She looked up at me imploringly from the simmering pavement as the sun beat down on one man and his dog in Seville. ‘You haven’t peed yet, Amaya, we need to walk on a bit more,’ though I realised the injustice, as we were both so dehydrated neither of us had much chance of fulfilling such obligations. I found myself unexpectedly dog-sitting in the Andalusian capital after my English landlady got rather tipsy and, in a moment of reckless abandon, committed to booking a flight back to the UK to spend time with her family for the first time in a year.
I don’t mind the sun especially; it reminds me of my first tour in Iraq in 2004
The decisive moment came during a meal out in Seville when my landlady’s sister was visiting with her family, and I was invited to join them for the obligatory banquet of tapas – once she made the sudden announcement, and her sister had burst into tears of joy at the table, how could I say no when she then turned to me and, looking a little sheepish, asked if I would mind taking the dog out a few times a day? I noticed her sister’s husband looking similarly resigned.
It all meant I got a better understanding of what it’s like to be in Spain’s most sensual and seductive city when pretty much everyone else has buggered off to the coast. It was just me, the dog and the endless buzz of the cicadas.
As I wandered down yet another deserted street with Amaya trotting along beside me, I felt a bit like Will Smith in the film I Am Legend, in which he and his German Shepherd wander an empty New York. The city’s only other inhabitants are nocturnal cannibalistic mutants. Seville’s cannibalistic are also probably nocturnal, given the excruciating heat.
I don’t mind the sun especially; it reminds me of my first tour in Iraq in 2004, which, compared to all the bizarre stuff going on these days, looks increasingly romantic and halcyon-like. After you’ve spent 24 hours broiling in a closed-down tank turret with a bust A/C system, Seville’s 40 degree temperatures seem balmy.
Don’t forget that phrase ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen’. I think there is something programmed into us Brits that means we take a strange pleasure in these sorts of situations; I found standing at 6 p.m. in the middle of a deserted yet major road oddly satisfying (and perhaps nostalgic, a flashbacks to my Camino odyssey during the pandemic). There are a few hangers-on in Seville, though most of those left behind tend to emerge once the sun’s wrath is spent, or it’s time for a cooling beverage of Cruzcampo, the local favourite.
At a nearby bar, one old lady would regularly arrive with her little dog and a spray bottle of water. She’d give herself a few squirts, along the arms and back of the neck; then her dog got some action; when the waiter brought her a caña of Cruzcampo beer, he got a couple of sprays too.
Beads of perspiration are everywhere: on people and trickling down the chilled beer taps. There are huge glasses of drinks, too, like tinto de verano, ‘gin tonic’ – as the locals say – and rum and Coke are jam-packed with ice cubes. Glasses are kept in refrigerators to add to the cooling factor. Sevillianos use every trick in the book to get a refreshing moment against the heat. They also don’t hurry and adopt more of a gliding walking pace; you can often spot a Brit who is still darting around in the usual brisk manner we adopt to deal with UK weather.
At this time of year, the trees along the streets are festooned with unripe green oranges that look like oversized limes: the ones that fall to the ground are picked up and chucked by people for their dogs to chase (typically in the early evening, when you can persuade a fit young puppy to ignore the heat and scamper off).
Guys of a certain age – 60 plus – adopt ‘the look’ when most people finally emerge after the heat has peaked: shirt open, barrel chest out. Otherwise standards don’t drop, and most locals maintain Seville’s famed elegance. There’s still a proliferation of Bengal-striped shirts, while the ladies maintain perfect hair and long flowing dresses blanketed in colourful flower motifs or vibrant patterns. Again, it’s easy to spot a Brit, not so elegant and looking a bit of a sweaty mess (we are darting around, in our defence).
You know that it’s all coming to an end now: the sound of the cicadas is joined by the noise of roller case wheels going over cobbles and pavement. The city is returning from the beaches. Time to get back to work, to washing the dishes, to paying bills; to life, love, loss – to all of it. I’ll miss those apocalyptic dog walks.
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