January 24,
1999EXCERPTS FROM NOTES FROM THE
GREENHOUSE
(By R. Genn)
The Santa Maria Greenhouse
My being today is held in a greenhouse. It’s become a
comfortable study and workplace. The greenhouse lies along the south wall of Huerta Santa
Maria and stays warm even when harsh winds blow. I’m surrounded by a grand collection
of cacti--perhaps several thousand different varieties--all in separate pots and
scientifically identified. I’ve had the place to myself for the past few days and
feel a lift when I’m in here. The owner, Javier, who is away right now, told me that
it’s a place to make one’s heart light. I think it’s the sheer volume of
species--the seemingly infinite number of ways cacti can be formed. All are creative and
inventive, the textures surprising, the colors subtle and at times remarkable. Some of the
shapes are voluptuous and others mysterious. Not all have sharp needles and are difficult
to handle. In my spare time I take close-ups.
Feelings of the Countryside
Earlier I walked far out into the countryside and had a
feeling that I’d been before. It could not have happened. In my Spain of the recent
and distant past, we had not approached this area. What I was feeling was nevertheless
real.
I lay down on a sunny slope of dry grass and fallen leaves
between polled chestnuts at the edge of a steeply ploughed field. A tiny white butterfly,
almost too small to be a butterfly, flew erratically between the twiggy branches. Then I
had that feeling that one gets every now and then that this day is an extension. An extra.
I think I said "Thank-you" for a similar small thing thirty years ago when we
lived in another part of Andalucia.
The scientific name of the butterfly? It’s a name I
will probably never know.
The paths around here lead in many directions, and
eventually, go everywhere.
It’s natural for the roads and pathways of our minds
to peter out just beyond where we are. In reality they continue and become more than they
were before. Right now the path is strewn with the husks of chestnuts, like thousands of
hedgehogs. Active moles in low fields flick dirt from their piles. Shouts from shepherds
echo the close hills and a dog barks in the distance. Sheep tonkle and move along an ochre
hillside. The narrow valleys and wooded areas are dotted with deserted habitations--mostly
humble dwellings with their roofs caved in--indicating that the area once supported a
considerable population.
An old man, almost as big as his mule, and fatter, rides
slowly down the path. He’s singing a loud, hard, sad song, rolling his
"r"’s. When he sees me he stops in his tracks and smiles a big toothless
grin. Then he starts moving again, lowering his volume as he passes. As he disappears into
the wood I hear his singing go back to the previous volume.
Towns of the Sierra de Aracena
Galaroza is our closest town. Others nearby and within
walking distance are Fuentiheridos, Los Marines, Cortelazor, and Valdelarco. They are
precious, white painted, their narrow streets a maze of tight turns and steep angles.
It’s possible to get lost in the smallest of them. Each has at least one plaza, often
with sculpture, and frequently a multi-spouted public fountain with its accompanying
outdoor laundry facility. The water comes from numerous springs in the area and is of
excellent quality. Every town has a church with its characteristic Mudejar influenced
tower, often with a pair of storks occupying a huge nest at the top. Each town has
architectural variations based on availability of materials and the whims of the builders.
Chimneys alone warrant a Doctor’s thesis. Use of marble varies according to sizes
available. Streets zigzag to the village extremities and turn into narrow donkey tracks to
the fields and plantations. In some areas there are the remains of threshing stones--round
areas generally on high ground in order to catch the wind.
Some villages have substantial castles, mostly from the 13th
century when they were built or refurbished for the perceived threat from Portugal. The
castle in Cumbres Mayores is at least a kilometer around the ramparts and now contains a
regulation football field with room to spare. Thoughtful design, to say nothing of great
labor, went into these fortifications. This leavened by the misery and brutality that went
on around here at one time--they had the ultimate reason for building well--fear.
I feel I’m privileged to be living in a window into
another century, in a small microcosm where time stands still, a magic place not yet
touched by the rush.
