On a miserable February day we drove yet again to the mountains, up the winding road north from San Pedro de Alcantara. Turning off some ten kilometers before Ronda, the scenically spectacular Roman and Phoenician town, we ventured the even narrower and more tortuous road to the first two of the seven villages: Igualeja and Pujerra. Old hands now and our property-seeking strategy well honed, we stopped a woman in the street and asked if there was much for sale. She shrugged. Over there, she said, is where you must look. Following her finger pointing across the valley, we looked over to a village in the distance reclining like a sleeping cat along a mountain ridge. White houses were glittering in sunlight that had not yet reached the north-facing slope where we stood. We retraced our steps back to the main road and across to the south-facing slopes and the remaining five villages that adorn the mountain like a string of wide-set pearls.

The little village of Cartajima was six kilometers along a mountain road in the middle of the Serranía de Ronda, a remote area long famous as a hideout for banditos. To one side rugged rocks rose to heights of 1500 meters, to the other the mountain was covered with chestnut and olive trees. It has always been inaccessible which accounts no doubt for the fact that it is still charming and unspoiled, everything we had been seeking. In the plaza we met Catalina, an black-garbed elderly lady who greeted us openly and hospitably. Her son delivers the mail every day and a more erudite man one could not wish to meet. This was an excellent start.

As we walked around chatting to people and looking at property, we knew that the village met all our requirements. Property was still eminently affordable although I am sure the prices we ended up paying were extortionate by village standards. Not only was the property we bought within walking distance of a pueblo blanco but it was in the very heart of one. I had never dared hope for this. Our house is located in the square by the ayuntamiento (town hall) and the church, the estanco where they sell candy and tobacco and the facsimile post office, virtually a man and a rusty mailbox attached to a wall. The fleshpots of Ronda are only ten kilometers away: ruined Arab baths, Islamic minaret, restaurants, and convents selling dulces, sweets. These convents are closed Carmelite orders of Descalzas (barefoot) nuns to which wealthy noblewomen were sent during the years after the Reconquist in 1492. Their money enriched the convent and they made cakes to send home to their families. As Spain declined, so did the convents and the nuns were reduced to poverty. During the nineteen-fifties they were given a dispensation to sell their dulces to the public as long as they remained hidden. The solution to this problem is a revolving shelf, torno, in the small room set aside for these transactions. One chooses ones dulces from a posted pricelist and rings the bell to summon a nun. Tell her what you want, put the money in the revolving door, and the cakes appear.

Most importantly, Cartajima is a Spanish village full of 200 Spanish people all of whom are to a greater or lesser degree related to each other. We had a party over Christmas and invited our Spanish village friends as well as our English and American friends. Several of the villagers asked who these people were. Were they family? If not, how did we know them? Their society is tight and closed and most people seldom leave the village except for shopping trips to nearby Ronda. Some not even that. While the surrounding landscape is forbidding and challenging, the people are friendly and benign and their only fear for us is that we are not contentos. "Estais contentos?" they asked us for the first six months we were living amongst them. Are you happy here? We hasten to reassure them that we are all exceedingly contento and especially the five-year old. Does he like the school? They ask. He loves the school. He has never been happier. He races off every morning to find the other eight children and together they go the few meters to the schoolhouse at the end of the village. His education is tailored to his needs and he is allowed to progress at his own speed. Although this is a passionately Catholic country, the study of religion is optional. As he already knew more arithmetic than the curriculum required for this year, the teacher has brought in more books to keep him engaged. A second language is introduced at age 8. Peripatetic teachers of English, music, physical education, and religion come twice a week to each of the seven villages that make up the Alto Genal. Idyllic really.

There is a bakery that produces bread in a wood-fired oven and a little store that sells a few essentials at relatively high cost. The bank opens for a few hours every morning. There is a pharmacy in Ana's front room. Knock on the door if it isn't open. If what you want is not in stock, she will order it and it arrives within twenty-four hours. The doctor comes four mornings a week from Ronda and I was waiting for a trivial complaint to arise with which to test his expertise. The necessity for syringing an ear before a long-haul flight provided the perfect opportunity. I sat in the bare consulting area with the old women who were delighted to have a chance to quiz their new neighbor, "la inglesa". When it was my turn the doctor gave me some drops and told me to come back in a few days and to bring a large bottle of warm water and a towel. Que? I asked in surprise. We only have cold water in this office, was his explanation.

It is indeed a far cry from San Francisco. Except for the mist that sweeps in during the winter months totally obscuring the spectacular panoramic views of the surrounding mountain range, Cartajima has little in common with my erstwhile home. Do I miss the City? Yes, I miss the bookshops, the restaurants, the views, and a few special people. Oh! And the sushi of course!