see his darling niños in a state of such abject misery. So what did he do? He promised to get them their own donkey, of course. Dentro de poco (very soon). And so it all began.
He found someone among his wide circle of friends and acquaintances who had a young donkey ready to be separated from his mother. They arranged a barter deal and along came Polly. A *male* donkey. He’s now called Bolly.
Bolly is welcomed into his new home.
Young donkeys can be nervous, a little aggressive, unpredictable, very affectionate and full of energy. Bolly is all of those things. He loves playing with the dogs, although the pecking order is still being established as our Labrador is always convinced he’s top dog – as he told the small dog in no uncertain terms soon after he arrived (having been passed on by two families). The small dog was found by my husband when he was a week old – the only survivor of an abandoned bitch with her litter of puppies.
Taking Bolly out for his first walk in the olive grove.
Bolly meets the horses next door.
Lola rides Bolly along the lane.
I am learning fast about donkey behaviour, making lots of mistakes, and trying to be a good donkey owner. My husband is more instinctive, having had animals as a child (we had small dogs, hamster and guinea pig). The children ride Bolly bareback (on a leading rein), and they’re all getting used to this new experience. Like anything with a new animals, it’s not always a smooth ride. Bolly likes playing tug of war with the lab, whose old, deflated football, the toy he arrived with a year and a half ago, is used as the tugged thing. They chase each other around the garden. It’s not always good natured, and there are plenty of tellings-off, so we’re constantly on our guard for animal shenanigans.
One friend who knows lots about horses and lives in rural France has been a huge source of advice and support, suggesting books and videos about donkey behaviour. They are very intelligent creatures, she told me – yes, they’re famous for being stubborn, but that’s just because they take time to process information and then make a decision. Horses are faster to decide.
Beautiful tiled entrance arch to our local horse, donkey and oxen fair.
Welcome. The Gines Town Hall thanks you for your visit. We hope you enjoy the authentic taste and feel which you experience at Una Para en Gines.
A feast of donkey excitements. Caramelo, a famous donkey who dances like a horse, is a star attraction at this Gines fair.
A dancing donkey (not Caramelo) at Una Para En Gines.
Two colourful rocieras on their mules.
Donkey racing – not the most elegant sport, but great fun to watch.
Soon after Bolly arrived, with extraordinarily good timing, I was told about a local livestock fair called Una Parada en Gines, in the next town from here, with oxen, horses and, yes, donkeys. Races, pulling contests, dressage… live music, bars, food…girls in feria dresses, a colouring/in tent… your typical Spanish town fair. One morning, a young man doing a PhD in donkey behaviour came to do a donkey meet-and-greet with small children from local primary schools, so I took the opportunity to fire some questions at him, which he answered very good naturedly. Bolly might still be anxious from being separated from his mother, he told us, so we should be patient with him.
I didn’t much like seeing the donkeys, including tiny miniature ones, squashed together in small pens, but I suppose that’s what happens at these fairs. It was interesting to see the different breeds – I worked out that Bolly is a Catalan donkey.
It’s a steep learning curve for the whole family – kicking, biting, head-butting v hugs and gentle body contact (leaning in) – but we’re getting there.
Una Para en Gines takes place at the end of September in Gines, a town near Seville. Find out more here.
You can see for miles from Puerta de las Palomas (1,639m), in the Sierra de Grazalema.
The pool at Calle Real 66 – always the top attraction for children. Not a bad view, either.
The romeria of Benamahoma, at the beginning of June.
First view of the Embalse de Zahara, from the snaking Grazalema road.
Nearly nine years ago I went to a small pueblo blanco (white hilltop town) called Grazalema in Cadiz province on a chilly November weekend, to see a friend’s photography exhibition. While I was there, myself and my then-boyfriend made a spur-of-the-moment decision (on my suggestion) – to get engaged. No bended knee or engagement ring, just a “Let’s do it!”. Families were informed excitedly by mobile phone, and a guest list and possible dates and venues drawn up on a napkin. Our wedding the following summer was a wonderfully English day (with some Spanish spice) of castle and pub, jamon iberico and salmon, sunshine and showers. But that’s another story.
You won’t be surprised to hear, therefore, that Grazalema, which sits in a lush national park where eagles soar and wild boar roam, holds an important place in my heart. I haven’t been back since that weekend, but recently I was invited to stay in a house in a village called Benamahoma, which is close to Grazalema.
