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Wednesday, 23 August 2017

Nearer the Sky than the Sea


View from the Top of  Barrio Alto
Trevélez, a beautiful town, perched in the folds of Mulhacen's skirts some 1500 metres above sea level, is only the second highest municipality in Spain. It is the place to buy the best Iberian hams in the whole of Spain  - as any Andalucian will tell you. Of course "Everyone has the best wife at home" as somebody or other once said. Every day at this time of year luxury coaches take the winding route through Las Alpujarras before disgorging hundreds of tourists into the square in Barrio Bajo (Low Quarter).

The town consists of 3 zones, although it tickles me to use the other dictionary definition: quarter. It isn't quite a town, you see, it's only three quarters of a town. It is not what the Andalucians would consider a village, certainly. Another cultural difference between we Northern Europeans and our Latino hosts. Anyway, there is The Low Quarter, The Middle Quarter and the High Quarter. There is a walking route which winds from the bottom of the town to the top: "La Ruta de los Tres Barrios", unsurprisingly enough. The dog is too old to manage this route as, certainly on the way up, it's too steep for his old legs and weary heart, so I try to do the walk every other day. It's not the same as walking the 7 hours to the top of Mulhacen, but every little helps to fight the middle age spread.

For the third year in a row, the town where we are staying has bizarre mannikins placed in the street. These are slightly more realistic (and sinister) than the wicker men and women of previous years.
Emil and Some Friends of a Similar Age

Fresh Eggs for Breakfast Here.






Winding through the back streets is an education, there are many surprises behind some rustic looking doors on the sides of the houses in these narrow barrio streets. The higher you go, the stranger things you see. I'll spare you the occupied outside loo with the open door onto the street, but these chickens have a room in a house...

Generally I take the main roads (some licence also taken with the term here) down and stop off for a coffee, where I eavesdrop on the conversation between whomosoever happens to be in the bar. This morning the owner was complaining to the woman serving behind the bar that someone hadn't greeted him while they were at the funeral that took place yesterday. This tirade segued seamlessly into complaints that some people from Catalonia had been in the village yesterday, claiming that their ham was better than that of Trevélez. Clearly preposterous, from what I overheard. The owner was turning puce. The woman behind the bar offered the owner decaff for his next coffee. Perhaps I shouldn't have laughed.

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