We wandered Andalucia getting ever further away from the coast and the inflation. But the prices followed us. Simple country people knew enough about the real estate market to add a few million pesetas to their price. It was discouraging and yet we could not blame them. On one excursion to a town far north of the coast we were offered a piece of land covered with olive trees for a considerable sum which was reduced to nothing if I would simply marry the owner. The whole mountainside would be mine, he insisted, gripping my arm. A slightly embarrassing situation turned into a joke when, later in the day, we saw the same gentleman with his wife.

Our first few excursions into distant areas were fruitless. It is hard to know what is for sale in an area where real estate agents and their For Sale signs don't exist. The occasional hand-written "Se Vende" was the most one could hope for. Instead of real estate agents, most largish Spanish towns have a self-appointed "corredor" literally a runner, who acts as a broker but the villages we discovered were too remote or too small to warrant one. In time we learned that it was not rude to knock on a door and ask the residents if their house was for sale. If it was not, which was usually the case, the man of the house invariably escorted us on a wild-property chase around the countryside. One time after walking for an hour away from the settlement we found ourselves alone on a deserted hillside with two men with shotguns. My daughter was quite rightly nervous. But all they wanted was to sell their barren land at an inflated price to ignorant foreigners.

In a town further south we thought we had found our goal. Jimera de Libar nestled seductively in a wooded valley, through which the railway from Algeciras to Ronda ran, stopping at a series of quaint little stations. There was a delightful restaurant at the station where we inquired of the lady owner about available property. The information that the town had a mayoress rather than a mayor was exciting. A little wary after encountering anti-foreigner sentiments elsewhere, we decided to call on the honorable lady and present our idea. Nervously we rang the ayuntamiento (town hall) to make an appointment, researched the correct way to address her, "Señora Doña Ana", and prepared a written description of our planned cultural retreat which included the benefits to the village. Attired formally in suits and heels, our relief was unbounded when the lady mayoress entered her chambers dressed in jeans, a baggy sweater, and a warm smile. After reading our proposal she commented that what interested her most was Eli, the "niño de cinco años" who we had suggested could play football for the town. A young mother, she had a personal as well as a civic interest in repopulating the town.

But this paradise turned into a nightmare when we dug a little deeper and found that a rather undesirable and non-Spanish element was trying to monopolize the real estate market. They were creating a lucrative business for themselves by selling only to foreignors and at ludicrous prices. Some of the villagers whom we asked about the situation confessed that they did not care for the people involved but, they shrugged, what could they do when offered such high prices. Real estate within reach of the coast has become a hot item as people from northern Europe flock to find their place in the sun and the business has attracted many unscrupulous rogues. I later met an English family from London's East End who moved to Spain with the intention of opening a furniture shop. When they saw the state of the property market, however, they eagerly switched to real estate. Even though they had no experience and didn't speak Spanish, they were making a fortune only a few months after opening their doors.

We were on the point of turning our sights reluctantly further west to the Costa de la Luz. Reluctantly, as our network of friends and contacts was on the Costa del Sol. One evening as we poring over the now rather tattered map of Andalucia planning our next foray, we noticed an area that we had hitherto overlooked. It was a cluster of tiny villages off the tourist trail but within reach of the coast. The Arabic sounding names were vaguely familiar. They were the seven villages of the Alto Genal.