DOWN THERE ON THE COSTAS/NIGHT IN ANDALUCIA
Not for me the costas; those ghastly concrete labyrinths; those Babels of foreign tongues, where the briny sea air is ubiquitously redolent of frying fish and chips, and loud with children’s shrieks. Not for me those lands of black socks with sandals; of hideous, obscene tee shirts and lurid shorts above nasty little pink legs. Give me the clean and lonely, wild and lovely sierras, where is heard, in the stillness of moon-bathed night, the muted lullaby of goat bells; and the feet of ghostly... Sign in to see full entry.