The walk up to Punta de las Palomas viewing point, with baby pinsapo firs.
A pinsapo, a type of fir tree only found in this region.
Craggy outcrop – dramatic scenery of the sierra.
The Sierra de Grazalema has truly spectacular scenery – all windy, zig-zagging roads and jaw-dropping views across vast valleys and up sheer granite cliffs, with splashes of vermillion pink from wild oleanders. This area is famous for its pinsapar, a pine forest with a species of fir tree only found in this part of Andalucia, at 1000-1700m above sea level – the pinsapo. While you need a permit to enter the forest, you can see examples of this rare species by the roadside and at viewing points along the road, such as Puerta de las Palomas on the Grazalema – Zahara road.
I had never heard of Benamahoma, but I know the prefix “Ben¨-” means son of, as it’s quite common here in Andalucia, which was ruled by the Moors for eight centuries.
Flowers bloom in a street in Benamahoma, in the Sierra de Grazalema, one of the wettest areas of Spain.
Pretty fountain in Benamahoma, which is famous for its pure natural spring water.
One of Benamahoma’s restaurants with terrace.
As we followed the windy road from the nearest town, and gateway to the Sierra, El Bosque, Benamahoma itself was hidden from view until we came round the corner and suddenly saw a higgledy-piggledy line of white houses, strung out along the side of the hill. We drove up the main street (well, the main of two streets) passing pavement cafes, stone hillside plazas, along hairpin bends and up steep slopes. At the top of Calle Royal was a house with a blue front door, number 66. This was to be our home for the weekend.
Each floor has its own spacious balcony-terrace – this was the top floor one, outside our bedroom.
Pots and climbers in the beautiful terraced garden.
As the house is on a hillside, overlooking a wooded slope opposite, the view is one of its best features. Below you have a pretty terraced garden, sloping down to the pool, refreshingly green and bursting with glorious flora and foliage, from bougainvillea to roses; beyond, allotments of vegetables owned by Benamahomans, and then the tree-covered hill stretching up to the sky. Each of the three floors has a long terrace-balcony stretching along the width of the house, with plenty of room for chairs and tables, so you can sit outside and soak up that natural scenery.
Sitting room with dining area, opening to kitchen, and door to balcony with view of garden.
Cooks will love all the kitchen gadgets, from juicers to blenders.
Double bedroom with green and (very) pleasant view.
The top floor has four bedrooms, three doubles (one with access to the balcony) and a single, along with a bathroom. The sitting room is on the ground floor (also with balcony access), with an open fireplace, sofas and a dining area; a hatch connects to an excellently-equipped kitchen – as well as the gas cooker and oven, fridge and microwave, there was a juicer, coffee grinder, two hand blenders, loads of pots and pans, earthenware cooking dishes, and some pretty chinaware and glasses. You can have fun trying out Spanish recipes using wonderful fresh local ingredients.
The allure of the TV room was irresistible for my kids.
Coloured hanging lamp casts pretty reflections on the ceiling.
Essential for younger visitors (like my children), there are plastic bowls and glasses, a notch up from your standard, ubiquitous IKEA fare. In the basement there’s a TV room with wood-burning stove, two squishy sofas and arm chair with big foot rest. Very cosy for wet winter evenings, and there’s a double bedroom next-door with plenty of DVDs and CDs. A door leads from here to the lowest balcony of the three, and down into the terraced garden, with the pool at the bottom. Altogether, nine people can sleep in the house comfortably; for the four of us, it was like being in a palace.
The pool is almost hidden by this burst of vibrant pink bougainvillea.
You can tell that someone has lived here – the New Zealand owner comes back every summer – as it doesn’t haven’t that anonymous, purely-for-rental feel. A pretty sunhat hangs on the wall, which was indispensable for me while watching the children in the pool under the hot sun. Lots of good reading material, including books on Arab history and Spain, and a library of DVDs, as well as menus for the village restaurants which featured dishes made with local wild game – venison, wild boar and rabbit. Good hearty fare, with fish-eaters like me being lucky to try trout caught in lakes and rivers in the area, which has the highest rainfall in Spain.
Quirky personal touches make the house feel homely – we loved these animal towel hooks by the pool.
