Preface
A
dream lured me to Spain: hot, dusty, ancient, southern cities;
grass-roofed beach bars and lazy afternoons by the glittering
Mediterranean; picturesque coastal villages where fishermen with
weatherbeaten faces sit in the sun mending their nets; but most of
all the white towns – los pueblos blancos – clusters of
sun-blanched houses hanging on the mountainsides, olive groves,
orange trees, herds of goats grazing the rocky slopes.
The
road to my particular Pueblo Blanco wasn’t straightforward.
There were diversions – quite a few of them – and sometimes
during my journeying I wondered why someone well into middle age
should have given up a comfortable life in a pleasant little village
in the north of England, conveniently close to the city of
Manchester, and set out to earn a living teaching English in a
strange land, with minimal training and experience and a still
inadequate grasp of Spanish. But eventually I found my white town.
