That night, we go to the Sacre Monte hills, where the gypsies live in caves, and meet some friendly people who tell us they are from the pueblos around Granada. They are dancing to very loud music and I join in clapping the rhythm. Colin is quietly sketching them. They are all amazingly generous and offer us skewers of chicken and custard tarts they have made at home, and bought in for this picnic. No one is drinking alcohol.
All ages and sizes join in the dance, and of course they are all brilliant at it and make quite flirtatious hip wiggling moves that few old timers in the U.K. could ever do. Unfortunately for me, one lady siezes me and drags me to dance. “No puedo….” I say, hoping this means “I don’t know how”. Anyway, after a brief and embarrasing attempt she agrees. “No hablas” she says. I shuffle off. Then they all flock around Colin’s tiny sketchbook. One lady recognises herself, it’s fantastic they all say, except her husband, who obviously still sees his sixty year old wife as the twenty year old he married. No, it’s terrible he insists.