Abandonment in age, the past of Spain and why people live longer

I will not pretend that the older folk always eye me kindly. I in turn wonder about their pasts, about what they did in the Franco years. El Maestrat was heavy with his supporters, and I have been told it still is. It is also heavy with those who bear the scars and losses of this terrible era of Spanish history. Mass graves are scattered throughout the countryside and those who know where they are have mostly gone.

Stories are whispered to me as the these old souls lean on their sticks and navigate the often steep streets. Frail men are pointed out – that one was an informer, and that other one a murderer. The old lady who still scrubs her clothes in the bath house water despite having her own washing machine – she took arms in the resistance at the age of 17. Don’t mention Franco, I have been told more than once, don’t say I told you this. But they are there, now bow-legged because mostly all they had to eat was bread,wine and what wild edible plants they could find. The Francoist Army took the rest.

The picture above was taken in Cantavieja before the man became aware of me and hid his vulnerability. His posture suggests heavy resignment and the animals around him only compound the feeling. It is as if he has been abandoned by all but cats and dogs. The old building with its sagging roof in the background, the pile of sand in the foreground waiting for a building project long forgotten, now serving as catty litter, and that rich deep sky further strengthening this vista.

Another time some 15 years ago, I came across Jorge sitting in the doorway of an ancient house, much older than any of us ever could be.  It was situated in a back street of Albocassor and the day felt blisteringly hot.  I stopped to chat, together with my 80 year old mother who felt and looked young by comparison. There was the whiff of neglect coming from inside his corridors, but he was eager to talk, to communicate and it was crushing.  His gnarled mottled face stared out from the darkness like an eager dog. I asked him how old he was and he replied, I don’t remember, I don’t remember my age, maybe 90, but I don’t know.

There are so many like him in the villages around here and actually it is because they have not been tucked away in some old age people’s home. The one built at Atzeneta’s edge has been empty for so many years, that it has finally been repurposed. The family still care for the old or hire someone who can. They are free if able to play cards or simply sit in clans outside the bars or on benches where they don’t need to buy anything. I see the same groups, day after day.

And then one disappears and the church bells ring…

I feel the loneliness and it frightens me.  Old age. I’m getting older. I don’t feel old, but when people stand up to give me a seat, well, there is no avoiding the truth.

And the fact is that Spain’s old have it much better than in England. They regularly live into their 90’s, often doing something they love like tending their beloved allotments, “huertas”. Some visit the semi-ruins in el campo where they once lived – to tend their few sheep or goats, animals that now live there amongst the rubble as alternative guardians. Others simply going for a long walk, cane or no.

Walking is the greatest “sport” for the older generations and many experts are coming back to this as a universal truth for all ages.  I see couples or lone ladies pushing trollies up the once old mule tracks – now busy roads – to their plots. They are  determined and steady in their ascent, and later zoom down, their trollies weighted with vegetable and fruits pulling them along. 

This is not to be a negative post, but one that explains. Yes, there is sadness, especially as many of the higher up villages empty of the young. But there is also much hope. I will touch on it here.

    My town of Atzeneta has taken on a new life. Many young have returned and to renovate their inherited houses and the mayor Santiago has put in place many positive measures. The roads have improved, a museum in an ancient historically important building is in the works and trees have been planted. But  perhaps most importantly, the lower school is gaining an upper school so that the young can stay until 18, instead of being bussed to another larger town where they have little possibility of making friends they can mix with in their free hours. And little incentive to make this beautiful interior their home.

    I end on this positive note. If you like my post, please leave a comment and I will respond. Thank you