Following the Rio Jucar through the Serrania de Cuenca – a switchback road between the vertical escarpments of the river, limestone cliffs, meadows of scratchy thistles, pine forests and sheets of yellow sunflower faces. There are places along the gorge where the limestone has been wind-worn into spectacular shapes, like the hoodoos of Alberta, and the locals have given names to them and their "enchanted city". We stand at the Ventana de Diablo (The Devil’s Window) where the limestone has eroded into a hole, dropping off into the emerald Jucar, surrounded by cliffs and crowned with a castle-like hydroelectric station. Under a cloud-cover, shaded, watching sun-pockets in the surrounding plains and dissecting valleys, it’s pipas everywhere, between grapes and paper whites, petal-delicate blues and amber butterflies skipping from crocus to thistle. Here, Javier’s fifty and more kilometres of nobody, it could be Canada, it is Spain – brown and vast and blinding, with private hunting orchards, birds of prey and rock stands. Once, while walking, Javier asked me if we have sunflowers in Canada. I replied that certainly, yes, we have them, and eat the seeds, just like he does. Now, driving on this sienna ribbon in a carpet of sagging yellow heads, fat with petals, heavy in dizzying rows, I see Javier on the bridge near Galaroza, cracking seeds between his teeth in the solitude of the Aracena, without a sound but the river and the seed cracking. He’s reminiscing about Cuenca, his old province before Andalusia. To Javier, Me casa es tu casa…and now I’m wondering, will Javier ever visit Canada? And will there be enough pipas?

Seville