If you can’t wait to read Under the Cherry Blossom, Book 4 of my New Life in Andalusia series, here’s a little appetiser of what I’m cooking.
“Why can’t Montefrío be the most beautiful village in Spain?” I was sharing my impressions of Zuheros with Robert.
“What do you mean?”
“Zuheros is the most beautiful village in Spain!” I felt indignant. I’m not typically jealous or competitive, but I do become frustrated when I see someone or something boast about an accolade that many other people or places deserve more.
“What do you mean ‘the most beautiful village in Spain’? How do they calculate it?” Robert often understands superlative statements literally.
“There’s an association of the most beautiful villages in Spain,” I explained what I read on an official plaque in the village’s main square placed there by ‘Asociación de Los Pueblos Más Bonitos de España’. If your village meets their criteria, you get a sticker for being ‘the beautiful village in Spain’.”
“What are the criteria?” Robert asked with the determination of the mayor of Montefrío tasked to join a secret society.
“Small population, check. Historical artefacts, check. Preservation of the facades,” I stopped and hesitated about the last item. Our old buildings in Montefrío needed restoration — you didn’t need to be an art historian to notice that.
“Anything else?”
“Care of flowers and green areas.”
“We have a lot of flowers and green areas in Montefrío,” Robert reminded me.
“Then cleanliness and maintenance,” I admitted defeat as I read off the last criterion on the association’s website. Robert gave me a look that suggested that our little village would never be the most beautiful in Spain.
“Do you know how much they fine you in Zuheros if you don’t pick up your dog poo off the street,” I asked.
“I don’t know. 50 euros?”
“No, more.”
“100?”
“No idea. 300?”
“No, higher,” I lifted my hand, gesturing to bid more.
“1000?”
“Now you’re being ridiculous. They fine you 500 euros for not cleaning up after your dog!”
“That’s the answer. That’s why Montefrío is not the most beautiful village in Spain, and Zuheros is.”
“And they have colourful flower pots decorating the walls and secret patios with orange trees,” I had to admit that Zuheros was superior to Montefrío in terms of its good looks.
“And I’m sure they have road signs that tourists can follow,” Robert reminded me of another issue with our village.
When we first moved to Andalusia, Google Maps was still in its infancy. Robert was hanging on to his faithful Blackberry, and my phone, although supposedly ‘smart’, had very limited internet capabilities. Thus, we relied on a torn and battered paper map of Andalusia to get around. The map clearly indicated the existence of a road from Montefrío to Granada, but it took us a year of exploration and aborted trips to hit upon the secret turn. One would think that Granada, being the capital of our province, would proudly feature on the road signs in and around the village. But whoever was responsible for putting up the road signs in Montefrío had based his decision on their own personal needs and wants and had failed to see the big picture. Hence, road signs to Algarinejo, a tiny village 20 minutes outside Montefrío, featured prominently on every road. Perhaps the traffic engineer’s mother-in-law lived there, and he wanted to ensure he didn’t accidentally stray in that direction.
ĺllora, a village somewhat bigger than Montefrío and perhaps home to said traffic engineer, was also clearly marked on every turn. One could even spot road signs directing you to various hamlets and barrancos in the area. But should a visitor wish to visit Granada or Loja or even journey as far afield as Málaga, they were on their own. It took us twelve months after we moved in before we finally discovered the turn-off to the road to Granada. The tattered, rusting sign, which must have been placed there by Franco himself, was inside a thick hedge after the turn-off. To find their way around the medley of narrow, one-way medieval streets, the inhabitants relied on their experience and local knowledge, while visitors before the advent of Google Maps were forced to reluctantly turn around and return to Alcalá la Real, where they could easily link up with the Granada – Córdoba highway, the picturesque N432. Montefrío’s lacklustre attitude towards tourists became a problem when, in 2015, National Geographic declared that it had one of the 10 best village views in the world.
Once this prestigious award had been bestowed on the unsuspecting montefrieños, the demonym for people from Montefrío, busloads of tourists began to arrive at the once sleepy village. Hordes of Spaniards arrived in coaches on organised tours from Madrid, Málaga, Cádiz, and other cities within a day’s driving range. International travellers appeared on our doorstep armed with travel magazines featuring the famous view of our village. Soon, the complaints and expressions of disappointment started to flood in.
