Back to Cortija Romero for the autumn, colour focuses on the trees. Poplars point saffron heads to a blue sky whilst the leaves are pulled by the earth littering the air with gold. Cherries give a fiery rust red to orange. Chestnuts are surrounded by spiky balls of tired green, split open to show the dark nuts. The olives persist in their green and grey but the ripening fruit give a smart fresh green. Bracken is the same colour as that on Carn Ingli at home, and self-sufficiency is truly possible.
We are invited into the home of 74-year-old crofter who knows our guide. We sit in a room open on one side. The roof is made of tree trunks, bamboo canes, odd bits of wood and plastic. Strings of peppers and onions hang from the ceiling and dried pumpkins lie piled on the floor; this year's crop is still growing. The tourist board has supplied sturdy wooden chairs with rush seats for visitors.
The crofter entertains us with a guitar, an accordion and a tambourine. His hospitality is generous in grape juice which has been pressed and intoxicated by its own yeasty sweetness into an organic astonishment. Dogs, cats, hens, pigeons, goats and donkeys complete the household.
Another walk takes us to an old olive press built in 1779. Driven at various times by river, mules and generator, it is now returning to a family home - the retiring presser has five daughters. We see the place where the olives are first pressed before the mixture is spread over great wheel-shaped mats to form huge sandwiches on which the great weight is lowered to create extra-virgin olive oil, cold pressed.
Finally we go up to the Buddhist monastery, O Sel Ling - place of clear light - about 1,600m above the distant blue Mediterranean. It is cold, and thunder growls around the Sierra Nevada.
We watch with astonishment as a tornado starts to spin above the sea. Hailstones ping down as we walk around the blessed stupa. Lightning crackles and jumps - purple, red, pink, orange, white lightning, close thunder. We walk down the zigzag path. Hail turns to rain, we descend into a cloud that seems to carry lightning zip fasteners all around us. Finally we emerge, see the track again and move further down to tarmacadam and a waiting bus.
In the morning the mountains are covered in snow. It's cold and the Spaniards rejoice - they may be spared a drought next year. Hundreds of little flies vanish overnight. A date palm usually buzzing with bees is silent. A flock of goldfinches follows us along the track, gratefully sipping from the puddles.
