There is a tiny house in a tiny village in Spain; the village is so tiny that there isn’t even a single shop. The only thing there is, is a tiny church. Driving up from the town you have to be careful, but as the road snake-like curves up the mountains you often get a glimpse of the distant sea and the town, glimmering in the heat. When the village finally comes into sight, the white houses seemingly crawling up both sides of the valley, laboriously clinging onto the crumbly orange rocks, you can practically see the heat sizzling above the dwellings and feel the coolness inside them. You have to park on the western side of the valley, beside the church and then walk through the village, down, over the stone footbridge and past the well- bright colored tiles covering the stone basin and two animal heads bringing the fresh water out of the mountain-, past open doors, hung with plastic strips to keep the flies out, up the steep cobblestone street, up.
You won’t meet anyone; everyone is inside, resting, or watching the TV, but might see some dogs or cats, lying somewhere in the shade, also resting. In the evening the street will be more alive, with the old people and the smallest children that still need to be looked after while every child that is old enough to run runs, away from someone, chasing someone, or hides, around the village until past midnight, the tall ones not even noticing that they are “too old” for that kind of games. I remember the first time they came to invite me and my sister, one or two of them spoke a little English and we didn’t have to talk much, the most important thing was to run fast, the next important to hide and be quiet. The game seemed to continue for ever, we mostly went home at two or three in the morning and still heard them laughing while drifting off to sleep.
Life here is simple, carrying drinking water home from the well, strolling barefoot indoors and out, but it seems more human to me than anywhere else. Coming back here is like coming to an oasis after traveling through the desert, with the only difference that this is less busy, calmer.
Our house is nearly the last one, further up there is another vacation house and two or three crumbled cottages. I used to climb through the ruins and think of the people that might have lived there, the children, goatherd-children. There the path starts to fade, going invisibly on, deeper into the mountains.
Today we don’t need to go up there, the town and the heat have made us tired, as we reach the terrace and step into its protecting shade the house silently greets us. I open the green-painted wooden kitchen door and we enter.
11-05-02 MT
