EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJanuary 5, 1997
Huerta Santa Maria
Near Galaroza
It’s magic hour all day at Cortigo Huerta de Santa Maria.
We awake in the shuttered room, with a crack of sunlight dancing with dust particles.
Chucha lies on the grass below. The air is warm and dry, skipping through the trees at the
end of a hill journey, to be swallowed by a room with cool walls.
The nights are cold, 5 degrees. It chills off when the sun goes down at
7. In the day we open the windows and let in the hot breath of Andalucia.
It’s an hour and a half into Seville, around the city to the
airport. We’re waiting in a small, empty terminal for Angela and Wilfred and Edwin.
They are coming to Huerta Santa Maria for a week, and will surprise my parents on
Friday. Rich stands at the window to watch the planes land. Most are Iberian Airlines,
coming in from Barcelona, or London. Angela comes through the gate with Edwin and Wilfred.
She’s happy to see us here at the airport, not sure what lies ahead, where we are
staying. She’s open to the possibilities, which is good, because it is a long, hot
drive back to Galaroza.
Wilfred loves the chickens and the eggs. His current area of expertise
is the ins and outs of the egg-laying process. He says he has never had his own chickens
before. The afternoon is spent watching the chicken’s bottoms, and exploring the
fishpond and the cacti and gathering wood.
