The road I walk on is flanked by old stone walls, in fact, the scenery
is crossed by these walls but most of them have fallen down by now,
and behind walls almond trees. I can’t think of anything uglier than
these trees, grey, spindly with a few nuts hanging here and there like
discarded Christmas decor of yesteryear. But come February, I will
wake up to a beautiful sight, the almond tree will be full of pink and
white flowers, which it sheds, petal by petal, fooling us to think it
snows in fairyland. Then it will be full of vivid green leaves, not drab
green like olive tree, but verdant as a woman’s dress when going to
a new year ball. This landscape has not seen war for eons, dictators,
presidents and generals have ruled and gone; they never came here
where the land has nothing to offer but beauty. But if you listen well
to nature’s murmur, you can hear an echo from an unseen minaret
an Imam’s melodious voice calling the faithful to prayer.
(Once upon a time Algarve, Portugal was ruled by Muslims)
