The Castillo of
Santa Barbara atop Alicante’s highest hill had been an active castle and
watchtower in medieval times; it prevented pirate and Moorish attacks, and
merchant ships could always be spotted on the shores below. Through time, lords
and crowned heads inhabited it as did an assemblage of service people who
developed the land, the farms, villages and streams that washed down the
hillside sloping towards the Mediterranean Sea.
Evocative of
the olden lifestyle of Spain’s southeastern parts, today, the castle is
Alicante’s chief symbol; a living treasure for the town and its inhabitants.
When
we first arrived nearing the noon hour on this medium sized, Costa Blanca seaside town in late September 1972, the afternoon was sweltering
betraying the autumnal calendar season. My attention taken by the white-washed
houses and apartment buildings along the very narrow, cobble-stoned lanes
that lined the bottom of the hill overlooking the expansive blue sea; the
docked fishing boats hugging the beach and delectable aromas of fresh seafood
wafting through open doors and windows of dining folk.
In
those days, Alicante was famed for its nougat candy, abundant seafood, olive
and almond orchards, and well-developed cheese making traditions.
We first stayed at a room-and-board, in the center of town, overlooking the west side of the
Santa Barbara Castle. A week later, we moved to a front-facing balconied
apartment on the sixth floor of a modern building, situated on one of the
coveted cobbled lanes at the foot of the castled mount, just across the
Mediterranean and only one mile from town. Though sparingly furnished, the
apartment was cozy and full of light.
With our
first-born Carolynne, aged 3 and a half, we soon began a living and learning routine as we
prepared to reside in this town for the one-year
posting.
Our previous
year in Northern Spain had been successful as far as work and schooling for
Carolyn in the conservative town of Vitoria (Yes, without a C) in the Basque
Country. Alicante, now promised to be just as grand an experience, as highly
encouraged, we settled ourselves to discover it.
A bilingual school for our daughter, an
English teaching job for me plus a yoga class, completed our early arrangements.
Soon
after that, and on a long weekend we hired a smallish car, and
started north, through the beautiful Spanish countryside, driving all the way
to Vitoria, some 350 miles to our friends’ home, who the previous spring
-- before we left for our summer in the USA – had graciously offered to store
our household effects until our return to Spain.
October was a
sizzling month but come November temperatures dropped and in place of bathers
on the beach, we spotted runners and young children building castles in the
sand.
By
December the Costa Blanca weather turned bitter, and snow (unseen for the past 25 years)
covered the neighboring Sierra de Bernia
hills which rise about 5000 feet above the sea.
The
customary birds that grace the Mediterranean coast’s mild winters, found warm
refuge on the inside of verandas and apartment back patios such as ours, a
sight that made Carolynne squeal with joy.
Although
the cold kept people indoors, we pulled our thick woolen coats, hats and
scarves out of storage and on we marched on foot to school and job. On our
dusky walk back, as indoor lights came on, one by one, in the town’s houses and
shops, we would stop by ‘our’ bakery right on our way home, to buy some ‘just
out of the oven’ crumpets (ensaimadas)
filled with cream and sprinkled with powdered sugar, and eat them on the
remainder of our brisk walk. The pine-scented smoke from the street corner
chestnut sellers, veiled the air in a filmy healing aroma, fueling our mounting
expectations of the fast approaching holiday season.
We did not have
a car those years in Spain, our way of transport being our own two feet, public
buses and sometimes a rented car when we wanted to enjoy a weekend exploring
beyond Alicante. Walking is a
common way of life in Spain; healthy, clean, and ecological; countless
observations can be made without having to park or bother with a car. I
walk all over town or take the bus from the market, with my rattan grocery
basket full of produce.
Nearly
every family in Alicante either walks or rides public transportation to school
or work; some own cars but only drive on weekends.
One Saturday in
December, we rented a small car (a tiny Fiat 600 for those familiar with Fiats)
and went off in search of a Christmas tree farm a neighbor had told us about.
Driving along an isolated road between the sea and the hills, we were suddenly
overtaken by a herd of goats, thirty or forty in all, some bushy, some with
heavy coiled horns. To Carolynne’s delight and acclamation, we stopped the car
allowing the confused goats to surround us in every way and direction possible
in the middle of the road. In a whirl of bells and a melody of flutes, a young
shepherd appeared up the path, urging the flock to settle into a sort of straight
line to liberate the road.
The
Christmas tree we picked, a tall and skinny fir, had to be accommodated
diagonally inside the car, its top sticking out the front passenger window, its
bottom trunk against the back window; we drove home singing carols and
inhaling the amazing scent from the pine forests.
The afternoon
excitement was so empowering that our young daughter, on being asked her name
(in Spanish) by a nice grandfatherly man, replied blatantly “My name is Wee Wee
Denken” to which the gentleman retorted (in Spanish), with a smile, “Ah, you must be a
foreigner then”
When spring
lastly arrived, the pale apple and almond trees greeted us with god-sent
perfumed blossoms gifting us with suspended canopies in bloom; the hills and
the Santa Barbara castle offering a seemingly pious light reflected by the sea
and the setting sun. ©1973 ESW
