Looking out My Window: Munas de Arriba (northern Spain)

by Rosalind Horne
(northern Spain)

My old stone farmhouse is perched on a hill to one side of my village so I have a panoramic view across the rest of the ‘pueblo’.

Munas de Arriba is a hodge podge of houses perched on slopes and in various stages of refurbishment. Some of which have been abandoned completely; the elderly occupants dying and their children immigrating to the bigger cities such as Aviles and Oveido in search of jobs and wealth; the young, it seems, no longer want to work the land. A few dilapidated houses have been bought by prosperous Madrilènes or the like, who have renovated them for holiday homes.

Predominantly white, these houses are punctuated by those painted in shades of lemon, pink and peach. Most of the houses have steps up to their front doors; the ground floor having been used as stables or servants quarters in bygone days.

Nowadays these ground floor areas either remain as storage areas or have been tastefully modernized to create more living space.

There are a few large four and five story houses that dominate the village; a reminder of locals who emigrated to Cuba and then having made their fortunes in trades connected to tobacco, bananas, coffee and sugar came back to Spain (and Munas), settling here, flaunting their wealth. These are the Indianos.

Interspersed amongst the homesteads are ‘horrerios’ in various states of disrepair but still used for their original purpose of storing grain and vegetables; their stone mushroom shaped legs protect against the invasion of vermin.

Cars that possibly predate the Civil War sit sorrowfully underneath them; their battered body work, a testimony to the elements.

Narrow lanes are splattered, an indication of the main activity of the village. Multi coloured cows graze the surrounding fields and are often seen being lumbering gracefully along the lanes to be milked or to fresh grazing.

A local farmer grazes his two cows on our land. In return we get the fertilizer for our vegetable garden. His cows are his responsibility so to ensure that they don’t wander means that he is also responsible for the fencing around our field.

Pepe, our cowman, plays the Asturian bagpipes which are one of the areas many idiosyncratic traditions. His music can be heard resounding through the surrounding valleys on special occasions and the countless saints’ days.

As I make myself a cup of coffee in my kitchen, I gaze out to the field immediately below; my field.

It’s home to a neighbours cows and five newborn calves are frolicking around their mothers trying to drink their milk as their mothers nonchalantly munch away at the grass fresh from last nights dew.

A flash of colour and a jay lands on a branch of my pear tree recently vacated by a handsome woodpecker. That reminds me – a pear pie would be nice for supper……………