Community in grief

Yesterday evening during the bereavement visit, the family agreed to let me lead the unaccompanied singing of 'Abide with me' during Mother's funeral service, rather than have a recording of the hymn played to listen to. It was going to be an awful lot of logistic fuss to obtain and distribute hymn books just for this, so I printed off the text, three to an A4 sheet, enough for three dozen people or more, if  they shared. I got all the necessary preparations done before bed, except for cutting the sheets. In fact, I only remembered just before it was time to go, and the job took me longer than anticipated. Even so, I arrived at Arboleas Thanatorium at one o'clock, exactly an hour before, and had all the time I could need to prepare before the mourners started arriving.

There were 12-15 family members present, including a babe in arms. I was amazed at the number of local friends and neighbours who turned out. The chapel was full, standing room only, and there were several people outside in the entrance hall as well. There were roughly three people for each hymn sheet, quite unexpected. Altogether, there were over a hundred people present. The couple are clearly well known and well loved by the expatriate community. 'Abide with me' went fine, and the recorded version was played at the end of the service while people were leaving. I cued it in a little earlier than I needed to, and as a result I had to pray the blessing over the music, which fortunately was at a low volume, and it worked quite well, though it's not something I'd normally think of doing..

Afterwards, Father and eldest son accompanied the hearse to the crematorium, while the rest of the congregation adjourned to the bar/restaurant of the nearby sports centre, colloquially known as the Pool Bar, because of its piscina. When I first heard it described thus I started looking out for some establishment on a street with pool tables, but thankfully, one of the people to whom I gave a lift had been there, and explained. Almost all of the congregation went there, socialized and offered their condolences to the family. I stayed until father and son returned, paid my respects and took my leave of them. Many of those remaining, I imagine, would be there until supper time. The good thing which expat retired communities have, is plenty of time for each other, and this was one of those days when time together would be healing.

 

 

Ministry in Arboleas

As I was driving along the coast road to Garrucha on my way to today's funeral in Arboleas, there were three bulk carriers riding at anchor off-shore and one about to leave port. It's more usual to see one ship docked and loading and only occasionally another out in the bay. Why the increase in traffic? What's going on in another part of the world requiring so much raw construction material, I wonder? Or is this all a regular part of a cycle of commerce I know nothing about? It's intriguing.

I took the route to Arboleas on the back country road past Concepción and through Zurgena, having left early enough to have time to take photos on the way there and on the way back. The site of this rural village has been in occupation since neolithic times, with fertile soil, access to water and marble quarrying in the vicinity as an economic resource. It's the centre of a municipal area that reaches north across the valley as far as Llanos del Peral. Down on the floor of the valley is the village of La Alfoquia, which seems bigger. When the railway came to the Almanzora valley in the late 19th century there was a station there, a goods yard and warehouses. Some of the buildings survive, but alas, nothing more.

I arrived in Arboleas an hour early, found the church and a place to park, then had a coffee, in a bar nearby. In this place, and another around the corner, I heard mostly English being spoken, as I passed by. Indeed, since I've been in Mojacar, I've heard more English spoken on the streets, than Spanish, followed by French. The funeral director and his wife had arrived with the hearse by the time I left the bar. The church, however, was locked.

Slowly the space in front of the church filled with cars and people arriving for the funeral. Nobody seemed to know when the church would be unlocked or by whom. The widow and a few mourners were beginning to fret about not being able to get into the church. The funeral director called the priest with whom he'd made the booking and I gathered from him that he'd be along soon. It seems he was the other side of town officiating at a funeral in the Municipal Thanatorium, and was the only key holder available. I found myself briefly in the role of interpretor. It seems that few of the expats had more than rudimentary Spanish.

The young parish priest arrived at twenty to twelve and opened up. The churches in this area are fortunate to have young clergy, with so much ground to cover, so much to look after. We spoke in Spanish, and he was most welcoming, and expressed relief that a priest had been found to conduct an English service. He spoke some English, but like others, lacks confidence to use it unless really necessary. Bit by bit, however, necessity is proving to be a virtue for me, as I find that I can make myself understood quite well, except when I get learned vocabulary 'blank-outs'. The insistence to 'use it or lose it' is certainly true.

There was a congregation of about eighty for the service. The selection of popular songs from Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra seemed to fit, as a contrast to the quiet reflective mood it was so easy to facilitate in a beautifully decorated and well cared for neo-baroque 19th century building. There are rows of double columns in the arcades supporting the nave. Although painted to look like marble, these are made of local cast iron, a homage to local industry.

There was no gathering immediately after the funeral, so I took my leave of the widow, aware that she's living in a neighbourhood of expats that's long standing and close knit, so there'd be informal visits and socialising going on later in the afternoon. I re-traced my journey to the A7, and was back in the apartment cooking lunch by half past two.

I didn't go out for my evening paseo until it was almost dark. I walked as far as the Repsol garage near Garrucha and back, which took me an hour. As I passed over the Rio Aguas bridge, squadrons of egrets were flying in to roost for the night. Reed beds either side, nearest to the sea were a mass of white blobs, once they given up jostling for position or changing their resting place. It's hard to estimate just how many egrets roost there but it's got to be over five hundred.

