Arriving at the station just as the bus to Murcia was about to depart, I realised that the German family had been following my lead, literally. They seemed to assume that either we were all going to the same place or that I knew where they were going. Being hurried onto the bus by the gruff but patient driver, I could only nod and smile at whatever questions they were asking me and state, as clearly as possible, that this bus was going to Murcia... They joined me on the bus.

The journey from Alicante to Murcia was pleasant enough and seemed to pass swiftly, as I drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by the endless, arid landscape. 

By mid afternoon we pulled into the station at Murcia. Gathering my belongings from the baggage compartment, I was confronted by three distressed looking faces. The German family had, as I suspected, assumed that we were all going to the same place, but it would seem, we were not. All I could do was point them in the direction of the information desk. The last I saw of the Family was their three confused faces walking out of the station. I boarded my bus to Caravaca.

Once again, the journey passed quickly and between my occasional snoozes, I noted the various town sizes. I wondered which would be of similar scale to my new home and considered which towns would be too small for me to bare. However, I was soon lost in sheer awe at the near biblical mountainous expanse.

After about two hours of winding through the mountains, the bus pulled into Caravaca bus station. I was elated. This was not a small town. 

Caravaca... I get by with a little help from my friends

Caravaca de la Cruz is a vital town, a large town, an ancient/modern hybrid with a distinct homely yet lively character. My first sight of the place could not have been more welcoming. Mounted upon a high cliff, was the castle/cathedral. All about it new and old buildings sloped elegantly, creating a pattern that seemed at once to suggest the innate character of it’s inhabitants, whilst also revealing some of the abstract charisma of this region of Spain.

I was collected at the station by one of the teachers from the school, Geradine, who drove me to the pension where I would spend my first couple of nights. As we drove along the main street (Gran Via), I noted that every shop was closed and there were very few people about for a Friday. There was of course, nothing abnormal about this, since, Geradine explained, this is Spain, and between 2pm and 5pm is siesta.

My room in the pension was basic but clean and all the arrangements for my stay had been prepared before my arrival. This was good because it meant that I had little reason to talk to the old woman that ran the place as she seemed strange and I felt uneasy around her. After Geradine and the old woman left I lay on my bed and fell instantly to sleep. 

I awoke to the sound of a town come to life. By this time it was dark, around 8pm, and the Gran Via was a chorus people and traffic. It was only when I left my room and stepped out into the night that the true ambience of the place hit me. From the entrance of Caravaca, the Gran Via, about a mile long, rises, gradually, up toward the castle. At night, the length of this modern street is decorated by a variety of lights and human sounds. Café/bars, bakery’s, electrical appliance shops and supermarkets all contribute, to this accentuated overflow of light and life, vibrant in the warm Spanish after-dark. Surveying all about me and absorbing some of that unique atmosphere, any uncertainties that may have lingered in my mind vanished. For the next few months this would be home and I was happy.

The following few days were manic. With the help of another teacher from the academy (who had arrived from Ireland a month earlier), I was settled into my new apartment by the Sunday. My apartment was far beyond anything I had expected; New, three bed-roomed and fully furnished, it had amazing views of the mountains, and the nearest town Cehgin nestled in the hills a few miles away. 

At a cost of 240euro per month (which would probably get you an average sized room in an average sized ‘shared’ house in Dublin) this apartment far exceeded anything I’d dared expect. And on the following Monday, I began my first day teaching with the academy.

Settling in with the teachers and students at the academy was easier than I’d imagined. There were only two teachers I hadn’t met before starting the job, both were Spanish and from Caravaca itself. It was obvious from the moment we met that I would get along very well with both of these teachers as Marie Carmen and Ana were around the same age as myself, both had spent some time living in Ireland and both had enjoyed the experience.

However there were other areas of my life that were a bit more problematic. My relationship with my landlady was awkward. And because she spoke no English whatsoever and found my efforts at Spanish more irritating than anything else; it was a relationship based on notes, passed back and forth to the school for translation. This problem resonated in other areas of my domestic life.