I love attention to detail in a house, and this one had colourful traditional tiling along the bottom of the wall, with plenty of small tables for leaving keys, books and mobile phones, lovely bold print cushions, and lamps for soft lighting. The furniture was mostly dark wood, but without being too heavy, backed by white walls and some decent paintings. Glazed cupboards are such an attractive way to store china, glass and linen. In the garden, and on the terrace-balconies, were plenty of chairs and loungers with cushions and mattresses for the ultimate in chill-out-with-a-fab-view.
The house as seen from the garden, with long balconies to take full advantage of the view.
The swimming pool is surrounded by citrus trees, and beyond are hills and sky.
Pool with sunloungers – it’s the perfect size for children, and to cool off from the Andalucian sun.
What could be more fun that jumping into a pool on a hot day?
But what the children had been terribly excited about, right from the moment I told them where we were going, was the swimming pool. You don’t need much else with children, other than a volume of water. View? Not interested. Flowers? Ditto. But endless jumping, splashing and diving possibilities? It’s an unequivocal, resounding “Yeeeeessss!” every time. We had brought a li-lo, ball and some diving toys, and they were happily occupied for several hours each day, while I had one eye on them, and the other on the view, gorgeous orange irises and my copy of Grazia. The steps in the garden are steep and a little perilous in some spots, with no side protection, so this garden might not be suitable for very young children, or those with mobility problems. Also, there’s no WIFI or satellite TV, which didn’t bother us, although some might find such media disconnection tough to cope with.
The amazing bright turquoise colour of the lake water is from copper deposits.
Over the past few years I’ve heard many people talk about a restaurant called Al Lago in Zahara de la Sierra, another white town, this time located on a lake . After taking one of the most spectacular roads in Andalucia (the CA531, in case you’re interested), which offers jaw-dropping views of the extraordinary-coloured Embalse de Zahara – a deep shade of torquoisey-green, thanks to the copper deposits, spread out like a long jagged Damien Hirst splash among the crags and creeks, with tiny islands just offshore you can swim to – we arrived in Grazalema and found El Lago. The restaurant has a wonderful shady, breezy terrace above the road, overlooking the lake.
Plate of cold tapas at Al Lago restaurant in Zahara.
The lunch menu had an interesting selection, including pulpo a la gallega, slow-roast lamb and tandoori salmon. We tried a selection of cold tapas – cheese, ensaladilla, roast peppers, anchovies, and a rice salad, while my daughter snaffled all the olives. The food was extremely good, if considerably pricier than what we’re used to in Seville tapas bars. The owners, Goan-Pakistani Mona and American Stefan, also have some bright and airy rooms, with lake views.
View of Grazalema, enveloped by greenery, from below the town.
Then it was time to head off Grazalema – we didn’t make a nostalgic trip back to the hotel where that fateful decision was made, or the bar where we celebrated afterwards, but we did wander round the main square, Plaza de España, where there was a painting competition, and saw a beautiful old fountain, and a shop selling hand-made wooden toys including some wonderful plush bits of mini-fruit in their mini-wooden crates (and some toy wooden guns – this is a major hunting area).
Cheese shop in Grazalema, where you can buy payoyo cheese.
Cheese made from milk of the payoyo goat.
Typical narrow cobbled street with white-washed houses.
Grazalema is also known for its wool blankets in earthy tones, but what got me excited was a sign saying “cheese”. La Casa de la Abuela Agustin had payoyo cheese galore – mature, semi-mature, with herbs, as a cream in a jar. Payoyo is a strong-flavoured, aromatic cheese from Cadiz and Malaga provinces, made from milk from the payoyo goat. As a cheese-lover, I bought a big chunk with tomillo (thyme), and the cream, which we tried last night with gnocchi – it was fabulous, with a deliciously rich flavour.
Christians’ shield, as used in the Moros y Cristianos festival in Benamahoma in August.
and the Moors’ shield.
Moor’s gun with beautiful inlaid handle, made in Morocco around 100 years ago – decorative only.
For me, this picture of two Christian soldiers has a bit of Monty Python about it.
