MOJACAR AND THE SURROUNDING AREA...
Mojácar, the jewel of the Costa Almeria, of whom the now forgotten poet, Shankar Das said, ". . . only the infinite mind of God could have created such a place - and that's the truth!".

Mojácar, was originally built by the Visi Goths (who of course never got it finished, even with the help of their hyper active cousins, the Very Visi Goths) and the Moors were still working on it at the time of the Reconquesta.

Parts of the old city wall still remain and low white washed houses flank the winding streets, often too narrow allow cars...

Summers can be frenetic but such is the tranquility of winter that many discerning tourists prefer the cool dry months where temperatures are more moderate.  From almost any vantage there are views to die for.

To the west lies the vast panorama of the Sierra Nevadas where often the detail a hundred miles away is so immediate, the earth must have exhaled most of its atmosphere, while to the north and east . . . but that's enough travelogue.

Virtually crime free, the village itself has mostly avoided modern desecrations. Simple building rules enforced by the Town Hall has retained the village's intrinsic historical charm - although in the last year or two, building in the village has reached new levels as house prices there go through the roof.  The infrastructure has been thoroughly updated, while the narrow winding streets, steep and often stepped, resist the motor car. 

However, discreetly situated on the outskirts of the village on the site of the old football field, modern and ample car park has recently appeared - but so subtly done it is almost lost in the natural architecture...so that’s all right then. 

The beach is an area for tourism but the village is more for those looking for a quieter life - new and interesting people are always moving in - while that throwback to an earlier era, the mature recidivist on a long and losing punt with his liver has mostly (and often sadly) proceeded to his/her niche in the wall.

another view of the property from last year

...and you're wondering what happened to Shankar Das? Well it's hard to put a gloss on it, but after a particularly ill received poetry evening, he was cornered by the villagers (poetry lovers to a man and recently burkarred women) and drowned in a vat of exceptionally acidic white wine. 
The final straw had been a poem in praise of the wine...and I'd liked here to be able to say that he was drowned with due ceremony - but there was little of that either (made Saddam Hussein's goodbye look classy). 

So there you have it - poetry, like ballet, is not for wimps (although with poetry, at least you don't have to stand on your toes all day!)