The sky is funereal. Growls of thunder rumble yonder and creep closer. Lightening flashes burn the sky magnesium white. Rabbits hide in their burrows; ants delve deep into their nests; birds seek out what little vegetation there is in this semi-desert umber land; spiders join woodlice and scorpions under rocks. It is almost the end of May, and here in this part of Andalusia, it had not rained since November. But now it begins . . . it’s what the weather forecasters declare is ‘heavy intensity rain’; it hammers on the polycarbonate roof sheets; it swamps the concave recesses of the old Spanish roof tiles that I cannot afford to replace; it overflows and spills out of plastic guttering, violently splashes down and adds to the pooled flood outside the conservatory door. There is no let-up . . . no end in sight. Then the electrics go. I stumble back into the Dark Ages, light candles and take a torch to bed. Apparently the torrential rain, thunder and lightening continues all night, but two large glasses of rum and a sleeping pill mean that I sleep through it all.
I walk down the drive this morning to the rambla – the normally dry river bed that must be crossed to reach the cortijo. I hear the wild gushing of the river long before I see it; it dashes over large rocks and boulders exposed by the earth, silt and gravel that the force of the torrent has swept away. Three hours later, the river has moderated to a shallow flow, but the force of the knee-deep deluge has carved out a gully that has washed away the once smooth track that crossed the rambler to the cortijo, leaving steep rocky drops that would defeat any vehicle attempting a crossing. So the cortijo and my car are effectively marooned on an island. I wade over flooded ground and climb a hill to a friend’s villa; he drives me into town to the electricity supply company. They arrive shortly after I get home and re-position a wall socket that the rainwater had entered. Then I spend hours shovelling earth and gravel to enable my car to get across the rambla.