That evening, back in Benamahoma, we were taken on a tour by Quitin, the man who looks after the house for its New Zealander owner. We visited the headquarters of the Moros y Cristianos group, which puts a festival with street battles between the two sides every August, fighting in honour of the patron saint, San Antonio. They showed us the outfits (formerly woollen tunics for Christians), helmets, swords, shields, pennants, and guns – the Christians’ are working weapons, like blunderbusses, which fire real gunpowder, while the Moors have exquisite inlaid wood, but non-functioning, arms made in Morocco. Battles from the 16th and 17th centuries, when the Christians expelled the Moors, are re-enacted by the villagers, as hand-to-hand fights, with positions in each force being passed down through families as with hermandades. Benamahoma is the only village in western Andalucia which celebrates this type of festival, popular in Granada, Jaen and Almeria provinces – this year, this delightfully eccentric event takes place on 1-3 August.
Garden dedicated to those shot in the Civil War in Benamahoma.
Quitin showed us the bullring, where the Moros y Cristianos festival kicks off on the Friday night; this was also the scene of a dark chapter in the village’s history about which, most unusually, Quitin was happy, and indeed, keen, to talk to us: the Civil War. Villagers were shot there, and now next door you can see a memorial garden, Parque de Memoria Historica. Even the existence a place of peace and remembrance is a political act in itself, as there are many who would rather forget that period entirely. The small garden is visually striking, with a sculpture depicting rows of people carved into family groups within each other, and more sombrely, profiles of people lined up against a white wall.
Sculpture in Garden of Historical Memory, representing families affected by the terrible events 80-odd years ago, glows golden in the evening sunlight.
The effect is extremely moving – there’s no information, numbers or names, but the mere acknowledgement that atrocities took place here is a major development for Andalucia, and a poignant reminder of tragic events in this secluded and quiet village, nearly 80 years ago. It’s the sort of place you might not find if you weren’t being shown around (or reading this); knowing important details about a village’s history makes staying there a much richer and more fulfilling experience.
Spring in the village, which is known as “El Nacimiento” (the birth).
Further on, passing the last few houses, we saw the “Nacimiento”, a spring from which bubbles the purest, most crystal-clear water – there are vast underground reservoirs in the area. The village’s name means “son of Mahoma, or Mohammed”, as its natural water source was highly valued by the Moors, for whom water was important for a number of reasons: visually – in gardens, with soothing trickling fountains and long symmetrical pools; spiritually, for washing before prayer; and for life – their agriculture and irrigation systems were highly sophisticated and some channels still survive today. An abandoned trout factory has left a large intact stone building, used as a laboratory, and all the square pools where the water still runs, but any fish there are free.
Christian-Moorish clock tower of hermita-mezquita, with Islamic symbol – uniting the two faiths.
Back in Benamahoma, you can see many references to the village’s Moorish past – both plazas have horse-shoe shaped arches, most famously seen in Cordoba’s Mezquita. It was almost dark by the time we ended up at Plaza de España; the chapel next door, Quique told us, is called the hermita-mezquita, and has the typical Muslim symbol, often seen on the rooves of minarets, of three balls topped by a crescent.
This combination of Christian shrine with Islamic symbolism was another motive for pondering Andalucia’s ever-complex and shifting relationship between past and present. The little chapel plays a part in the Moors and Christians festival – on the first day, (**spoiler alert**) the Moors win, and they take the village Virgin here: on the second day, (**ditto**) the Christians are conquered, and they take her to the church, which is attached to the bullring. A neat balance between eastern and western faiths.
Romeria procession led, as always, by pennant and piper.
On Sunday, we were lucky in that the village romeria passed our house just as we were about to leave, and the little procession caught me unawares so I ran out of the door in bare feet clutching my camera. The Virgin and saint rode in their carts; some people, including young children, rode horses; the women wore flamenco dresses and flowers in their hair, and sang traditional songs.
This is authentic rural Andalucia, a small, friendly, pretty village, which makes a perfect base for exploring the area – the Sierra de Grazalema is a hiker’s paradise, and other towns you can visit include Ubrique, Cortes de la Frontera and Ronda, not to mention the Parque Natural de los Alcornocales, another forest with great walking paths and picnic spots. The house itself is cleverly prepared to cater for hot weather (shutters, pool, lots of garden furniture, air-con) as well as the inevitable rainy or cold days (two fireplaces, comfy sofas,TV and DVD library, books). And there are plenty of bars and restaurants within walking distance – an essential element of any Andalucian holiday.
