La Cumbre is a quiet middle-class town, lined with quaint little houses. “Muy tranquilo”. Everyone seems to know each other here – which could drive you mad, but it felt friendly, and safe. Where were the people of La Cumbre? It seemed everyone was on a day-long siesta. But as night fell, all the restaurants swung open their doors, and the previously deserted streets filled with people. Young lads drove round and round on their motorbikes, honking at pretty girls walking by.
A memory from La Cumbre that will stay with me forever is our walk in the hills with two newly-made friends… of the four-legged variety: our hosteria was owned by a very laid-back family, who let their dogs roam freely. We set off on an afternoon walk, but immediately noticed Rita and Puccini, their two mongrels, were following us. When we stopped they stopped. When we started again, so did they. Concerned their owners would worry, we headed back to warn them. The owners’ 12-year old daughter shrugged and laughed. “Siempre siguen! No hay problema”. Fine with us, we were glad for the doggy company and set off on our two-hour walk. And so off we went, with young Puccini running off ahead but turning back once in a while, waiting for us to catch him up. Rita, the loyal and elderly dog, huffed beside us, never leaving our side. Exhausted but happy, we reached the hosteria, and the dogs slumped in the grass, tired too after their walk in the mountains. The next morning after breakfast, we lugged our oversized rucksacks out the front door. Puccini started to walk up the road expecting us to follow, on another walk which we felt he’d been looking forward to since our last one. When we packed our luggage into the boot of a clapped out taxi instead, the two dogs watched on with their tails down and cocked heads. Sad saying goodbye to our four-legged walking companions, and it made me pine for a little dog of my own even more.
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