I begin this story with a cemetery. Granted, it is a spectacular cemetery, at the very top of Spain’s highest pueblo blanco (or white village), with views... well, to die for, eastwards over the mountains, the Med glistening to the south.
The walls, dotted with plastic flowers and photographs of the deceased, are blinding white in the late afternoon sun. I am looking curiously at one of them, because there is something I haven’t seen here before: a row of memorial plaques to British people who have lived in the town, which is called Comares, and contributed in some way to its life and prosperity.
