Harper's Bazaar (UK) - - Women - BY SYBILLE BED­FORD

There is the light­ness of the clear fine air of al­ti­tude, there is the sun that warms and does not burn, the limpid light, the un­fail­ing blue of trans­par­ent day; there are the smells of peren­nial sum­mer, of mag­no­lia, tuberose and lime, of leaves af­ter brief rain, of sun on stone; there are the plea­sures of the eyes, rich leaves, glow­ing bushes, crim­son and live green, flow­ers, bright-winged birds, the snow of far vol­ca­noes, an­i­mals moving by the road-side, maize and su­gar cane, the flash of baroque façades, pink and gold, in the brief vil­lages, chur­rigueresque, ex­trav­a­gant and crum­bling, the stored warmth of honey-coloured

Span­ish walls; there is fruit – muskmelon, mango, can­taloupe, pomegranate…

The ho­tels are al­ways clean and fairly com­fort­able, some­times ex­tremely com­fort­able and of­ten amus­ing; the ser­vice er­ratic but present. The food, new, fresh, fan­tas­ti­cally abun­dant, from all right to de­li­cious; drink, good (ex­cept for lo­cal wine) and very cheap;

all ex­penses – rel­a­tively – low. One is agree­ably rav­en­ous in these heights, clothes are light and few, deep easy sleep comes plumb-like af­ter night­fall, one wakes with plea­sure

to new morn­ings, buoyed, cu­ri­ous; one moves swiftly; in short one feels well.

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