The problem with modern society, as I see it, is that while in the last two hundred years we have almost eradicated illiteracy in the world, especially in the wealthy nations, few people have developed the skill of reading past the superficial skills of skimming and scanning. Thus, nuances that are included in a text are often lost, and meaning tends to be misappropriated. As readers, we decide what we want the text to mean, and if reality does not meet our interpretation of a text, we may become infuriated and angry.
“It’s a dump,” our friend, Lee, from La Rabita, announced one Sunday afternoon at our house after a day trip he undertook to the now internationally acclaimed village of Montefrío.
Now, I was offended. How dare he insult our village. It was much better than La Rabita.
“Yeah? What did you expect? It’s a small Andalusia village,” I responded.
“There’s dog shit everywhere, and a vicious rooster chased me up by the castle.”
“I know that rooster,” I nodded in agreement. I had made acquaintance with that cocky demon on my first visit to the castle and swore never to cross his path again. On the route up to the castle, some impoverished families had taken up squatters’ rights in the abandoned cottages and cave houses nearby, and they had reared a bunch of chickens to supply them with eggs and meat.
I didn’t understand his complaint. La Rabita didn’t even have a castle.
“It’s supposed to be one of the world’s top ten most beautiful villages!” Lee said, outraged.
“It’s the view of the village, not the village itself,” Robert always enjoyed explaining this subtle distinction to disillusioned visitors who, after a day of dodging dog poo and running for their life from the manic castle rooster, could not understand what was on National Geographic’s mind.
“Did you come across the National Geographic viewpoint?” I inquired, even though I knew he’d have to possess deeply esoteric knowledge to find the viewpoint. It took the Town Hall several years after the nomination before they pinned the viewpoint on Google Maps and then a few more years before they decided that visitors might need some road signs to point them in the direction of the secret location from which our village does indeed look quite charming.
“It’s the view of the village, not the village itself,” Robert repeated as Lee failed to understand the nuanced title. “You must drive outside, away from the village centre, to see it.
It was true; the view of our village was spectacular and would make anyone stop for at least a few minutes to admire it and take a photo. No matter from which direction you arrive, the ruins of the medieval fortress perched on the steep cliff decorated by the stylish round church at the bottom are exceptional and definitely worth your attention. But should you arrive in Montefrío expecting to see the most beautiful village in the world, you will be disappointed. It’s not even the most beautiful village in Spain. It’s not only the dog poo decorating the cobblestones or the feral cat colonies that inhabit the rubbish bins that put travellers off. In the summer, when there is no work in the olive groves, the town square is filled with idle, ruff-looking men whiling away their time, drinking beer, smoking cheap cigarettes, and playing cards. Teenage mums in their garishly coloured spandex leggings push their prams in convoy on the way to the social services office, conveniently located in the town square, next to the busy bars.
Sometimes, I wish Montefrío was Zuheros, where every house façade is clean and whitewashed, and construction projects are discreetly hidden behind cleverly positioned plants and fabric screens. Zuheros is where the thoughtful inhabitants decorate their walls and doors with hand-painted pots and tiles. In that idyllic village, there is no visible unemployment or poverty, and you are not confronted with the harsh reality of the social problems of the poor and unemployed.
But then I don’t wish that Montefrío was like Zuheros because when you visit one of the most beautiful villages in Spain, the only people you see in the town square are Dutch families with their blonde, tall, freckled kids relaxing after a vigorous hike in the Subbéticas and retired French couples sipping cheap wine and gorging on Manchego cheese. If I wanted to live in the world of Instagram, I’d move to Zuheros, but despite all its flaws and imperfections, I prefer Montefrío. It’s an authentic Andalusian village, not a simulacrum of one.
You can read Sabina Ostrowska’s books on Kindle and as paperbacks. The series is available in all Amazon markets and many other online bookshops. You can read them for free on Kindle Unlimited.
https://mybook.to/oliveleaftea
Sabina Ostrowska 
Fabulous, Sabina! I can’t wait for book 4 to be released! And PS I think that Montefrío is one if the most beautiful views in Andalucía so there!
LikeLike