TE19 Iberian Adventure

John Hartley

In theoldquarter, fatherand sonplied their trades in tumbledown workshopshiddenbetweenbookstoresandhaberdasheries,while the women served cups of espresso in quaint cafes. The sound of the slow and graceful plucking of heavy strings on an old guitar resounded, a sad song the locals call ‘Saudade’. The local’s nod as the pass under Lilac trees in the Largo. In Moorish times a Nordic princess here longed for her snowy homeland. Greatly concerned for her, the King ordered his servants to plant a thousand almond trees. One day, when they bloomed, he went to the bedroom where his wife was wasting away and flung open the shutters. Beholding the vista of white snow-like blossom, the princess immediately recovered her zest for life. Tourists peered into boutiques, a cafe served up tarts laden with cream and fruit, fig, date and carob cakes beckoned from the Patisserie. My Grandfathers possessed an insatiable sweet tooth and, like a ritual call to prayer, we stepped inside to indulge in all manner of delightful desserts. A waitress appeared with slices of caramel-coloured mousse- meringue, glazed with honey and sprinkled with nuts. We had fruit juice in a cafe and fell into a melancholy silence, observing the sun-kissed locals take in the salty breeze. Lovers insensitive to their youth and company sip sweet wine under a table umbrella at one of the cafés. An attractive young woman with long black hair passes through the square. Families stroll quietly through the cobbled streets with extraordinary patience. 168 “You’ve got to try ‘Molotov’ cake.” Grandad licked his lips, “It’s like velvet.”