After our arrival and with firm directions, we set off to find the Cortijo Barranco near Arcos.
We stopped only to fill the car with Diesel, as we had no idea when we might find another petrol station. With our directions to the Cortijo re-enforced, we were fairly confident in reaching our destination.
As in the directions, there was a tortuous road stretching ahead of us. It bypassed a sand quarry, climbed a height which gave wonderful views and then descended into a wooded valley across a bridge and a small river.
Bumping our way over the road, which had become damaged by the bad weather. Like us, they had been inflicted with more than the normal rain supply.
We climbed out of the valley to a wonderful open vista that allowed us to look from sky to sky in all directions.
The view caressed soft rolling hills splattered with an old olive tree here and there and more of the same in clusters.
Wheat fields stretched their golden gleam in artistic sweeps down the hillsides, showing off resting fields of varying coloured soil.
Amongst these were some startling rusty reds, changing to black and then back to white and light brown swirls.
The roadside borders were awash with wildflowers of different assortments and colours. The warm sun shone showing it off to us, rounding it up with a beautiful sky. It was breathtaking.
Still, we drove around a corner where a small house sat perched and beyond it was BARRANCO.
We had finally found it! It sat with its white turrets peeping over a hill at the head of a valley as it has since 1754 a mill and family home, now being shared by us be it briefly.
As we drew nearer, a few small defensive windows broke up its solid walls.
With plants clinging to give the walls vivid splashes of colour, with their roots buried in big pots around the bottom.
We drove up to the front of the building and parked near the large solid, dark, wooden, brass-studded front door, with a step over an entrance.
We stepped into the open quadrangle and gazed around at the flowers in pots and trees dotted the ground with their lovely fresh shading greens.
We observed the accommodation, for the house, was arranged on two levels, all around the quadrangle.
On the lower levels, doors and windows staggered along the walls with white canvas chairs and small tables outside.
It would be a cool and friendly place in the hot summer months if you did not want to stay indoors.
At one end was a grand door and entrance. In the opposite lower corner, a stairway led to the upper balcony and more bedrooms.
There was a room to the left at the head of the stairs which led into a long dark lofty wood ceilinged room with the tang of wood smoke clinging to the furnishings.
The room was a very cosy place after dark with its lights and fire glowing, a glass of wine in hand and good company.
Everything spoke of its place in history and some intriguing items associated with working the soil that is no longer used today hung on the walls.
Maria, the Patron’s daughter came to welcome us to her home, which she explained has been in her family for five generations.
It was built in 1754 and was originally a mill, a very important place in the history of the local farming community. With changing farming methods it changed into a home, with accommodation for visitors.
I said ‘It must have been wonderful to have been a child here!’
Maria said ‘It was.’ Her mother later confided that she had had nine children, and now has twenty-six grandchildren.
How they must love coming to such a place, I would!
So hopefully the traditions of the house and its place in the community will be safeguarded by the family for some time to come.
She looked us up and down and said ‘You are both tall!’ I have two rooms with long beds you may choose which you would like.’
We followed her and saw both rooms and chose the larger one, as it gave us more room to move about. The room we had continued the rustic theme. It had to my appreciative eyes, hand-crocheted matching bedspreads in accrue and green, a skill now dying out. The only discordant note for me was the large black and white cowhide spread on the floor.
It instantly brought back memories of the carnage we had left behind in the UK. The mass slaughtering of cows and sheep, in horrendous numbers, with mad cow and foot and mouth diseases.
Even those who only had the threat of contamination of it were included. I salved my conscience by not walking on the hide. Everything else was fine.
That night it rained heavily and we asked if it would be possible to have a meal at the Cortico. Maria said ‘We do not normally do that, but as it is so cold and wet we will.
We thanked her gratefully as the thought of feeling our way in the dark down the tortuous road, with the surface rutted even more by the heavy rain, was unappealing.
We went to change for dinner and at the appointed time, with umbrellas at the ready, we went down the stairs across the quadrangle to the Grand Entrance.
We turned right and walked into a large hall with a high beamed wooden ceiling and white walls. There were rude pottery and kitchen utensils on the grand scale, festooning the walls, relics from a bye gone age.
Going by the size there must have been many people to feed at any one mealtime. In the middle of the hall in front of us, there were two well-polished long wooden tables. With dark wooden sideboards placed on either side.
Behind us when we turned round was a large log fireplace with stone seats to sit on. Its warmth wafting out greets us on this untypical Spanish late spring night.
We chose to sit on a half-cut old mill grinding stone that made up the front of the fire. Quietly we waited not at all sure of the procedure we would need to follow.
All of a sudden in came a large grey and white English Sheepdog, just like the Dulux adverts. He came rushing over in welcome and being a dog lover I went to return his greeting.
Delight changed to horror as he was soaking wet, I took off around a convenient table, with the dog in delighted pursuit, trying to escape being covered in mud and rain.
My husband decided that the manly approach might be better. He stood still and called in his loudest fiercest voice ‘SIT’.
To my amazement, he sat at once and then to my wicked delight, stood up on his hind legs and put his forefeet on my husband's shoulders.
Then it was every man for himself round and round the table, till the dog gave up in disgust, and headed towards the kitchen door, and what he and I both hoped might be a nice meal.
It was not his fault we did not know Spanish!
I had to laugh if my friends had seen me running away from a dog they would not have believed it.
2024 © Penny Wobbly of WobblingPen
Photo: Pixabay License
