An exotic smell in the air, a sound that echoes with past associations, but is somehow unfamiliar. The light has changed. The temperature has dropped. Something is going on.

WARNING! A big grey coloured Alien space ship is covering the sky and shooting strange clear liquid bullets at us, take cover!!!! Shouts someone on our local information group.

Facebook is alive with comments from people wondering what on earth is happening. Friends from the UK reassure the expat community here that there is nothing to be alarmed about. They soothe with stories of upheavals in the heavens and disturbances below, youths body boarding in the streets and blocks of flats held up by willpower and akrow props since the ground beneath them has disappeared. We must not be dismayed: worse things happen in the north of England.

Yesterday, for the first time since May, we had precipitation in the Axarquia. (Yes, Madam, you probably can get ointment for it!) This morning we had a proper downpour. This is not your namby pamby ‘only drizzle, but it makes you wet through’ nonsense. This is not quality of mercy rain, dropping gently from heaven. This is proper rain. This is rain that pours from the huge heavy heavens above the mountains, and streams down the narrow concrete streets, inches deep and redolent of a summer of dehydrated dog wee and dust.

The plants on the roof terrace don’t know what has hit them. They shudder and droop beneath the battering, but will grow at twice their normal rate, as their parched systems greedily slurp up the moisture. Boggle dances in his cage, lifting his wings and upending himself to waggle his little bottom in the downpour, whistling and chirruping with glee.

low cloud in the valley below the village

And then, as suddenly as it started, it stops. The sun comes out, and the dogs who had been taking cover come out to report for duty. Their barking rebounds around the village. The church bells ring. They would have rung anyway, what with it being three minutes past the hour, but somehow this peal fits the occasion.

The little man opposite continues the thump thump of chopping up fodder for his mule, and up the road, the sound of metallic scraping tells me that the mysterious work that has been going on at strange times of the day and night continues. Voices that went missing during the downpour resume their conversations.

The gentle drip drip from the roof reminds me that we really must check out the possibility of some guttering. Village houses seldom have any, and in the height of the rainy season, the water pours off them, soaking anyone foolish enough to walk that close to the houses. Just a little piece above the front door would be nice. In the long summer months it is easy to forget the unpleasantness of fumbling for a key, while water buckets down upon you from above. Think Morecambe and Wise’s Singing in the Rain spoof, and you have the general idea.

This week marks the beginning of the change of the seasons. For the first time since May I have worn a cardigan around the house, even if only for an hour or so. The thin quilt, which has only been on the bed during the day for artistic effect, actually stayed on the bed all night last night. In a few weeks’ time the duvet will join it.

I love living in a Spanish mountain village. I much prefer the weather here to that of the UK. It is far more predictable, so you can plan and be prepared. When wall-to-wall sunshine for months on end gives way to rain, the temperatures drop to levels where a cheerful log fire is often a Jolly Good Idea. Soon it will be time to get the logs on order. Salad and gazpacho will make way for the arrival of hearty pork casseroles, bread and butter puddings and hot lumumba.*

I find I am looking forward to clear winter afternoons when we can, at times, see the Rif Mountains over in Morocco. Watching the snow creeping down the sides of La Maroma while we eat breakfast on the roof terrace under a clear blue sky is a pleasure that can only be improved by sharing it with visiting family and friends.

For a few months, I shall be cleaning out the estufa and laying a new fire each day, with pine cones gathered from the mountains and olive wood from the local wood man. The warm rug will come out of its aestivation in the garage, and Poppy will curl up on it in front of the fire, while I write blog entries about how much I shall enjoy summer when it returns.

*Lumumba: slosh a generous quantity of brandy into a mug of steaming hot chocolate, et voila!