Important note: If you’re going to this area by car, be aware that the road from Zahara following the southern shore of the lake (CA 7375) eastwards is closed due to a bridge in need of repair. You can take the CA531 back again from Zahara, but we trusted to luck and turned off where the road was closed onto a track which looked well-used (the locals’ temporary alternative), indicated by coloured markers along the way, which went over the mountain and rejoined the CA5311.
A few weeks ago, I reached an important milestone – both in my life, and in my time lived in Spain: it’s 10 years since I arrived here in Seville. Back in September 2003 I came to this beautiful city – via London and Quito, Ecuador – with no expectations, no idea of what I’d find (I’d never been here before), and a few names as contacts.
A decade later, I have a small, tumbledown house (literally), two dogs and a semi-wild cat, two children and a husband, lots more English-language novels, thousands of leaflets, guidebooks and novels about various aspects of Andalucian and Spain, from the Civil War to flamenco, as well as a decent collection of children’s DVDs. And one of the contacts is still a good friend, and unofficial godmother to my son.
Having read Josh’s reliably excellent post on five things not to forget when moving to Spain (clue: it’s about food, and nursery food at that), it occurred to me that since I’ve been here 10 years, my anniversary would be a great excuse hook for a post on things I’ve learned that I can’t live without. Practical posts aren’t my forte, but this might be of some use or interest to a new, or potential, expat.
So here goes (artwork: Copyright Lola and Zac Flores Watson):
1) Revo internet radio
If I want to dance, I find some pop tunes on Radio 2; hear the news, Radio 4; remember why I left London, Radio London; listen to some quirky tracks, Radio 6 Music. I go off into my own little world when I’m in the kitchen with my radio on. Some British expats refuse to listen to British radio or watch British TV. Balderdash and poppycock. (Confession: I do listen to RAI in the car.)
2) Satellite dish
I rarely watch TV, except for the news – once the kids are finally in bed, I’m either working on the computer, eating, or asleep. We don’t even have one at the moment as our sitting room is a building site. But when we do, the reason I value it so highly is CBeebies. Have you seen Spanish children’s TV? Think, the most moronic, sexist, casual-violence American animated nonsense you can imagine, and that’s it. Brain-rot. At least Ballamory has sound ideas on racial harmony. And its theme tune is far less irritating than Sponge Bob Squarepants, FFS.
3) Girls’ nights out
My best girlfriends are all English. What a cliche, I hear you say. But that cultural familiarity, the unspoken bonds, the mutual understanding of being married to a Spaniard (four of my closest mum mates are) and all the communication challenges that implies. All we need is a bottle of wine (or three) and you can leave us there till the wee hours.
4) The Week
My wonderful, though sadly aging, Dad gets me a subscription every year to this weekly news mag, which distills the most interesting and important stories from British and foreign media into 60-odd pages – perfect loo or bath reading material. And it gets passed on to one of those mentioned in 3).
5) Nice soap
The Spanish don’t seem to do nice soap, unless it’s made of honey and glycerin with oatmeal flakes suspended inside and costs 4 euros. Buy a four-pack of normal scented stuff from any English supermarket and you’ll be fragrant for months.
6) Facebook, especially groups
I don’t understand anyone who doesn’t use Facebook. How else would I know when anyone’s birthday is? Or what their children look like now? Or what embarrassing thing happened to them at work last week? Or which Youtube video’s gone viral? I work at home, so there’s no water-cooler moment, no chat while the kettle boils (do they even have kettles in Spanish offices?) It’s like a mouthy coffee break, getting squiffy cocktail hour, and catch-up chat on the phone, all rolled into one. And the groups are indescribably useful and supportive. I’ve made fantastic contacts, found work, and received (and, I hope, given too) useful advice via Facebook groups.
7) Extra reserves of patience and tolerance
The I-don’t-understand-you grimace, the “you don’t need that form”, “you only need one copy”, “you don’t need the original”. Ignore, push, insist, ask again, request clarification (you did need the form, four copies, and the original). If in doubt, start again from the beginning. Be firm and try to stay calm. Spanish administration is hell, but at least make sure that the bolshy jobsworth funcionario (civil servant) who’s trying to deny you that essential document – because she wants to go and have her coffee break – does her job properly. (Although in my case, I don’t think they get off scot-free either – I need everything explaining at least four times, which must have its less endearing qualities.) And if they’re being really obtuse, officious or offensive, just picture them in their underwear.