Simple things such as seeing the plumber, who had to explain how the water and heating system worked in the apartment, could easily become frustrating and potentially dangerous situations. This is where the almost ubiquitously friendly and accommodating nature of the Spanish proved lifesaving.

Almost immediately after introduction, I found most of the people I befriended would offer their help, if I should ever need it (which I frequently did). These were never just token offers, as often my new found friends would put themselves out whenever necessary to ensure my time living in Spain would be a happy one.

Within weeks I had a wide network of friends, and my social life was the complete opposite to that which I’d envisioned before I came to Caravaca. The usual routine for the weekend, was to meet up in someone’s house, have a few drinks, and then move on to one of the many bars and finally, on to the local night club, which carried on until the following morning. 

One of my friends, Pepe, (whom I’d met when I went to cash some travellers cheques), decided that he would make it his mission to ensure that I was treated to as good a time in Spain as he had received during his stay in Dublin. Having many friends from his college days still living in Murcia City itself, Pepe would often invite me to drive down with him, and stay over in his girlfriends apartment to experience some of the nightlife of that city.

Murcia In Winter & Roasted Chestnuts

Murcia is a beautiful city. It has a relaxed atmosphere. And my strongest memories are of Murcia in winter. One weekend in mid November, as I walked along the streets, munching roasted chestnuts with my sister, (who had come to visit for a week), we turned out of a bustling street into a small square. Before us was a gathering of silhouettes and shadows, created by a huddle of candles and cast against the wall of a huge old cathedral. It was obviously a religious procession. A scrum of figures shouldered a statue of the Virgin Mary. Progressing slowly along a winding old side street and pursued by a casual trail of the faithful, they eventually shifted out of our sight and we carried on our separate way.

Feliz Navidad, Christmas In Caravaca

I left Caravaca a little over a week before Christmas. The whole town was already prepared for the holidays. Overhead, Christmas lights bridged the width of the Gran Via and many of the smaller streets.

During the last few days, I found myself often taking any opportunity to stroll around the town; nostalgically re-exploring streets I’d walked so many times. The long, cold (being a mountain town it can get very cold in winter), nights, did nothing to sate the natural vitality of Caravaca. On the contrary, the elegant arrangement of festive lights all about the place made it seem more alive than ever. The town itself glittered…Feliz Navidad! I desperately wanted to absorb as much of my surroundings as I could, and carry it with me back home. And I feel as though I have. I felt it as I emptied my apartment and packed my bags. I felt it as boarded the Buses from Caravaca to Murcia and from Murcia to Alicante. I felt it as I left Spain and arrived home to Ireland. And now, a year later, I still feel it.

The reality is that it’s impossible to capture the experience of a time, place and people in a way that can do justice to the memories we hold. My experience of Murcia, of Caravaca, was so striking because it’s a place I was totally unaware of. A place I’d heard nothing of before going there. And because there are fewer foreigners living there, it was almost impossible to drift into any form of expat clique. I became a member of an intensely affecting, charismatic society, in a raw, but truly gorgeous part of a beautiful country. 

When I began writing this article, I wondered what would be the best way to describe the visual and sensual (sensory) effect of this area of southern Spain. Drinking hand cusps of clear mountain water, direct from a stream, in a small valley under starlight, just on the edge of town in Caravaca. Or, walking the streets, sitting on a park bench or outside a café/bar drinking cold beer in Murcia, watching the laid back locals saunter on by. I’m not sure. But, whenever I close my eyes, to think of that place, there are always two images that stand out. The first is that view of Cehgin from my bedroom window, lit up like embers or tinsel, nestled between two imposing hills, with a full moon lighting up the sky above. The second, is from a bus journey on one of my travels between Caravaca and Murcia City. When the winter evening sun, sloped down into the mountains and dispersed it’s last gush of vine red light about the shadowy jagged peaks, which seemed by some secret, ancient method, to absorb it, as flesh absorbs heat. Breathtaking in a way that’s impossible to articulate, but a privilege to experience. In a word…Awesome!

Information:

www.caravaca.org
www.spanishpropertysales.co.uk/logcabins/
www.carm.es/ctyc/caravaca/

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