Where the red winter sun sets late

IN THE MORNING sunshine, carpenter bees buzz around the facade of our rented house in the Sierra Nevada and find their way into niches between stones.

They are supposed to bore holes in wood for their nests; that is why they are called carpenter bees. Larger than our bumblebee, they are jet black with iridescent wings, brilliant blue or magenta when they catch the light. Their size, their colour and their loud buzzing makes them seem dangerous but they are not aggressive and very rarely sting. Just as well: an injection from a carpenter bee might seem like being stabbed by an awl.

After two weeks of extreme weather — snow, then fog that made it impossible to drive the narrow roads with no white lines and, in places, drops of a 100mon either side, then 24 hours of torrential rain, then winds gusting to 100mph sweeping away the heavy lids on the water tanks and patio chairs — on Monday we woke to clear, blue skies, warm sun and a gentle breeze.

This is marvellous weather for walking this wild terrain, its paths descending into deep ravines and chestnut forest and climbing steep hillsides to heights that afford views over mountains behind mountains all the way to the Mediterranean Sea, 40 miles to the west. Sometimes one glimpses the sea itself, a sliver of molten gold set in the dark contours of far off mountains.

Yesterday, we found ourselves on a path with views of a small river far below, tracing its winding course through green, interlocking spurs as far as the eye could see. Not an inappropriate item marred the view, no pylons or cables, no quarries scarring the hillsides, no invernaderos, the plastic greenhouses that shine like silver lakes, seen south at Almeria. The few farm houses on the distant slopes were almost lost in the background.

So nice was the day, that I got up from my desk at 5pm, and we walked into the sun, with a light breeze in our faces. We didn’t arrive back until 7pm with the sun staining the sky behind us every shade of red and gold.

We saw many butterflies as we walked, and the birds were beginning to sing. The terraces of almond trees were in blossom, white and deep pink: spring is arriving in the Alpujarras. Amongst the butterflies were Painted Ladys, and Large Tortoiseshells, the latter now considered extinct in Ireland but perhaps I saw them as a child. They flitted about and sunned themselves in sheltered places. I imagine there will be many butterfly species I’ve never seen before once spring gathers pace.

On February 1, Féile Bríde, on a very steep and precipitous mountain path, we met a shepherd carrying what I first thought was the carcass of a white hare but it turned out to be a lamb. “Is it alive?” I asked. “Yes”, he said, and indeed it was; he told me it had been born two or three hours before. I thought the way in which he was carrying it incongruous, its front legs gripped in one hand, its body hanging like a limp, white rag, its tail sometimes touching the ground. However, I assume he knew what he was doing, and the lamb wasn’t making a sound so, presumably, it wasn’t in distress. The mother, udders full to bursting, followed behind, sniffing her offspring occasionally. Behind it, followed the flock of sheep and goats, and two friendly dogs.

As we climbed the path on the other side of the ravine, we could see the pastor, as he is called in Spanish, stopping now and then to let the lamb walk. It would half stumble a few metres, following its mother and then he would pick it up and carry it as before. When we reached the top of our path, we looked back, and saw that he had arrived at a flat, grassy terrace, where, having separated the ewe and the lamb from the flock, he was letting them wander free.

Some of the farms are inaccessible by vehicle and mules are still widely used, with panniers of goods slung on their sides. They step more daintily than horses, I am told, having smaller hooves. I read accounts of English literary figures visiting the mountains and riding on mule back.

Given that the paths often round corners with a rock wall on one side and a sheer drop on the other, rather them than me. The thought of looking into a deep ravine while perched on a swaying mule is enough to give me vertigo.