The problem with fairy tales is that dark and light are so inextricably intertwined. When we describe something as like a “fairy tale,” we usually mean just the happy ending, with Cinderella safely ensconced in her castle, an adoring prince at her feet, forever. Taramundi makes you think about the all of the other parts of fairy tales that come before the happily ever after.
The weather is insanely unpredictable. One day the sun shines beatifically, illuminating the purple Spanish lavender and tiny daisy-like chamomile flowers growing along the edges of the road, lighting up the whole countryside in such a way that you’re forced to stop repeatedly and just gape at the beauty. Other days, it’s dark in the morning, cold, shrouded in fog, and raining. Raining and raining with freezing cold gusts of wind that make you slam the door shut and wonder how you’re going to entertain your children all day in a little stone cottage. And then the next day, of course, the sun comes out and the blue butterflies flit through the apple trees and it’s difficult to remember exactly what you were complaining about the day before.
Our little cottage really does seem like it’s right out of a fairy tale, with thick stone walls and timbered ceilings and shuttered, casement windows with white curtains trimmed in handmade lace that swing out to let in the air. Quilts cover the beds and all of the furniture is solid and dark. It’s sincerely charming, and although the road that leads through what once was a tiny hamlet named Vega de Zarza (and is now a converted row of guest houses), is so narrow your mouth goes dry every time you have to drive your car in and out, when dusk settles in at night, you can easily imagine a witch closing her door for the last time across the way before she mounts her broom and takes to the skies.
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