Welcome to my life in Casares

Fifteen kilometres from the Costa del Sol, stands a rock – shaped like half of a Christmas pudding from which somebody has, bit-by-bit, pinched morsels from the middle. From one side it appears rounded and whole; from the other, hollow and rather unlikely. Protruding from the rounded side are mismatched white boxes. Inside of the boxes are dark brown people.

Somewhere near the base of the inhabitable side lies a square, where thirty or forty men stand about with the palms of their hands flattened onto walls or tree trunks. Others sit on benches or stools. Each stool has its legs cut to odd lengths in order to fit the slope of its whereabouts.

A man wheeling a large red ladder emerges in the square, places it in a favourable spot and flattens his palms on one of its steps. The ladder appears to be nothing more than a large red portable leaning device, yet nobody bats a leathery eyelid. People aren’t simply sure of events in the square, they are sure that they are.

From above, two sides of a mountainous valley sweep down and scissor the village set on the rock. Walk out of the square, find the small road which leads onto one side of the valley and follow it the three kilometres or so up to its origin. Once there, pick your way down one of the steep paths into the woods and you will find a house. Inside the house is a light brown person, somewhat less sure of these scenarios – welcome to my life in Casares.

A House in the Forest

My home is a spacious single vessel, with walls that are three feet thick in some places. Internally they are straw-bale while the outsides are fashioned with a rough plaster. The front of the house faces the sun’s arc across the sky and the windows on this side are set up high. The carefully positioned roof angles down, meaning that the hot summer sun with its higher trajectory doesn’t penetrate the glass. As the seasons change and the sun traverses lower to the horizon, the thatch no longer blocks its rays, warming the house inside.

The back of the house is set into the forest, and on this side the windows are set low to the ground. When both front and back windows are open, the warmer air inside the house rises and finds its way out of the top windows, while the disparity in pressure which occurs, means that cool air is drawn in through the back windows. I’m fascinated by the house, and deeply appreciative of the intelligence of the design and simplicity of the materials. For one, I have passed the summer comfortably in temperatures above 40ºC without need of fridge or electric-fan, let alone an air-conditioning unit. Secondly, because of the wholesome and tranquil haven which it provides.

In and around the forest and on the finca (a plot of land in the countryside), oranges, lemons, pears, figs, sweet-chestnuts, blackberries, and mint grow semi-wild or wild. The benefit of collecting and consuming these items seems to transcend their calorific value. Picking and eating a fig somewhat whimsically, can swiftly become a half hour activity where one works one’s way through some kind of spectrum of fig-ripeness on a quest for the perfect one. In short, one begins to graze – born out of instinct perhaps. And for the first time, I truly understand the miracle of these edible organic gifts. I think back to times spent in shops gazing at plastic-wrapped confectionary. Here, it hangs on trees, brighter, more beautiful in colour, its recipe developed over millennia. While food products can be manufactured to benefit human health, surely they can’t compete with the evolution and symbiosis of mankind and nature’s sustenance.

As well as the striking effect of the plant life, the forest has its quota of animals, birds and insects. Part of an almost daily routine involves throwing pine cones in the direction of the grumpy and sometimes bolshy wild boar. Disgruntled, they retreat to their own territory, but I always get the impression that they feel that the land that I consider mine is something of a disputed area.

There are patches on pathways where it has become only a vague and accepted recognition that the tiny grasshoppers that live there will flick up and bounce off of my legs as I walk. A few times I’ve uncovered a scorpion. On each occasion my first instinct has been to move closer, assuming it dead. None of them have been, perhaps part of their defence strategy. On further, albeit mild, interrogation with a stick, they arch up their tail and scuttle off aggressively. Bombardment by moths; shepherding flies out of the door; and removing beetles coaxed astray by the light from the house are things which are second nature now. The little lizards which adorn my wall aid with the insect-clearing task. I never swat anything, doing so would be to fight a loosing battle anyway, but I consider the lizards’ bug-sized meals as both helpful and fair-due on their part.

Vultures soar high above the craggy mountain ridges, taking advantage of thermal currents. Woodpeckers drum in scatty rhythms on hot days. One night, I peered out from my door in the dusk to see an owl sat on my thatch. Within a couple of silent wing-beats it disappeared into the pine trees.

Trips to Casares

Cabin-fever is not the problem up in the forest, the re-emergence into society is the difficulty. Despite my love of my living surroundings, I know I will have to re-emerge one day not too far off. So I regularly make the walk down to the village. After being in the forest it’s hard to break from the serenity. Casares has something of a brash and alien charm about it, which provides a fascination but also makes the dealings with people more difficult. My part-Spanish roots do nothing to normalise things. Sometimes I go there for breakfast. I have toast with olive oil, salt, and half a tomato, a coffee with milk, a glass of Anis (a sweet strong aniseed flavoured liqueur), and a few mouthfuls of water from the fountain in the square. Olive oil and alcohol in the morning are not the most settling of things for an unadjusted stomach, but I want to fit in. After breakfast I take part in the much loved pastime of bench-sitting. Being twenty-seven, I’m usually the only person under the age of fifty. I sometimes wonder if I would need to wait there another twenty-three years in order to achieve some form of recognition, even so I greet passers-by with a typical “hola” or “buenas”.

Last weekend I attended La fiesta de la Patrona, a Catholic festival in dedication to the Virgin Mary. A large coffin was paraded around the square with a wobbly doll-like Virgin Mary on top. The square was covered with sparkling lights – the reason for the arrival of the red ladder approximately ten days previous. Not only a leaning device. If I were here next year I would know it signalled the upcoming festival. In that respect things seemed a little less strange.

Two nights ago I went to the village for a coffee. It occurred to me to buy a newspaper, so I went to the curtained unsigned doorway which I know is the shop. I asked if I could buy one and the man told me I couldn’t. I asked where I could, and he told me that I couldn’t buy one in Casares. I looked baffled. He told me to watch television or ask somebody what was happening. From the old castle on the top of the hill you can see all the way past the wind-farm to the bustling Costa del Sol. Beyond that is Gibraltar and the humped shape of Morocco. Yet just fifteen kilometres away it is impossible to buy a newspaper. I assume it’s the bizarre topography and difficult access that has made Casares different from almost anywhere in the world.

Striking a Balance

The paradox between my wooded home and the oddness of my nearest point of society is difficult to deal with and at times I long to make chit-chat with friends. Going to Casares provides little relief in that respect, perhaps it even increases the longing. All the same I like the gruff old men that don’t speak to me on the bench and the strange aesthetic provided by the white houses perched on the unlikely rock.

Back in the forest, sometimes I wake in the night and walk out on to the front deck of my house and stand there sleepily. The cicadas fill the air with vibrant energy, vegetation flows up from the darkness, and from a point within that deep encompassing velvet sky, the white-gold moon illuminates the rocky valley tops all around me. And at these times I know that however strong my societal yearnings might sometimes be, enduring them is worth it to have experienced a segment of my life in such an incredible place.