Easter has come and gone. Early for the first time in a few years, it mostly avoided the rain that usually falls on the processions carrying plaster Virgins through villages, towns and cities during Semana Santa. But we have had our share of rain, this year. In between showers, the town-council has been resurfacing roads all through our little town, except in the streets where they won’t vote for the incumbents. So the town centre is a patchwork of pristine black-top and pothole-pocked fairground ride surfaces.
On the drive into town you can see the result of this year’s rainfall; more wild flowers than anyone could name, two kinds of thistle, carpets of poppies – as impressive in their way as the installation last year in London, Guisantes de Olor – the Spanish Sweet Pea – and even the Barbary Figs have flowered. It would take hours to list the colours. Along the side of every track the Spiny Broom’s blossoms show a yellow as bright as the Andalucian sun amongst the prickly lignite of its sprigs and twigs. Sea Lavender encroaches on to the tyre-moulded mud of the same tracks and tiny purple flowers survive until the next rickety van jounces over the ruts.
Even in the town, in the cracks between the walls and pavements, Crowned Daisies and other less-identifiable flowers bloom. Perhaps the looming elections have also cleared most of the paper rubbish from the streets and nature’s colours are taking advantage of its absence to splash their own tints in the Calles named after flowers or hope and illusion.
We are lucky. If we look down, to the side, behind, in front, or upward to the hills and mountains, still green and so much more alive than the desert brown hills of Almeria, we will see that the land is alive, vibrant with hope and rebirth. We are lucky, we too are alive.