A cool sea breeze blows in from the south as I begin to walk up the steep-sided slope towards the farm. Pink-and red-flowering oleander bushes lining the edges of the dry river bed shake off a coating of dust in the circling air, their last colours of the summer blooming in the deep shade of the mountains. It hasn’t rained for months and around me the landscape feels bare and hot.
Scrambling along the rocky dirt track, I turn up the road that leads to the mas – our little huddle of cottages. Along the verges the grass lies limp and yellow, the soil crumbling like sand. But amid this straw-coloured background come flashes of green, patches of life that have survived and seem almost to flourish despite the drought. Pine trees soar up into the sky.
As the path winds around the contours of the mountainside, the almond groves come into view. They too seem to have survived the summer well, with bright-green plump fruits hanging from their branches. Harvest time is only weeks away.
There are more butterflies now; with every step a score of them scatter into the air. Like tiny fireworks, they shine a myriad of colours around my feet – shell blue, bright fox red, black, white, racing green and royal purple – enveloping me as I walk further up the hill.
I pass the freshwater spring as the path continues upwards; a frog leaps from stone to stone for safety as he senses the tread of my approaching feet. Around the edges of the little pool, rushes are beginning to sprout, absorbing the moisture seeping into the ground. Finches chatter in the Judas tree on the terrace below.
As I walk past a large holm oak, I hear a clicking sound coming from further up the slope. Turning, I see three ibexes staring down at me with dark, piercing eyes. Their horns stretch up from their heads, curved majestic arches a metre long. We stand for a moment gazing at each other, the ibexes as curious about me as I am about them. Sensing I pose no threat, they slowly start to move on, heads bobbing down to nibble on plants near the ground before glancing up again to see where I am. Eventually they skip up the mountainside with their powerful hind legs, their grey, black and tan fur blending seamlessly into the landscape. Long after they are out of sight, I can still catch the echo of their hooves pounding the rocks as they move to higher ground.
I approach the house under the shade of heavy, five-fingered leaves, and pick some of the last figs of the season, peeling back the skin and biting into the soft sweet flesh. Pink juices stick to my lips, my mouth tingling with flavour. Tomorrow I will pick the remainder and dry them. Salud has returned from her tour abroad at last: we’ll be lighting the first fires of the autumn soon.
Begoña came up yesterday with the goats. I told her about my journey and about the things I’ve been discovering. She nodded silently as I mentioned where I’d been – places she has heard of but never seen. Her brown eyes glistened for a moment when I told her that people around the country were starting to open up unmarked war graves like the one she had shown me.
Perhaps, she wondered, one day they will come to look at our fosa.
Perhaps, I say.