Belfast 1972. In our first Spanish lesson Mr McCauley, taught us pronunciation. There was a subtle difference between the letters b and v that had something to do with blowing air between your top and bottom lips. A single ‘r’ needed two flicks of the tongue, whereas to roll double ‘rr’s like a real Spaniard required five flicks.
Lesson two was Lorca. We read his poems out loud before we had acquired any vocabulary or knowledge of Spanish grammar.
“Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde Viento. Verdas ramas.
El barco sobre la mar y el caballo en la montana.”
The words were simple, the sounds were suave, and I’ve never forgotten them.
McCauley, or “Oscar” as he was nicknamed, had a way of making the language come alive. He also possessed a wealth of stories about Spain. We thought we were clever if we persuaded him to digress, about Hemingway or bullfighting or the Guardia Civil, sometimes for an entire period. As a lesson began there was always hope that we could lead Oscar off-track and end up enjoying one of his stories. He might even forget to give us homework. He often got carried away talking of Andalusia, of gypsies and flamenco, and of the three moorish cities of Córdoba, Seville and Granada, that we had to visit.
Tomorrow, 48 years later, I’m going to finally follow Oscar’s advice. Together with Paola, my Italian wife, I’m going to visit the Andalusian triangle of cities for the first time. We shall start with Granada, home of Lorca. I’ll have the slim volume of “Romancero gitano” in my coat pocket and we shall see where that takes us next.
Closely Related to Chester 