Chilling at Bar Mora, Sunset and Valley View

Day one on the ground in España started with an 1100 wake-up. Was it jet-lag or the fact that I’d spent 48 hours without any meaningful sleep. Breakfast was in the blazing sun on the patio: Manzanilla olives stuffed with anchovies, pesto and cheese on mini-baguette alternating with slices of chorizo Pamplona. The latter were delicious, though I couldn’t help wonder whether they came from the losers of the corrida. Bernard, our host, graciously provided me with a Finkbräu, as Is had neglected the elixer of life in her provisioning. She had stocked some really good wine (€2.49 = $3.93) a far cry from the bottom-dwellers I find at Hannaford. Anyway, despite the fact that I’m in Spain, I decided that beer is more appropriate than wine for breakfast.

So off to Gor to find the tienda and buy some beer and other necessities. I distinctly remember Is’ words, “It’s only a twenty minute walk though a little hilly, so we shouldn’t cycle.” Well, she was 50-50 wrong/right. It was an hour and almost all downhill . The scenery was arid, but beautiful as we walked off the hardscrabble acres of the almond orchards, through part of the national park and down the black road into town, passing farms and buildings that brought strains of “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly” to mind.

The town was right out of the pages of Driving Over Oranges or any of the numerous ex-pat chronicles; white-washed walls, narrow streets, shuttered windows (it was, after all, siesta time), and red-tiled roofs. The place was neat as a pin, flowers in window boxes, a cat here, a dog there and not a human in sight other than the five pensioners (we guessed) out for a walk. They gave us the evil eye despite our respectful “Hola”. I attribute it to Is’ camera and my backpack.

We ducked into what turned out to be a well-populated bar while in search of a tienda, and once inside realized where the population had gone. Without partaking, partially due to the advancing sunset but more because of the smoky interior we asked for and received directions in staccato Andalusian Spanish. We arrived just after the 1700 re-opening and bought our provisions, finding out that they had no bread other than sliced sandwich loaf. We got directions to the other grocery in town and learned that if we wanted real bread, we’d have to go to the bakery which would be open Saturday from 0800-noon.

The trek home took about two hours but wasn’t all slogging uphill. There were numerous photo-ops, and then after I decided to lighten my load (18) by one beer, we discovered that there were loads of almonds lying alongside the road. Finding the proper rocks, I cracked a bunch and we finished the trip munching on gleaned nuts and cool beer. A fitting end was the great sunset as we made our way down the path to the cortijo.

Saturday at Cortijo Pepe Soria.

We skipped Friday night at the Bar Mora which is a local event-free tapas, and inexpensive beer. Unfortunately, the place was a smokers’ bar and we didn’t want to be asphyxiated. During the day, though, we walked in to catch the itinerant vendors’ market. Kind of like a farmers’ market, but also includes shoe and clothing merchants. I tried to find some slippers and was also attracted to some shoes, but it turned out the shoes weren’t leather and size 48 is unheard of. Guess I’ll have to wear out my water-sneakers.

Vegetables were reasonable and fresh. We were tempted to try the churros and hot chocolate, but decided to skip the calories, opting to wait for a pass at Bar Mora. On the way there we stopped at one of two tiendas where I found Jose Cuervo Gold for only about $2 more than N.H. I commited that to memory and headed for the panederia or bakery. We went overboard there, buying a couple of half=baguettes and a crusty round loaf that made great garlic bread.

Bar Mora is a fairly inauspicious fifteen-table bar with a pinball machine a six-stool bar and a really, really big stuffed bull’s head on the wall. I mean big! His eyes are the size of 8-balls, and his horns awe-inspiring. Imagine the size of the cojones on the matador who faced him in the ring. A plate of calamares, with salad of lettuce, tomatoes and olives plus two beers cost €2.80 which amazed me. That’s about $4.20. It was enough to get us halfway home, up the three mile hill to the cortijo.

Anyway, Saturday was much like any other. Sleep till about 0930, eat a lazy breakfast, go pick roots and prunings from the orchard for firewood. It’s good exercise; walking the rows, carrying a bushel-bucket, pruning shears and a hand saw, bending intermittently to pick up a stick that any serious wood-burner would laugh at. It saves burning propane, or buying firewood at €4 per bucket, and did I say it’s good exercise. I would hate to have to do it, knowing it was the only source of heat for my family. I try to imagine what a peasant’s life was like a couple of hundred years ago and remember that there but for the grace of God go I.

Back to the house for lunch around 1330. It was miserable! Sitting in the blazing sun, temperature around 70F, Serrano ham, fresh salad, black Aragon olives, local cheese, crusty bread with pesto. Had to limit myself to a “Sin” for a beverage. That is an Alhambra beer sin (without) alcohol, a discovery I made by not reading the label. Anyway, they really taste like beer, and don’t put me to sleep when drunk in the daylight. That’s a pavlovian carry-over from putting myself to bed with a beer when I worked midnights.

After doing up the dishes, I cracked almonds for a while, then read from my Drawing text and did a few drawings. It’s a dog’s life.

Tomorrow, we rise early (~0800) break fast and walk to town to try and get Is to mass at 1100. We just guessed at the time, as we forgot to check on Friday, and she didn’t want to call the Guardia Civil post to ask. If she misses it, I guess we’ll just have to grab lunch at Bar Mora and walk home keeping our eyes open for firewood I can collect later on the bike.