The road to Cordoba was dry. It slithered along the flat planes, past the milky olive trees like a snake, zig zagging on and on into infinity. The sun was just creeping up over the hills when we stopped and had early morning coffee, at a simple wild western style dinner. The air was crisp still then, a perfect temperature, just a bit hotter than the air-conditioned interior of our car. I skipped across the empty double lane to take pictures of the pink flowers growing under the watchful gaze of the lonesome bull, the bull of Osborne. We knew that soon though the damp earth would turn to dust under the scorching hot summer sun and so we kept on going under the stars.
The sky was watery and the distant hills now flicked passed in a blurry haze. The hot streams of air distorted our horizon ahead and the earth seemed weaker, less rich, as if the sun had burnt it back down to igneous. Now, when a bull was near we would see it for miles, its silhouette standing out jet black against the vast expanse of pastel and grey. I am the Rider in the Song: Full moon, black pony, olives against my saddle. Though I know all the roadways, I’ll never get to Córdoba. And so we beat on, with the thoughts of Federico Garcia Lorca never too far from our minds.
As we rose and then topped the hills, we saw Cordoba down below. A sprawling mass of white houses shrinking, a city trying to press itself further into the ground, further way from the sun’s fierce gaze. It was only when we crossed the river that we saw the golden spires and the gleam of the fortified walls rising from the river bank. For us the road had ended, it had ended here at Cordoba.