While the new day did not blaze into summer, the frigid hurricane had at least passed. The flowers were blooming at La Hacienda de Los Dos Gnomos. The lemon and orange trees had survived, and the bees were happily buzzing around the bay tree. Some semblance of spring had returned. We kicked off the piles of blankets, squeezed oranges into juice fit for the Gods, and brewed up the French press. There would be an afternoon train bearing us south, but the morning was ours.
"Lemon tree, very pretty..."
The single Bay Tree, bearing enough bay leaf to make ten thousand stews.
Not exactly blazing heat, nor a day for swimming, but the clouds were breaking. We were off for a hike in a nature park not far north of Isla Menor. Wearing only half of the warm clothes we had packed, we piled into the little turquoise Marbella and rattled down the pot-holed roads of the neighborhood. Dogs barked and roosters crowed, the normal din of the morning. Tom describes Isla Menor as "half suburb, half Rez." It is a strange place, a cluster of closely packed houses ranging from fine homes to tumbling shacks. Each property is walled or fenced, most surrounded by heavily-laden fruit trees, and each property sporting at least one dog. The narrow lanes between the walls are unpaved, riddled with bumps and potholes. Isla Menor lies some seven kilometers from the edge of the town of Dos Hermanas. It is surrounded by fields and groves of olives and oranges. There isn't any really good reason for the place to exist, yet it does.
Our destination for the morning.
We skirted rain flooded streams, sodden paths, and boggy meadows. It was glorious to be outside, unmolested by the hurricane of the previous day. The lack of rain was the only excuse we needed for a good walk. Walk we did, and talk, and laugh. We threaded our way under strange round-topped pine trees that resembled giant mushrooms. There were groves of wild olive to explore, the damp forest floor littered with olives the size of rabbit droppings. We searched for hares amongst the tussocks. It was a fine morning and well-spent.
Back at the hacienda, we had time for one more meal, one more coffee, and one more conversation. Promises were made of trips to the north, and return trips to the south. It is a fine thing to have such a good old friend on this side of the pond. I very much look forward to out next reunion.
Blue skies for departure.
The time came for us to board the train. Tom left us at the station and we walked to our platform. Our destination was Cadiz, one-and-a-half hours to the south. The train arrived on the dot, a far cry from my memories of Spanish trains in the long-ago. The last time I was in Spain, Franco had only been dead a few years. The Spainards were giddy with possibility after the long night of Franco's dictatorship. One thing that they had not figured out, however, was a timely train. Things have changed a lot in forty years. Damn, I am getting old!
We rolled across the Spanish countryside, all open fields and rolling hills. Huge wind turbines spun on the hilltops. As we passed Jerez, I tried to spot the famed MotoGP track, but it was nowhere to be seen. We dropped into the marshy delta of the Guadalquivir river, a maze of estuaries and backwaters. We crossed the long causeway to Cadiz, the Atlantic Ocean to our left, and the sweeping bay to our right.
Train Station, Cadiz, Spain
We disembarked our train and shouldered our backpacks. It was but a short walk to our hotel in the old city, and Cadiz is very, very old. It is also not pronounced the way you are reading it. To say it like a good Andalusian, it is "CAH-dissss." You really have to lisp that "Sss" to make it work. The ancient city of Cadiz, however, is going to have to wait. The wifi I am using is very sketchy, with barely enough bandwidth to pull down an email, much less upload a long post. So for now I will say Adios. And in good Andalusian, that is Ahhh-Dee-O. Forget the "Sss" altogether. Don't worry, you get used to it.
Travel well, travel often, and from Cadiz, it's Ciao for Now!
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