My Curious Night with the Maids of the Mountain

One mile above sea level seems a strange place to live, but then so is living in the suburbs and spending two hours commuting to Dublin every morning. Though the effects of altitude are slightly different, both practices can have a considerable effect on your sanity.

I woke, sweating and spluttering among unfamiliar surroundings. The shutters lent an intense darkness to the bedroom, but following frenzied tugging at the window catch, light finally streamed in.

I looked down at my numb hand expecting to see it covered in teeth marks, but the hand was intact and with violent shaking, the feeling returned. What a nightmare - bitten by my lovable pet. The dog and I eyed each other with suspicion for the rest of the morning.

After breakfast, the analysis began in earnest. I reviewed the dream as an expression of guilt for dragging Fiacla the dog two thousand kilometres south to the Spanish mountains and blamed his unusual mood on the horrors of baggage class. But Fiacla soon brightened, though I failed to throw off my own malaise until the sun was setting on the Barranco de Poqueira (Poqueira gorge); my favourite time of day in La Alpujarra.

The shadows lengthen as the light fades fast and one by one the village homes flicker into existence. Until finally, all those present answer the twinkling roll-call and the mountainside reflects the starry sky. Another bout of breathlessness, either landscape or altitude-induced, shifted my humour. With the dog now sniffing and wagging in comforting circles, I gasped at the view from the balcony.

Then, in it popped; the weirdest realisation since I discovered storks don't bring babies. A biology book with explicit diagrams had helped me work out that one, but this thought was much more momentous: every important woman in my life has a name that ends with the letter A. How weird is that? Yes, I've checked them all. No exceptions, not one. Even the dog, let's not go there! With revelations come recriminations and as I sat in the crisp night, I recalled the lost opportunities where the rule could have been broken.

Quickly analysed out, I sought shelter and company in a local bodega. The village of Capileira glowed above as the steep hike cleared my head. Each misty breath drew me deeper into the warren of cobblestone streets. Low flying bats gobbled insects around lamps and olive smoke mixed with sweet culinary odours to entice hungry patrons indoors.

Like the proverbial moth to a flame, I entered the bar on Plaza Calvario. After the usual hush and head-turning that heralds a stranger in the bar, I settled down in a corner. Under acute observation, I smiled and buried my head in the menu. Pointing, combined with pidgin Spanish secured my dinner and I gulped deep on strong red wine.

The bar resembled a primeval cave. Uneven stone walls supported chestnut beams which carried immense stone slabs, and there were pigs' legs hanging everywhere. The smells from the kitchen had drawn old men to the bar, shouting and eating at the same time. In response the chef rained vicious blows upon blood-red pork, concluding his arguments with the sizzle of meat hitting hot oil.

I studied the waitresses ferrying the dishes of steaming food. There were three and they looked like sisters. The tallest returned my furtive glances, and I felt exposed, yet encouraged. Or a little drunk. I was glued to her every move. With a stern expression and her mouth firm, she commanded attention, her hips thrust forward. In the rare instances when she smiled her eyes lit up, all hypnotic like an Egyptian princess.

I flicked frantically through the phrasebook trying to construct sentences beyond ''the train leaves at eight o' clock tomorrow''. Cursing the language barrier, I decided to keep it simple. She approached to take my dessert order. Unfortunately, food was no longer on my mind. ''Postres?" she smiled sweetly. I felt the blood drain from my face when I heard my beginner Spanish autopilot kick in. ''My name is Daniel, I am from Ireland and I have one brother and one sister''.

Her widening smile saved further embarrassment as I sought control of my gob. And my cheeks flushed at her reply: ''I have two sisters," signalling to the other waitresses. ''Mi nombre es Lydia, esta es Maria y la pequena es Begonia''. By the time she had finished the final A I knew there would be little sleep at altitude tonight.

Previously published in Ireland's Sunday Business Post.