Sunday September 20th: One month until our 30th Anniversary but no time for musing, we are off to El Borge for Dia De La Pasa - the Festival of the Raisin!.
But before festivities begin we are headed towards Comares, an Andalucian white village. Jess expertly manouvered the Hyundai through the passes of the Axarquia (the land to the east of Malaga), and up the mountain road. We parked some distance from the summit and commenced our day's fitness test.
Just when you were convinced the slope could not have become more vertical, a steeper path lay ahead. Steep, that's not steep! inferred the local ancient as she expertly drove her zimmer-frame up the calle at a fair clip.
Ceramic panels depicting various events in the villages' history were located at strategic spots and vistas. A statue depicting the Verdialis (a local step similar to morris dancing) was positioned on the roof of a casa blanco below. Sweating profusely, we finally reached the gates of the cemetary. Unbelievably, Wendy's brightly flowered shirt provided camouflage amongst the floral tributes to the dearly departed.
Parking was at a premium at El Borge and we were directed to a dry arroyo where vehicles were carefully abandoned. Should a flash flood occur, the Spanish motor insurance industry will never recover.
Arriving at the first plaza we were treated to a display of straw surfing by a local farmer. Carefully balanced on a flat wooden platform he urged his pair of donkeys around a circular track of hay cuttings. Nearby one of the competing pandas (dance troupes), rhythmically strummed, clicked and cavorted amidst the crowd gathered to witness some grape stomping.
As the main program was due to commence at 2.00pm, we ate at a bodega where paella, skewered chicken pincitos and drinks for six cost the princely sum of 20 euros. Clutching our tinto retadas we sat down under the sunshade to await the entertainment. A gentleman in an orange shirt played a short program of Spanish guitar that Shane informed us was the sound-check. A pigeon-pair of minor celebrities then jostled each other for control of the mike at volumes loud enough to be heard back in Riogordo.
The stage was then filled with the ample figures of the womens' choral group Coro Rociero La Bizmaga. Clad in flattering gowns of patterned musk-stick pink, they regaled us with tales of life, love and lust. My attention was riveted on Carmen of the Casternets who had a sweet smile and the hips of a...., a....., (No, that would be cruel!). They were soon followed by Seville's extraordinary flamenco singers D-Azahar who professed to be thrilled to be invited to such an important fiesta.
In addition to the official program, a number of side-shows attracted our attention. Spontaneous outbreaks of dancing would start with one notable example: Jorge, a local lothario with maccassered mullet and attention-seeking puce shirt, intently strutted his stuff with a succession of eager suitors.
We joined a throng clamouring to get their hands on a local dish of beef and liver stew. God! said John McG It's either very good or they must be giving it away. It was, and they were!. The runny fragrant stew, cooked in outside village ovens, was accompanied by local potato salad and toasted breadcrumbs cooked in a two-metre diameter paella pan.
If this is what they do to celebrate the raisin, I would love to know what they do with a whole grape!!.
As we made our way back to the car we noted the straw-surfing had proved a hit, and a young grommet was clinging tightly to the legs of the revolving Big Kahuna.
To be concluded....
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