January 4, 1999

Cortijo Huerta de Santa Maria

Near Galaroza

Seville is a sprawling sculpture. We’ve never seen streets so narrow. The walls of the Santa Cruz district are so high we are immediately lost, and wind our way, like lab rats, towards a plaza, and then the huge, Gothic Cathedral with the Moorish La Giralda (bell tower). Across the Avenida de la Constitucion, at the Arco del Postigo, is the Booking Office for our rented house. I have arranged to meet with Nacho this morning and get directions to Huerta de Santa Maria.

Nacho is not here today, and we speak Chari, who makes a great effort to speak to us in English. She arranges with the house’s proprietor for us to arrive this afternoon and we leave Seville quickly, following the road Northeast, towards Portugal.

Galaroza is a small pueblo; close to the larger town of Aracena, set high on a hilltop, tiered and crowned by the remains of a Templar’s castle. These villages nestle like barnacles in this hilly region, roughly 100 kms from Seville.

We have been told to drive to the neighbouring village of Fuenteheridos and call Senior Javier Lopez from the Plaza. He has been instructed by Chari to look for an old Alfa Romeo, but we are conspicuous enough to be noticed easily by anyone, and are. The townsfolk in the plaza are going about their business. Young men screech into the square on their motos to have conversations with amigos. We stand at Alfi, in the glaring, warm sunlight, and stick out like sore thumbs.

A few minutes pass and a tall, skinny man with a salt and pepper beard approaches us from the other end of the Plaza. He wears baggy chinos and sunglasses and a plaid shirt. He looks a bit like my father. He is smiling. We introduce ourselves. We follow him in his Citroen mini-truck, back to the main road, and then a few kilometres to a veering dirt road. The road is an Alfi nightmare. Very uneven and covered in blowdown, it crosses a stream and then winds through the trees and up a hill. Alfi bottoms out and creeps along the road until we catch up to Senior Lopez at a carport made out of trees and tree branches.

This house is a 17^th century former ecclesiastical retreat. It is made of brick and tile, and sits at the top of a forested rise with grazing land behind and gardens. The house’s reddish brown brick blends with the reddish brown earth. The façade is covered with ivy. Senior Lopez lives in this house, and has renovated the building completely. The second floor is our rented accommodation. It is classically Andalusian in character, with plastered walls, red tile floors, arched doorways and simple, understated furnishings. There are four bedrooms, each loosely painted a different colour, from matte cobalt to ochre to sienna to cadmium rust. There’s a large salon with a wood-burning stove and a long dining table. When we enter the room, an Aria floats. A stereo in the corner emits unbelievable acoustics. There is also a covered balcony and two bathrooms. There’s a clothes washer. The kitchen is equipped and Senior has stocked the fridge with beer, champagne, wine and milk. On the tiled counter sits a basket of eggs. There are potatoes and onions as well. He takes us to the side of the house where there is a chicken coop and shows us how to retrieve our eggs. Gabled ceilings with exposed beams, dormer windows and alcoves are reminders of the building’s original purpose. It is quintessentially rustic. It is simply wonderful.

Senior Lopez, who wants us to call him Javier, shows us the main floor, where he lives. It is equally exquisite in character with modernizing renovations while maintaining the spirit of the place. It seems Javier lives here alone, although his four children, ages 16 to 27 visit him and live in "our" part of the house. In fact, our bedrooms include their books and photos and collections of ceramics and other decorative items. Javier has a fox terrier named Chucha.

Javier asks us if we would like to eat, and we unload the car while he prepares a tortilla. He seems to be alone here, dropping out of society and self-sufficient on this property. It appears he has renovated himself, and a few rooms remain in progress. We sit on a patio, basking in the sun, beside a vast greenhouse of cacti. There are hundreds of varieties, some flowering tiny, delicate pink blossoms. Javier tells us one of his sons studies gardening, and has landscaped the surroundings of the house and developed this greenhouse. It is 25 degrees, but Javier tells us this is abnormal, and that autumn is the best.

Javier speaks French. We sit down to an onion and potato tortilla with a completely organic, warm salsa made of tomatoes, peppers, and onions. We have red wine and water from a natural spring. The spring water runs through the pipes. He tells me to pour out my bottled water. There are sweet, dripping oranges and chocolate for dessert.

The food is delectable. We are overwhelmed and wondering what lies ahead. Javier is very friendly. Will we be his guests for the next month? How much privacy will there be? This is an entirely new experience for the subdued Canadians. Even the recluses in Spain are social creatures. Will the eight of us deafen him with upstairs dynamics?

The house is very open and cool. The surrounding garden includes a stone swimming pool, twin ponds with goldfish, a clothesline, the chicken coop and a barbecue pit. We are to share these things with Javier while we are here. He explains that he has 200 kilos of organic potatoes and that he cannot eat them all, so we are to tell him when we need more. He tells us that he has bread delivered each morning and to let him know how many we would like.

Chucha sits under the table. We tell Javier about Mariam and how we found Huerta Santa Maria. Javier doesn’t like the booking agency and gets most of his guests by word of mouth. He tells us about how he lived in Mallorca for 15 years and used to be a vegetarian, but then he moved back to Andalusia where the Jamon is so good. He tells us he has a fiancée in Seville and is going to visit her tomorrow. He is going into Seville to buy a heater because all of the French and English who come to Andalusia in the winter complain that it is too cold. Javier says that he doesn’t know why the English bother to live in London when they are always in Andalusia.

After the meal Javier goes out to herd his sheep and we walk to the end of the road and examine the surroundings. At six o'clock the three of us hop into Alfi and drive up the road to a friend of Javier’s who is a mechanic. Javier asks him to look at Alfi’s undercarriage. The young man tests Alfi in the driveway. It seems that every time a mechanic sees Alfi, he wants to take her for a wee spin and invariably revs the peppy engine for accurate Alfa recognition. After a few back and forths between 5^th and reverse, the fellow parks Alfi over a pit in his garage and tightens the bolts on the gear shaft. There is another man here, too, perhaps the mechanic’s father. He wants to test Alfi as well, and zooms up and down the driveway. Javier listens to us in French and translates to his friends in Spanish. His French is very good even though he says he has not spoken the language for fifteen years.

Finally, the friend says "Denada" (no problem) and we shake his hand and Javier directs us into the town of Galaroza for some supplies. There’s a small market and we pick up some oranges and hot chocolate. Javier likes Alfi and pats the dashboard when we introduce her as "Alfi". Javier thinks it is funny that we have named our dog Emilia, a person’s name.

Huerta de Santa Maria is dark when we return, Chucha greets us at the bottom of the tiled steps, leading to a front door that never gets locked, and rarely gets closed. Javier has a radio telephone, with slow Internet connection. He says it is very expensive.

We say Buenos Noches, and Javier follows us upstairs to the Salon. He opens a drawer and pulls out a packet of Antacid tablets. Rich says he can take them with him, but he simply pushes a tablet from the package and replaces it in the drawer. He then says goodnight and goes downstairs. We are wondering if Javier is going to come up every evening a take an antacid tablet.

Saraphina Mosey - Inspiration for exploring life.
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Last modified: February 21, 1999