If the orange earth under our feet were the sea, our house would have headed for port a long time ago. A bride leaving Órgiva’s church would be in tears (or hopefully laughing); her hair in tatters, her bouquet ruined. The lights flicker; banshee-wailing winds have come with a vengeance.
The outside area has been rearranged, with chairs, plants and other garden paraphernalia scattered around like confetti. Snapped bamboo, tufts of olive branches, uprooted bushes – it’s been a noisy couple of days, with more to come. The cats’ eyes are like dinner plates and when they do venture outside, their bodies become pom-poms with legs.
In the garden a wired mesh of thin branches on a pergola (think one hundred witches’ brooms tied together) – used to shield the rays of Andalucia’s scorching summer sun – has gone. And the contrast between now and what’s to come, when relief from the heat is found inside prison-thick walls, could not be greater.
In between roars it’s silent, until you hear the olive groves send a warning that the shutters will rattle once more.
Here is today’s wind warning from the Aemet website.
© con jamón spain