“They were on steep roads that zigzagged around rock bluffs. She talked, gave staccato information. There had been smallholdings, in village clusters, behind them. She’d pointed out the olive groves, where the harvest was almost ready, goats grazed, and sheep, cows and pigs were corralled. It was the world of peasants, Jago thought. He had seen nothing like it in England or in the few parts of Germany he knew, or on his brief trips to Spain. Dim lights burned in the houses. The work would have b...roken backs when the terrace fields were made and the retaining walls built to hold the soil, all done with muscle and sweat. She wrestled with the wheel of the little car to get round the hairpins, and he reckoned she talked on so that he wouldn’t chicken out. It would have been easy to do so – ‘Excuse me, thanks for everything but I should be getting to the airport. This seemed a good idea twenty-four hours ago, not now. Somebody told me to get a life, move on and forget an everyday story of pizza-bar folk.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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