The dogs cry a soulful howl as I pull the gates shut. There’s a sorrow in the dirge, of the Alpha leaving. Sparrows squabble over top branches in the large pine, separating the house from the road. Next doors dusty black cat lies in wait, hoping for an early breakfast. Gatos’s ears twitch a recognition as I pass. The rest remains stoic.

‘Shoo,’ I shout, ‘they’ll be no sparrow for you today.’ Gato dashes next door.

The gurgling of the Seca delivering nourishment to the parched soil distracts. Men in straw hats are already in the fields, getting a head start on the autumn sun. Conversations blend with guitar music blaring from a battered red radio. Olive trees bow heavy with fruit; it’s been a good year. Stopping to admire the hibiscus, I’m transported back Egypt, sipping cool karkade by the banks of the Nile. Closing my eyes, taking a mental snapshot; I miss the bustle of Luxor.

Walking through the village, I’m embraced by the aroma of warm bread drifting out from the Panaderia. Jorge waves. He’s sweeping the floor, probably for the tenth time this morning. No matter how often Jorge brushes, there’s always a fine dusting of flour capturing the shoe prints of his customers.

‘I have bread for later, see how my English is improving.’

No time to stop. Picking up speed, I scurry pass Rubio’s bar. Outside men are drinking café-solo, gesticulating, putting the world to rights, before joining their companions in the fields. My mouth tingles with musty smoke, as leather skinned men suck on Camel cigarettes, a reminder of a habit long abandoned. The church bell strikes a single note, half past eight.

Hurrying past the whitewashed houses, into the square, the cherub-headed fountain catches my eye. I run my hand over the rough exterior before holding it under the gushing water. It tingles—it makes me—feel! Splashing the liquid on my face, I cross the road, refreshed.

The doctor’s surgery is busy. Women in black nod insincere civilities. I’m acknowledged but never invited to chat. A whispered huddle . . . I’m being discussed! The lady with the dogs, they say. I’m so much more than that, I smile. The conversation changes to a man who died in the bath and the local La Primitiva winner, the daughter of a donkey. Thinking I may have overheard wrong, I fumble for my phone, pretending I’m engrossed in a humorous correspondence, explaining the tears of laughter, spilling down my cheeks.

Nearly nine! Embracing the philosophy of mañana, I sit back on the loud tangerine seat—seats not designed for comfort. My polyester-mix trousers bond to the static-charged plastic, it’s an itch that must be relieved. I sense collective disapproval, and ponder if the widows are immune to scratchy bottoms, or accept their penance, like repentant sinners?

Concha shouts. The familiar perfume ushers me to the nurse’s station, to the disgust of the widows. Today the pecking order of respecting your elders, trumped by illness. I’m not here to chat about the dead, but talk about living.

My mouth sweats as disinfectant claws the back of my throat, invoking olfactory memories of darker times. Concha smiles, asks how I am? A distraction as the needle dives into a plumped-up vein. The last few months have been a daily toil of bloods, dressings, poking, patting and praying to every god imaginable.

It’s been a journey full of tears, surprises, anger, laughter and the aroma of fresh bread.