One of my unfailing delights of living in Spain, undiminished after 17 years, is the spectacular and varied range of its landscapes and natural beauty. Crammed into the roughly five hundred thousand square kilometres of its bull-hide shaped geography, one goes from the dazzling white villages of the south with immense vistas of olive plantations, red earth under a diamond-hard blue sky, to the vast wheat plains of Castile
Fame is not what Paco de Lucia is looking for, he says. "It ties you up and takes away. . . an indefinable freshness out of your life.” It's bothersome when people recognize him in the streets, though “at first there is a time when vanity makes you like it. . .”
As I read the poems of the Bard of Seville the longing for my adopted Spanish homeland subsided, or did it increase?