Side roads in Valle Almanzora

On the basis of the directions I received yesterday, I drove to Arboleas, but couldn't find a sign that directed my to Los Corrascos. I knew it was on the south side of the town, out past the Municipal Thanatorio, but how far I wasn't sure. I did a tour of part of the town due to a missed turning, but second time around, found the Thanatoro, predictably, next to the cemetery, took the wrong turning but quickly realised my error. The correct turning took me a couple of kilometres out of town over a hill and into a valley parallel to Valle Almanzora. There was no sign for the village I was looking for until I reached the sign announcing that I had arrived.  

I drove through Los Corrascos wondering where my right turning would be, and spotted a rather worn Correos posting box on a right hand corner, which I'd noticed in the Google Street View photo that didn't reveal the extent of the street beyond. I turned, and then immediately before me saw the shiny new street name plate I was looking for. Apparently this housing area acquired street name plates for the first time only recently, after a wait of more than a dozen years. No doubt Google Maps will catch up in due course.

After an hour of planning funeral service arrangements for Wednesday, I headed back down the Valle Almanzora, but instead of taking the autovia, I followed the winding country road east, on the opposite side of the valley leading to Zurgena. The road climbs up and out of the valley through a gap in the south side of the valley. Zurgena's houses are distributed on the slopes and floor of this gap, and is in effect a hill village. I didn't want to stop, as I was determined to return and complete my preparation for the funeral while my memory was still fresh, as I was asked deliver a tribute. The drive through, showed me that it's worth stopping to take a look around next time.

The road ascends from the village on to a rolling plain, green with citrous orchards, and ringed by jagged peaks formed by volcanic action and soil erosion. So the pale yellow soil is rich and fertile in what can be grown there with suitable modern irrigation techniques. In fact, it's surprising just how much green is visible in an area of very low rainfall.

The road from Zurgena looks relatively new, and was probably built or upgraded to provide a direct link to the A7 autovia. It runs outside rather than through Concepción, the next village on a ridge overlooking Valle Almanzora. From there, it's just a couple of kilometres to the next junction down from where I usually turn off the A7 to drive to Aljambra and Llanos. On the last stretch to the coast, I diverted to do some shopping to the large Mercadona just off the road at the edge of an urbanizacion a  couple of kilometres outside the coastal resort of Puerto Rey, in between Playa Vera and Garrucha. I must make an effort to drive north and explore the coast road. It has an industrial history due to mining before modern tourism made its mark.

In the afternoon, I completed preparations for Wednesday's service, and only after supper, when it was dark did I go out for a walk, and phoned Clare and Rhiannon, who's staying with her for half term, from the sea shore, so they could hear the sound of the waves and the tree frogs chirping in the moist warm night air. Tomorrow promises to be warmer.

   

Pathfinding

This morning straight after breakfast, I set off to walk to Mercadona, in need of olive oil and fruit to see me through the weekend. My usual route goes along the main road as far as 'El Rancho del Mar' hotel, then turns inland and goes uphill, and then left along a parallel side street, passing the local Urgencias. It's quieter. Today, on a whim, I took a detour, walking on uphill, beyond the point where there's neither tarmac nor lamp-posts, just an un-metalled track in open scrubland. I was curious to see if this track would give me some different views of the foothills away from the sea, inland. I wasn't disappointed, and also got a pleasing photo of Mojacar Pueblo in bright sunlight.

I climbed, about three quarters of a kilometre to the top of a ridge, and discovered that the track on the other side descends steeply down to the main road from Playa to Pueblo. Walking down from the Pueblo on a previous occasion I'd noticed this track and wondered exactly where it led. Now I know! Next time I walk to the Pueblo, I have a short cut that'll save me a couple of kilometres.

Earlier in the week I bought an 800g pack of fresh chicken breast, enough for at least four meals, given how little meat I eat at any time these days. Rather than freeze any of it, I decided to cook and then store it all in one session, then use cooked portions to add into some other disk I fancy preparing. The first batch for lunch, ended up being stewed in white wine with onion, garlic, herbes provençal, green beans, red pepper, mushroom, and a dash of tomato passata, which I prefer to tomato frito. It turned out to be an enjoyably tasty dish, which is just as well, as I made enough for two. I still find it hard to scale down and cook food for one from fresh ingredients, but this means I take time to cook properly only every other day.

Later, I did a load of washing and left it out on the balcony for a little too long. I had to put on the heating for a while, to finish drying my only pair of pyjamas. It's not yet been needed, apart from this, as the weather is pleasantly mild, day and night, 21-17C. 

I finished and printed off tomorrow's sermon, and dealt with messages from Duncan, in Malta on holiday, about a funeral this Wednesday in the Parish Church at Arboleas, the next on the road down the Almanzora valley towards the coast, from Albox, so it won't be hard to find. Even so, I spent time with Google Street View trying to identify where the church is in Calle Iglesia, as churches aren't always tagged on these maps. I found out that it's dedicated to Santiago. The building is 19th century, replacing a church built after the reconquista, in 1505. That building was located on a promontory above the town and the river, and dedicated to San Roque, the town patron. It became ruinous and eventually was completely demolished. I've driven past the town several times now, so I won't have any trouble finding my way there.

Now the pyjamas are dry enough to wear, bed time.