Smooth Getaway Postcard From Canillas Spain

The Mudéjar route climbs steeply up the mountain from the coastal plain, meeting the first of the white villages Canillas de Aceituno at about 650 metres. The road then continues about 7 kilometres to Sedella. Since the onset of tarmac and motor vehicles, the distance between these two villages seems negligible. Yet, the towns were connected only by dirt roads and goat tracks for most of their history. The usual means of transport was on foot or by mule. Perhaps, this past isolation explains a difference in character between the villages. While Sedella drowses, Canillas bustles.

There is an entrepreneurial spirit in Canillas. Besides the obligatory post office, tobacconist and general grocery store, Canillas sports a bakery, a butcher, several grocers, some hardware stores, an ironmonger, a picture-framer and (perhaps tellingly) TWO banks. There is even a take-away roast chicken establishment, open weekends by order only. Every other doorway conceals some business enterprise behind its bead curtain. You only realise that an apparently-typical house is a shop when you notice people queuing up inside.

You can get anything in Canillas, if you know where to look, though it may not be where you expect. When I expressed my delight at the opening of a splendid new hardware store, because I would no longer have to go down the mountain for paint, my neighbour gave me a surprised look then said, "You can always buy paint at the bread shop!" I still haven't quite decided whether he was joking.

This entrepreneurial spirit is not limited to individuals. The council in Canillas is famous for getting things done. Every year there seems to be another major project underway. When we arrived three years ago, the municipal swimming pool was under construction and finished in record time. Sedella's pool, which was started earlier, still remains incomplete. Last year, the council dug up half the main street, re-laid all the pipes and effectively widened the road, so there is now room for vehicles to pass. This year, work on the new bypass has proceeded apace, including the installation of a magnificent roundabout at the town entrance. The recent appearance of an asphalt lorry, which hangs about the bypass but hasn't yet done anything, suggests the work nears completion.

There are two projects going on simultaneously. The little park near the entrance to the village has been gutted for rebuilding. We were rather fond of the place. It was surrounded by a rough slate wall, painted black and white like the markings of a giraffe. We called it Giraffe Park until some visiting children renamed it Giraffic Park and so it remained.

The other project is more mysterious. A substantial erection is taking place next to the village carpark. When I asked one of the shopkeepers what it was, she said she didn't know. Yet, she somehow managed to convey the strong impression that she did know but was sworn to secrecy. Now that the main structure is in place with large arched doorways all along the front, it resembles a covered market, large enough to rival that of Vélez Málaga. Whatever can that portend?

Driving through Canillas, you run the gamut of old ladies suddenly stepping out of front doors into the path of your car, young women pushing prams then stopping to chat, children wobbling or darting on bicycles and an enormous variety of vehicles including lorries and buses coming at you from all directions.

The experienced driver knows all the little alleys and side streets where one can back up and wait, but it's still unusual to drive through town without an incident. The old men sit on town hall steps and watch the chaos with evident enjoyment, occasionally giving a sporting warning about vehicles approaching round hidden bends, but more often sitting back to enjoy the resulting mishaps. If you actually want to get across the village in reasonable time, I'd recommend using the almost-completed new bypass or sneaking through under cover of lunchtime, when even the old men desert the steps for comida and siesta.

At festival time, Canillas doesn't just bustle, it strains at the seams. All the village children, who have left home to work or study in the city, come back for fiesta. We recently attended the delightfully-named Día de la Morcilla (Day of the Black Pudding). Cars were parked for a considerable distance along the approaches to town. At the top end, a fairground had been set up with bumper cars and a carousel. Scattered throughout the village were stalls selling toys and sweets. In the plaza was a bandstand with a phenomenal PA system. (Trust me on this: you can hear Canillas' parties 10 kilometres away.) On the new main street was a bouncy castle, plus every available space was stuffed with small bars purveying beer, wine and black pudding.

Last year, we attended mass in the church. This is intriguing for northern Europeans, who are sometimes shocked by the apparent irreverence of a Mediterranean congregation. In this part of the world, church is a meeting place and mass is a social occasion. Consequently, it's fine to talk during the ceremony. I was also glad that the village band joined in to play a few upbeat numbers before the virgin Nuestra Señora de la Cabeza (Our Lady of the Head) was brought out on her throne then carried through the streets. Quite a procession followed her, including ladies walking barefoot. This year we missed everything by being in the wrong street at the time. I was disappointed, as I had felt an immediate empathy with the virgin, who I thought looked rather alarmed, as if she thought the people might drop her.

Once the sacred statue completes her annual tour, the festivities commence in earnest with flamenco dancing and Verdiales: traditional bands similar to English Morris dancers. The flamenco is taken very seriously. Village girls practice all year in a room near the Bar Ángel. It's not unusual to walk past and see the girls in sumptuous dresses, clapping and stamping and whirling to the music. After dark, more traditional entertainments give way to disco and live bands. The music crashes and thumps throughout the night, to the enjoyment of the surrounding population.

The day after fiesta is one of the rare occasions when Canillas is quiet. What few villagers you see on the streets seem to creep along sadly, looking pale, exhausted, and barely able to give you a cheery wave. It's even possible to make the journey without a single granny hurling herself into your path. However, fear not! Tomorrow the myriad shops will open for business, the streets will fill with chattering people and the old men will be back on the Town Hall steps, watching the world go by.

Jenny Twist grew up in the British mill town of Heckmondwike but now lives in Spain. She studied history in Manchester and did post-graduate work at Oxford. Her novellas Doppelganger, Uncle Vernon and Mantequero have appeared in various literary anthologies, plus she authored the books Take One At Bedtime, Domingo's Angel and All in the Mind.