In Practice, Production on September 14, 2012 at 2:43 pm
There’s no answer.
A part of me is sure this is the place. I directed us here from the passenger seat without hesitation, once we figured out how to get off the highway that hadn’t been here last time and took the tiny road up. I remembered it all – that the road bore to the left as it rose and then curved into the lower edge of the mountain village, then another swing left and, soon after, this big brown gate on the right, of stately design in a grand stone wall. A worn crest carved above it.
Behind the wall and to our left a more modern house in bare brickwork confuses me. The old house is hidden from our sight, so another part of me is thrown – the bricks of the “new” house were bare thirty-two years ago when I was last here. Surely it would have been finished – rendered – by now? Could it be the house I knew?
No answer. I begin to doubt myself and we wander uphill to see if I can recognize anything else, and to see if I can find somebody to ask. At the top of the road we meet an ancient woman carrying some logs in a bucket as she emerges from the darkness of her apparently electricity-free house. Surely it can’t be in this day and age? Maybe she’s just thrifty. More
In Plenary, Production on August 9, 2011 at 11:17 am
It’s Sunday August 7th. We have stayed with friends who were celebrating their engagement and are on our way back to Tarifa – a little the worse for wear but looking forward to a dip in the Atlantic and pleasantly cowed into submission by the glory of the day.
There is no haze. Even before we reach San Roque or Algeciras we can see both Pillars of Hercules aligned in front of us, the dirty industrial sweep of the bay dwarfed by the more enduring features of the Rock and Jebel Musa.
At Algeciras we run into some traffic which clears a little on the other side, but as soon as we have ascended the mountain road to Pelayo we find ourselves back in it; at a standstill in fact – a first for us on this road. K doesn’t suppose the police would be running checks on a Sunday, so we assume there has been an accident and that a lane has been closed off somewhere ahead.
We’re feeling cheerful – and therefore patient – so we sit and chat, untroubled by the delay; perhaps just a little apprehensive that we will see something awful at the site of the crash. More
In Production on August 3, 2011 at 10:21 am
I didn’t think the summer would be so much about routine, but it is.
K gets up early for work and nowadays I (half) wake up with her. In less than thirty minutes she looks spectacular and I have put my first foot on the floor. We leave the apartment at more or less the same time. Sometimes me first, usually her; off on her coast road commute to the Rock.
I take the rubbish and perhaps some recycling to the bins and head for the promenade – when I get there I break into a run. Up through the exercise machine square, along the warehouse wall towards the blue apartment block, past the cluster of trendy bars and on to the ice cream kiosk.
Before I reach it I pass the sports centre where there is always a door swinging open, visible through the mesh fence that fronts onto the promenade. They’re in there on running machines – with the beach and the Straits and the coast of Africa just outside under dramatic skies; they’re in there like hamsters on wheels. Presumably the door is left open to let some fresh air in. Can anyone spot the insanity? More