We were enchanted. Harvesters sat on crates in a field picking peppers. Alfalfa had been pitchforked into picturesque montones. Little foals slept beside their mothers. Pimentón dried on the arid ground above the acequias. Looking down into the valley, the fields were marked off with rows of poplars. And as the day waned, the setting sun washed the horizon with gentle glowing pink. The lights of the town began to twinkle.Read More
Just last week, Dad and I sat under bare trees in the pale winter sunshine of Paris. Now, we’re on the other side of world, in late summer. Arriving in Buenos Aires last week, we shed our sweaters and walked out into sunny, warm Palermo Soho through leafy tunnels of plane trees arching over the cobbled streetsRead More
The trip from Molinos to Gualfin was short, dusty and familiar. Except for the electric lines. These now run up the valley from Molinos to the fincas of Colomé and Amaicha. They cut across the road to Gualfin, disappearing into the mountain-shielded vineyards and fields of finca Taquil…Read More
Gauchos stand guard.
El Obuno looks eagerly out at the approaching cattle. He can’t wait to get to work.
We finally arrived at Gualfin this morning.