“Ding” “Ding” the vibrations from the bell awake my sleeping nature. Similar to the church bell in my local village, that only rings for weddings and celebrations- scarcely heard of anymore. Perhaps today is the celebration, a welcoming of the new day. The bell rings twice so that the people out on the mountains know that it’s the first bell of the day.
During my hazy state, I stretch out on my side, the bed screeching along with my movements. The spring’s scream sarcastically, as I prop upright in my bed.
The light creeps into the room, the sapphire blue shutters are wide open and attractively frame my view. The chipped paint work reveals a golden shimmer from the sunken wood and the breeze taps gently on the window.
It’s clear my surroundings are unfamiliar as I stumble into each room, in search for the shower. I found it; I’m awkwardly fiddling for the light now. With a few failed attempts at finding the hot water side of the tap, I’m in and I’m out. A slight breeze escapes through the miniature window in the wall, held partially open by a stone; through the gap an offering of a tiny snapshot onto the streets of Sella.
My group meet upstairs, we shut the door behind us, and follow the path down the slopes. We pass the antique white and colonial cream houses where peeling paintwork engulfs the buildings and brightly toned tiles are neatly placed underneath the balcony.
Further down the winding slopes and crooked steps, an unconventional baker shop sits between the lanes. Although disguised as a regular building, and unsure if it’s open or not, the whiffs of baking bread give it away. The smell of warm baking bread takes me back to my childhood. Both my mum and I would bake bread rolls in the morning, ready to serve at the ‘shooting breakfasts’ we would host during the winter months. I’d be the waitress serving the various shaped rolls to the men in tweed, sneaking a few to scoff down later. After the shooting party had left, my mum and I would sit down in their places and burden the best china plates with hash browns, beans, sausages and bread.
The baker places the last bit of dough into the oven and abandons the peel on the wooden table. The cooked baguettes are piled on top of each other resting in the tray. After a few unrecognisable exchanges of Spanish, the locals flock into the bakers, Anita chooses her bread, and we continue back down the streets of Sella.