Few vehicles travel along my track, indeed so few that each one that does is an event
in my day -
One day, as I slowly rolled a particularly heavy stone up to the top of my growing
wall, Diego drew to a halt and stepped out of his van followed by the usual tribe
of dogs. He looked around. His eyes flicking over the building site, bird-
“Si, solo,” I replied proudly. I was building it on my own.
He shrugged – as Spanish people often do -
As he closed the door, I thought that he mumbled one word, “Loco”. But I could not be sure.
I could, however, guess, and translate into English, his next thought as he bounced along the rough gravel track, “Why the hell doesn’t he build the place of concrete like we all do?”
He had a point. Miguel, the then landlord of the older bar in the main square of our village, had a building erected on his property – a place to store his furniture until his wonderful new house leaves the drawing board and becomes a reality. That furniture store was built mostly of concrete and it took a few builders about a week to complete. Meanwhile, I‘d been bashing away at my stone hut for five years, on and off.