We arrive before Mojacar. She appears at the end of a green valley, amongst high rocks spiked with cactuses. She is built on a hill, shaped like a truncated cone which is completely covered with houses, all similar in their cubic shape and their terraced roofs. Most of them are whitewashed, some are pink or bluish, and the very poor houses are the colour of clay from which they were roughcast.The ones on the ridge were built first, around the church, which is so small and humble it is hard to distinguish from people's homes. As the village developed it spread down the steep slopes, and therefore the newest houses are those closest to the small valley. Instead of forming a series of terraces or levels, all these cubes fitting together and superimposed on one another make the village look like a block of quartz; a conglomerate of crystals. The dwellings are so stuck together we cannot even find any alleyways or steps. Once again the sense of the mineral nature of the place is emphasized even further by the total lack of vegetation around the village. No gardens, no trees amongst the chalky facets and no plants on the terraces. Angles, surfaces, vertical or flat, holes for windows, squared blocs for chimneys, not one empty space other than the occasional buttress made of stone, white and dry like a bone in the sun.

We climb up around every last bend in this unique whitewashed village. I don't get tired of the unexpected scenery appearing before me.Wallsides one against the other, some white others purple depending on whether they are hit by sunlight or protected by the shade. These walls frame views of yellow land, rust-coloured hills and bits of blue sea wearing away at the walls' edges. The village recedes below from amidst its projecting angles, into overlapping terraces. The last terrace joins with the opposite hillside which is covered in Indian fig trees and agaves.

We finally come out onto a terrace overhanging the north side of the hill. This side is a sheer with no buildings just a clinging stubborn vegetation. It covers an enormous area of golden fields with hillocks leveling out at the height at which we are standing. This is created as if by musical harmony, in large concentric curves, like the ripling circles created by a stone hitting the surface of a pond. On its own, the east side is blocked by tall, dreary ferruginous framing the view of the blue sea straight ahead and half the sky.

T´ser Stevens