Gota Fria

The summer was hotter than usual, and longer, stretching its warm, sticky fingers into autumn. But as the days grew shorter, the temperature cooled and anxious eyes looked up.

"It is coming," Carlota said with a worried look on her face.

I knew what she meant and nodded solemnly as if I agreed, although I didn’t. She had said the same thing last year, and in many previous years, and she’d been wrong.

But this time she was right, it was coming. A Gota Fria was heading my way.

I’d heard about previous Gota Frias, but I was condescending and dismissive of Spain’s unwelcome visitor. That, too, was a mistake.

It pounced a few days later. The morning turned as black as night and a raging wind raced in, punching down walls like a rampaging bully. But that was just the prelude. A fierce, flashing storm followed, with rain thundering like a waterfall and hail stones drumming on the roof tiles.

The torrent raced down to a rambla that slashes across the valley below like an ugly scar.

Normally, only a thin ribbon of water stains the brown earth of the river bed, but as the Gota Fria deposited its load, that harmless trickle quickly turned into a leaping tidal wave.

The mayhem lasted several hours. When it was over the damage and the devastation were clear to see. Like the face of an aging boxer, the whole area looked bruised and battered.

Most of the damage has now been repaired, debris removed and lives returned to normal. Only unpleasant memories remain.

I may not be around when the next ‘Big Drop’ comes to call, but if I am, I will be ready for it. I may even warn Carlota.