Farmers, developers at war over water

THIS MORNING I woke to find light filtering into the bedroom and when I opened the shutters, I did so cautiously. Outside, the sunlight was almost blinding.

Across the broad, misty valley, 20 kilometres away, the magnificent peak of El Lujar shone in the morning light, like Wordsworth’s 18th century London, “all bright and glittering in the smokeless air.”

To see the sun was a helluva relief because I was beginning to think I was in the wrong country. All week, on the phone to Ireland, I heard about the marvellous weather, people out sunbathing, beach walking, having dinner on the terrace at eight o’clock in the evening, and so on. Here, in “sunny Spain“, there was sleet, hail, snow, fog and rain for four days in a row. Grey, depressing light, like Ireland in February. Waking to find it had all changed, I walked out, savoured the morning air, the spring in it, the pastel green of the lime trees, the blossom on the cherry, a blackbird singing. My heart soared as high as El Lujar.