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Dear friend

Let me start by saying how much I enjoyed seeing you again at the dinner party held at the D.’s, where I must say I found you to be very well despite the despondency that apparently seems to invade you on the eve of you return to America.

You claim this tends to happen whenever you have to leave Europe, although this wasn’t at all noticeable. Quite the contrary, I found our talk to be rewarding, as it granted me the opportunity to delve deeper into your rich personality. What enthrals us simple creatures about you is not so much your life as a well-travelled lady or your activities as an art Maecenas, but the way in which you seamlessly move amongst the most flamboyant bohemia like fish in water. All of this sweepingly places you a step ahead of the social echelon you belong to, your audacity being such that it leaves the bravest and most daring agasp.

Nevertheless, my dear friend, I am surprised by certain things.

I feel I should mention there was something in the words you said I keep turning around in my head, and I’m hoping you might enlighten me.

During our talk in the garden, on a number of occasions you expressed your surprise at my living in such a place, a place which, according to you, is too far from everywhere, and being a place that is neither countryside, village or town, there is not much to do except playing golf in the mornings and bridge in the afternoons.

I must confess that after thinking it over, I still wonder whether you were joking or not.

Do not think that you are in any way the only person in the world to share that opinion. For years I have heard comments in that respect from many. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that ‘come to Spain’ has become a war cry of sorts amongst my circle of friends in Madrid, the obvious implication being that we live in a land that is totally disconnected from our homeland, a place devoid of history, tradition or dignity.  Although I am aware that some of these opinions were meant in jest, others are undoubtedly unaware that we live in a province that has been civilized since the times of the Phoenicians.

It is true that for decades leaving this place was as much of an event as entering it, given the state of the roads we used to have in this country you so cherish.  But it has been a long time since this country improved its communications to incredible standards, while simultaneously Sotogrande extended its boundaries, spreading the uniqueness of its international population among the surrounding country and towns, without whom, believe me, it would be nothing.

The next thing you asked me was why I was living in this ‘exile for bon-vivants’ , such were your words; I’m not sure if you were referring to the classical-cut specimens or the ones who started coming here on holiday when ‘Spain was doing well’ and who came to become the summer image of Sotogrande. Neither of these define, as far as I know, the society that has been formed here. To sum up, Sotogrande is one thing during the month of August, and another altogether during the rest of the year, much like other coastal areas; similarly, the Sotogrande of today is different to the one it once was at the beginning.

 I was not here when it all started, but we won’t go so far back.

With all due respect, allow me to continue answering your question about what we do here all day, in this setting that is not totally the country, a village or a city; please further allow me to honour the fiftieth anniversary of such a criticized, desired and at the same time unknown place; finally allow me to do so at the pace of the seasons of the year, because even the weather has a leading role to play, as you will soon discover.

Because it is clear, my friend, that nature doesn’t only warn us of its changes through rays and thunder, instead, at times we are conscious of them as if by a miracle. The other day, autumn started in a most unexpected way.  It was not the leaves blowing at surface level, nor the rainstorms so typical of intermediate seasons. What I found in my terrace was a sparrow unable to fly, shaking all over; I carefully I took it by the tips of its wings and placed it on the palm of my hand. Its small body seemed to be unscathed and still it seemed tired, soulless, as its gaze was sad and its head lowered; so I resolved to prepare a deep bowl with milk and bread and leave it there.

Shortly afterwards, it was stiff.

I decided to bury it under the fig tree in my terrace, and what I found the next morning, thanks to this generous fertilizer, were a great number of large, robust leaves such as the fig tree had never known in the month of October.

That was the strange announcement of that day, though as announcements go in Sotogrande, nothing compares to the wind. The wind here tells you everything. Daily activities, their outcome, and even what to wear, is all closely related to the wind. The first thing Inmaculada did every morning before going out, still in her bathrobe, was to lean over the bedroom balcony.  She would peep out for two seconds and look right and left, I spent months wondering whether it was her way of greeting the little birds and cedar trees in the garden.

It did not take me long to adopt that habit. Today I leaned over the window and poniente was blowing. Round these parts, poniente wind means it comes from (…)