All the world's a stage

It seems to me that the Spanish have a love of theatre in their everyday lives. We've seen this made evident in obvious ways: the Semana Santa celebrations, the Seville Feria, and the Cruces de Mayo, for example. And it's there in the passion for football and bullfighting. But it creeps into all kinds of other things, too; the occasional crazy driving, the fact that you'll sometimes see a farmer with a rod-straight back but a scruffy shirt and worn chaps, riding a fully caparisoned horse - all silver buckles, tooled saddle and plaited main - across a roundabout in the town. As we drove into the village the day before yesterday, we saw one of the Romanians (you remember that they're seasonal workers here), tearing down the street pursued by a man brandishing a broken bottle. They sped past us, but the boy had reached the safety of his house, and so the man hurled the glass into the gutter, where it shattered very effectively, and strode off. In a few moments a posse of women was heading up the street from the house in the direction of the bar. I don't hold out much hope for him.
Yesterday, we went for a walk in the Sierra de Grazalema National Park. It's an area of deep valleys and high mountains, more or less south of Ronda, which were the last stronghold of bandits such as Pasos Largos (Long Strides) and Jose Tragabuches, who survived by smuggling, preying on stagecoaches and living off the land! Maybe there's just a little of it left because all along the path, the National Park signs bore (very neatly written) grafitti like "Don't steal our water!", "Primitivism - yes! Free your soul; preserve the right to roam freely!" and "Not thieves, but Mafias are taking away the outdoors". The area has a microclimate that's wetter than the area further east, where we're based, and so it's greener, with many more trees, and rivers that actually have water in them rather than puddles or nothing.
We walked from one railway station (Benaojan) to another (Jimera de Libar). The railway runs from Algeciras to Ronda and was designed by an English engineer named Henderson. The gradient is ferocious, and in earlier times the train ran so slowly that contraband goods could be traded from the windows. The footpath is so achingly perfect that it must have been designed by the Ministry for the Picturesque, or some such government department. It wound along the mountainside, sometimes down at the level of the river, sometimes high above it, and all along, the banks and hillside were splendid with yellow wild chrysanthemums and red poppies. We passed a ruined farm called, of all things, Cortijo de Orija de Buro (Donkey-ears Farm!), where tiny pond turtles plopped about in a stream and a mummified goat carcass lay dramatically in a mouldering stall; we picnicked close by the river bank where unfeasible numbers of very big fish swam, annoyingly, just out of reach; nightingales sang in the thickets below us as we marched along the higher stretches, and colourful bee-eaters called to one another above.
At the end of the walk, the splendidly uniformed Jefe de Estacion operated the outdoor signalling levers with a flourish, to allow the train to enter the station. His assistant - not so splendidly dressed as you can see - still managed to get into the performance as Beano, the Humorous Clown!
We still haven't been able to buy any broad beans (habas)! We saw them in the market in Malaga earlier this week, but by the time we got back there to buy some, the market was all shut up for the day; we found a tiny grocer's shop in Antequera where we could see beans through the window - but it was closed, and we couldn't find our way back there later; for more than a week now, one of the supermarkets has had a shelf labelled "habas", but it's empty. Of course, the fields are full of them. Once again, you see, it's theatre; build up the tension, and keep them guessing.
I'm beginning to think that Jack struck a good bargain in getting not just one, but five beans for his cow. Cows are ten a penny hereabouts!