Nostalgia Comp

Mark's car wheels roll down the dusty path away from the house as I walk to the barn. Summer is coming to an end . Still, the intense midday heat blankets the undulating vista of olive green and gritty brown. Wave after wave of olive groves sinuously caress the land. Somewhere a sheep bleats.

I struggle to open the rickety door, a solid puzzle of thick planks chipped and weathered by many fierce summers and unforgiving winters. An intimate landscape greets me. A criss-cross of light filtering from every opening in the roof beams down on to this still-life, high-lighting its untold story. A wooden rake rests facing down on a shallow barrel. Motes of dust float on the limelight. Spilled hay carpets the floor and heaps of it lay against the four poles that stand solid, pining the main rafters on to the ground. I lean against one of the small windows and I feel the sun like a balm enveloping me from behind; travelling pass me. Its warmth lifts a toasted scent from the hay. It's a familiar smell. It hits me beyond the nose, way inside – turning into a delicate recollection, so tenuous that I dare not move for fear of breaking the spell. I slide along the silken thread, cautiously, intently, towards this cobweb in my mind. The subtle signals spreading from its centre reaching me, guiding me to it.

I hear the wheels bumping on the cobblestones before the donkey and cart appear round the corner. I run as fast as I can towards it. My gipsy friend is doing the rounds of the village with his father, collecting junk – I stretch my arms and Ramiro's father pulls me up like a feather. There's a sack full of hay at the back and Ramiro and I lean against it. Every now and then, when the cart stops and Ramiro's father has finished loading whatever junk he has just got from a village neighbour, he gives in to my excited pleas, takes me in his arms and lets me pat the donkey's head and repeat grown up phrases of which I'm normally the recipient. 'What a beautiful one!' pat, pat. 'If you are good I'll give you a treat' pat, pat. When Ramiro's father sways and I sense I'm about to be put back in the cart I lean forward, stretching my small body and plant a kiss on the donkey's head. Back in the cart I sing aloud to the rhythm of the clip-clop of the donkey's hooves. We spend the day together and in the afternoon Ramiro's father halts the cart at the door of my grandma's house. Covered in hay and still over-excited, I join in with my brothers and the rest of the children from the village. I'm so lucky to be Ramiro's friend.

Carefree summers were spent in my mother’s village. We travelled for hours in my father’s car, and year after year we followed the same ritual. About ten minutes before reaching the village there was a large black poplar forest on the right-hand side of the road. My father would drive off the road following my mother’s command and we were, all four children, marched out of the car. One by one we were given a military-like inspection, the necessary adjustments to clothing and general appearance were carried out by my mother, who then proceeded to comb our hair and make us wash our hands and faces with some water that she carried next to the picnic wicker basket – a mysterious cornucopia which was always placed cunningly out of reach in between her feet. If there was any water left, we would get a wet slap on top of the head to keep our hair in place, that being the signal for our final approach towards Almazan .

An army of aunties, uncles, cousins and our grandparents, would be on the look-out and as soon as they heard the tired car engine moaning up the steep cobblestone street, they would spill out onto the warm afternoon and my father would sound the horn. My mother did not like that, it was unbecoming and not very refined and my father would sound the horn again wearing an irreverent smile, broad as the street, safe in the knowledge that it was too late for her to get mad at him, as she too had to smile now for the benefit of the crowd waving in front of us.

A frenzy of kisses, hugs, pinches, slaps, of ‘gosh, haven't they grown!’, ‘she’s just like you!’, ‘how beautiful they are!’ preceded a round of house visits. Luckily they all lived in the same street but also, that meant that there was no respite. Every house we entered smelled the same to me, of boiled milk and hanged bacon, of freshly shot partridges and rabbits, of green scourers, of baked cream sponge cake and oil soap, of men’s suits bathed in tobacco smoke, of crochet curtains cured with condensation, of clean linen and old furniture. The uncle and aunt of the house would take us to the kitchen where a feast of cold meats and home made cakes was awaiting us; we were required to finish with it all. They would insist, arguing that we’d just had a very long journey and we must be ravenous, ‘eat, eat!’ they would say. After the fifth house, we would be feeling sick and my mother would come to the rescue, saying that it had been a long day and that we needed a nap.

Summer was an interminable source of adventure and wonder, we roamed freely. The hill at the back of my grandparents corral was a favourite. 'El Cinto' was a gentle hill sprouted with rough wild wheat– a dried sun-bleached landscape, alive with grasshoppers and praying mantis which suffered detailed exploration if caught. I cannot recall when was the last time that we were there, as children. One day, unbeknown to me, it became the last.

We are sitting outside, under the lush vine canopy, the grapes ready for picking. The impending evening coolness beginning to soothe the air; a red hot sun setting slowly. Mark fills up my glass. I lean back on the chair, wondering whatever happened to Ramiro as I take a sip of wine.