8) Chutney Cebolla caramelizada doesn’t quite cut it. In fact, Spanish jams in general are sub-standard. English fruit and vegetable chutneys, however, especially spicy ones, have this strange power of making an ordinary cheese sandwich into a thing of wonder.
9) Regular trips back to the motherland
We go about twice a year – I need to be among people who speak my language, literally, and may not be as warm or friendly as the Spanish, but who won’t frown at me when I mumble because I’m too knackered to en-un-ci-ate clear-ly. Where supermarket shelves overflow with a heavenly array of cakes, biscuits and naughty puds, and crisps and chutneys (see 8) come in 359 flavours. Where friends who’ve known me for years can tell me what I need to be told. And where I, and especially my children, can spend precious time with aforementioned aging parents.
10) My family
Well, obviously. I’m hardly going to dump them by the roadside and go gallivanting off to the Algarve for a week on my own, now, am I? (Well, actually, there was talk of a girls’ weekend away – see 3) The biggest change for me since arriving in Seville, apart from giving up smoking, designer clothes and poncy cocktail bars, has been having my children. They’re half-Spanish, or half-Andalucian as their Dad would say, bilingual, and comfortable in both cultures, thanks to 2 and 9; and 1 helps too. My husband, for his part, keeps our shoddily-built bungalow standing, tending to plumbing, electrical, structural and countless other problems, and is a bear-ish sort of bloke who is useful around the house and garden (great veg patch) – just as well, since he doesn’t have a job. Anyway, they’re the bees’ knees and I love them to bits. I managed without them for three days recently, on a very nice trip in Andalucia, but that was quite long enough, thank you. I can’t go without hugs for more than three days. Ni pensar.
Like many bloggers out there, I am thoroughly enjoying Skinny Wench’s A Word A Week - both reading others’ posts, and putting together my own – and I hope you’re liking them too! This is only my second AWAW, but I love these sorts of posts which are quick (my photos aren’t indexed, so it would be even quicker if I got my act together and could locate them using keywords – dream on), easy and fun. Many of my chosen images are Instagram snaps – I am mildly obsessed (@fififlores, if you want to follow me).
The idea of round, for me, denotes smooth, tactile, geometrically balanced; a baby’s soft bottom, a downy peach, a child’s ball. Circular and spherical shapes abound in nature – fruit, flowers, sun, moon… There is something profoundly satisfying about such a complete object, especially when it’s three-dimensional.
Here in Seville, the most ubiquitous incarnation of round are the spots on feria dresses – a key part of one of the city’s most important celebrations.
These round photos are a mix of natural and man (or woman)-made, and are as colourful as I could find:
water wheel at Sanlucar la Barrameda Feria
balloons in a friend’s garden (oval, so a slight cheat there)
supremely stylish football hat worn triumphantly at Euro 12
The Virgin Mary glints in the autumn sun, on our local romeria (pilgrimage).
This firework is from the UK’s Jubilee celebrations in June 2012.
Light refracted off the pool at Fazenda Nova in Portugal is glittery.
Every week, Sue over at A Word in Your Ear posts a photo theme – colour, texture, or whatever. They always look like fun, and I often think of photos I’ve taken which would be ideal for a post, but guess what – I never get around to doing it.
This morning I saw the glitter-themed post by the wonderful Fieldnotes from Fatherhood, which inspired me to get off my Reyes Magos-knackered arse (today is the second Spanish Christmas, celebrating the arrival of the Three Kings, with more presents, processions and general over-indulgence) and dig out some suitable snaps. After all, what woman can say no to shiny, sparkly stuff? (Not me!)
A couple are a half-inched from a recent post on Seville’s Christmas lights, since these beautiful illuminations are still making the city look so magical, with others from adventures last year in Portugal and the UK, as well as closer to home. The last two are from our Reyes procession which took place yesterday afternoon.
If you’re Spanish, or you live here in Spain, Felices Reyes! And to everyone, Happy New Year. I’ll be doing one of those year-in-review posts everyone’s been popping off soon – I promise to keep it short, though perhaps not quite as short as this one.
Yes, we do get frost here in southern Spain.
Sparkly Ayuntamiento (town hall) building in Seville, like diamonds.
Cinderella in her gleaming carriage in the Cabalgata de los Reyes Magos (Three Kings’ procession).
The first carroza (float) in the Cabalgata for Reyes 2013; La Estrella (the Star).