The bell in the church tower struck twelve, signaling the start of the procession--or at least a Spanish-style delay. Preparations continued on the steps of the church; drummers gathered, a stream of young women dressed all in beige, in 4-inch heels (stepping carefully on the cobblestone) and trailing floor-length lace headresses, entered the church with children in tow. Elderly ladies strolled by in sturdy dark suits enlivened with corsages.
The townspeople fell into line and followed the statue down the narrow lanes to the town square, where more crowds waited. The whole town turned out, including German and British expats. The priest gave the blessing, or dedicated the statue, or whatever it is they do at these things. It was all in Spanish and very crowded. I felt blessed regardless, just to be here in southern Spain.
The procession continued to march to the drumbeat, winding around the tiny town with its storefront cafes, steep brick lanes barely wider than a car, and stacked white houses adorned with flower pots and Moorish tiles.
Pope and I peeled off in another direction, returned to our loaner car and headed east to visit Frigiliana, another white village a few miles inland--more touristy but no less intriguing, with mutiple levels climbing the mountainside.
The views from the many terrace cafes were breathtaking, but the weather turned cool and misty.
We headed home to the farm to prepare and serve pasta with roasted vegetables, grilled asparagus, avocado salad, and, of course, the obligatory Spanish wine. Happy Easter, all. I'm off to Morocco tomorrow.