Christmas in El Campo

An early sun right-angles the tardy moon - a sharp-edged half in the bluest sky. Christmas is coming to inland Andalucia. Inflatable Santas climb the walls of the most unlikely properties. Turn second right off Camino de las Hermitas and into Dehesa Baja – the aptly-named low plain – and your shocked gaze falls on a reasonable facsimile of a faux-chateau belonging to a minor French Comte. A copy of a fake; as out of place in Andalucia as the cheery red-suited burglar hanging from one of the turrets would be in Provence. Drive daintily through the potholes and you'll come out of the plain and rise toward the Industrial Estate. Yes, Mr Claus is on a wall. What presents he'll leave for the metal factors, no-one knows. Double back on the ring-road, tip your hat to the old-man waving his straw one at the sight of your car. Pull in to El Bichito, a roadside venta that's seen other days, maybe better, maybe not. Santa is climbing the wall behind a first floor veranda. Nudge your car between two battered and ancient vans. Join the campesinos for breakfast number two, it's almost ten after all.

Join the chatter – or drop eaves; there'll be no sound above the hubbub. Discussions about – well what do you talk about where you're from, nowadays? Yes, that's it. The language is different, that's all. Behind the bar Miguel personifies stoic resignation, he knows that even at 7 euros today's Menu del Dia will attract a handful of covers. Still, a weathered fellow drops a euro on the counter for his cafe corto; black as tyre rubber and tasted the same no doubt. Miguel hands him a bottle tied with a ribbon.

'Feliz Navidad,' he says, you might believe he means it, if you try.