Feature
November 2006
   

Andalucía: where spring comes twice


A fresh cloak of green across el Fuerte

 In early October strolling on the Cerro de la Ermita de San Isidro, the low hill a couple of kilometres west of Nerja, we came across the first signs of spring; red-brown spears of autumn squill poking through the parched soil.

These tender shoots foretell what I always see as Andalusia’s second spring - not the true spring which bursts across the Sierras in an explosion of flowers in February and March, but a second more muted reawakening.

From June to September, everything on the mountains cowered beneath the relentless heat of high summer. The brightest of the spring flowers, annuals like borage, bugloss and crown daisies, withered and died, leaving only their seed to survive them. The more robust, longer lived herbaceous perennials - thistles, mallows, also died back beneath the sheltering soil, conserving their strength and husbanding vital moisture in their roots.


Autumn crocus

 Even the toughest plants of all - cistus and rosemary, lavenders and pines - hunkered down against the heat, dozing through a summer-long siesta to conserve their precious reserves of moisture.

Specially adapted leaves, some thick and fleshy, others tiny needles, as well as the aromatic oils they secrete, all served to prevent water loss by evaporation. No moisture was wasted on fresh growth, and little if any on flower.

In northern Europe, October and November are months when everything is closing down to prepare for the dark cold days and frosts of winter.


Ranunculus bullatus

Here, however, it’s a time for reawakening; as the heat begins to ease new life stirs beneath the soil, even before the first of the autumn rains and the first signs of fresh life are the autumn flowering bulbs, sea squill, autumn crocuses and ornithagelums.


Sage Skipper

Sea squill and autumn crocuses are particularly well adapted to wait out Andalusia’s hot dry summer.

Hidden beneath the soil, the fleshy scales of their bulbs store the reserves of moisture and nutrient, which they built up the previous winter and spring, until the heat begins to wane. Then, each bulb pushes up a bare spike of flower from the soil.

No leaves appear at this stage - they will form later after the rain has come to swell their flesh and build the plant’s reserves for next year.


Spanish dianthus

This reversal of the normal sequence of growth enables them to steal a march on other plants by producing flower at a time when there’s little competition for fertilising insects. They make a wonderful spectacle, the squill, scattering their tall white spires in spreading drifts across whole hillsides, and the waxy petals of the crocuses paint pink-purple splashes among rocks.

But soon other plants will join in this second spring; evergreen shrubs like rosemary, oleanders and gorse which have flowered unobtrusively through the summer will dress themselves in fresh colours as the first of the rain washes away the summer’s dust. The autumn flowering gorse is the most dramatic of these, its flaming gold almost matching the bright colour of true spring. The illusion of spring is heightened as the pines and evergreen shrubs, washed clean and spurred into new growth by the refreshing rain, throw a fresh green mantle across the mountains to replace the dusty drab brown of summer.


Spires of autumn squill

In contrast, some autumn flowering plant are surprisingly delicate. The solitary, lace frilled flowers of the autumn flowering Spanish dianthus spring from dry rock crevices which seem far too small to support any plant, particularly one which appears so wispy and fragile.

Another delicate autumn beauty is the little golden ranunculus bullatus. Its fragrant flower, springing from a rosette of fleshy leaves at the base, is more fleshy and less able to resist evaporation than the dianthus but protects itself by sheltering beneath the leaves of other larger plants.


Swallowtail		 An autumn flowering plant whose unobtrusive appearance belies its fearsome reputation is the mandrake. It has a flat crown of spinach-like leaves up to 60cm across and bluish purple flowers rather like those of the potato plant, followed by orange plum-like fruit. However, the source of all the myths and legends which surround it is the large, tuberous root which enabled it to survive the summer. Rather like a misshapen turnip, and often divided to resemble a nightmarish caricature of a human body, the root is alleged to have fearsome powers.

Not only is it poisonous, and also, in smaller doses, a halucogenic, but it can supposedly be used both as an anaesthetic and an aphrodisiac (presumably not at the same time!). Medieval witches and sorcerers used it to attack their enemies and to conjure up "visions".

The problem was collecting it.

Legend has it that when pulled from the ground it utters a soul-chilling shriek and whoever plucks it falls dead. The recommended solution was to tether a dog to the plant, retire to a safe distance and whistle. As the dog obeyed the whistle the plant was lifted from the ground. The dog died, but the witch made off unscathed with the prize.

But it’s not only in the mountains that second spring is in the air. New life is stirring too in the orchards and valleys. Summer is far too hot and dry for fruit to develop and ripen so most fruit trees either blossom only in late summer or even early autumn, or alternatively the fruits lie dormant until the autumn rains come to swell the crop. This arrested development means most fruits are harvested not in summer or early autumn as in northern Europe, but very much later.

Although the olive harvest, for example, begins with the gathering of the green fruit in November or December, the fully ripe purple-black olives aren’t ready until late winter or even early spring.

Similarly, oranges swell out with the autumn rains, but only begin to ripen in the New Year - well into spring for some varieties - so that we have the strange sight of orange blossom and a mature fruit appearing on the tree at the same time. This overlap is even more pronounced with the carob. Fresh green pods appear in the autumn side-by-side with the ripe brown, which have taken a full year to mature.

The final bonus of my second spring is a fresh emergence of butterflies; as we walked near Albaida, the wayside was alive with dainty little Sage Skippers feeding hungrily on the nectar of ragwort, while at la Ermita de san Isidro, spectacular Swallowtails and Two Tailed Pashas chased one another around the hilltop.


Autumn Squill

Next month, I’ll be walking again on the fresh green slopes of the reawakening mountains.

I’ll be keeping a wary eye for any mandrake plants and although, of course, I don’t believe any of this superstitious nonsense about witchcraft I’m always particularly polite to anyone I meet walking a dog in the hills at this time of year - just in case.

 

 

TONY ALLEN