As you walk out of the village and cross a small field with a pile of dung on the side of the road and a hill on the other where many poppies and wild weeds have taken residence en-masse. If you follow up the road running all its windy way up the edge of a large craggy rock, it will take you to a small wooded hillock. There you can have a short rest after climbing up in the full sun and if you continue on up, you will come to the top of that small mountain where spectacular views open out onto Els Ports Natural Park across Ebro valley. If you now take the chalky road leading away from the park towards the mountains on the other side, you will have passed many well tended olive tree groves with their characteristic doughnut shape planted in unnaturally straight rows. You will soon see a small woodland with a few very tall trees towering over the landscape -pine and palm trees among them, surrounded by a vast wild field dotted with many lurid shades of mountain flowers.
This place is perfect in all respects, this beautiful mountain meadow, with a spectacular view, set over a deep ravine but perfectly flat on the top, with a beautiful backdrop of the mountains on both sides- a large old villa, a palazzo should be lazily gleaming through the new leaves - but it is not here.
At a closer proximity, all the ‘promised’ luxuries are simulated somehow in the aura of the place, in its essential ‘premise’. Forget the palazzo, it isn’t behind the trees, ok?! For instance, the place seems to have a large antique fountain with a gracious stature in the middle but as you come closer you can see a rough concrete slab with a few dusty torn tires, piled up in the middle, making that ‘curve’. What appeared as a large shining car was a cardboard chicken coup with fancy silver writing still showing through the white paint. The jolly gazebo with bunting in actuality is a crumpled old tarpaulin contraption covering a dirt-encrusted old tractor. The woodland is surrounded by a respectable looking white fence which furthered the illusion of containing architectural treasures, but as there is nothing of that sort, it stands there redundant, containing nothing.
This place reeks of capital, yet all you find is a rusted plow.
Maig 28, 2017