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carry the children, I know her disapproval would be all too predictable should I make my way back to the gypsy settlement, particularly if she discovers we spent a night there. Her older sister still works for my parents and word is likely to reach their disparaging ears through this channel. Anxious that I am embarking on such a walk alone with three children, Conchi helps to attach one baby to my front and the other to my back, furiously pulling at the knots till I am quite winded. María and Joaquín are heavy, but I know if I walk at a slow, steady pace, I can manage it.
    We wind our way through the whispering fountains and graceful cypress trees of the Albaicín, along grassy banks by the Río Darro until we reach the montañas . It is a day in early autumn and as I breathe the sharp, silvery air into my lungs, I feel utterly free and exhilarated.
    I have not been close to the cave at all since the night Isabel and I slept there, though I have thought about it on many occasions and I know that my curiosity is too great to resist walking in that direction. It is intriguing approaching the settlement in daylight, for everything was cloaked in darkness on my first visit. Just beyond the cluster of caves I notice the remains of Moorish walls, crumbling forlornly into the hillside. Children play on the ruins and shout to one another as they balance precariously on the sunken bricks. I can see a number of people, some of them lost in their tasks, and I watch as gitanos pick through olives covering large sheets, throwing the bad ones aside. Others sit in small groups between the clumps of sharp-spiked agave plants, weaving baskets from beige strands of esparto grass and I can hear the distant banging of hammers against metal. Most of them heed me no attention, but one woman stands on top of a cave, staring at me with open hostility. Her hands are placed on her hips, belly thrust out, and she glares at me as I nod and carry along the path.
    From around the back of the dwelling’s blinding white façade, a wisp of smoke curls upwards and I can hear the crackle and spit of logs being placed on a fire to stoke it. The door is half open and I call into the gloom. Two young children come out, both of whom I recognise from the previous visit.
    ‘Is your abuela here?’ I ask. They stare solemnly up at me with huge dark eyes before scurrying off around the outside of the cave to the backyard where they call excitedly to their grandmother. A noise startles me and I look up to see that a swallow is building a nest from mud and twigs on the cave and a piece of the wall has dislodged, rattling noisily to the ground. I stare, transfixed, until the children return, beckoning me to follow.
    ‘ Ven! Ven! ’ they call, their black eyes shining like coal. Aurelia is burning leaves, a musky scent spicing the air. Her hair is drawn straight back and caught up with a clasp at the back of her head, falling down into a tress which rests below her shoulders. Beneath her brightly coloured skirt, she is barefooted and as she moves, her bangles clash noisily against one another. In the sunlight, she looks not as old as I recall; it must have been the cave’s dark shadows throwing lines onto her face that did not truly exist. She looks at us and smiles that same, knowing smile I remember so well from the previous occasion. Scattered around the yard are baskets filled with esparto grass and several half-started woven baskets. How I should love to learn weaving, I think.
    ‘ Pañí? ’ she asks. I look at her questioningly, for it is a word I am unfamiliar with. She performs a mime of drinking from a glass and I nod. ‘You should learn some Caló, child. Your first word: pañí .’
    Aurelia disappears round the back of the cave and a few moments later returns with a vessel filled with water. She pours out a cup for me. ‘Take it,’ she says. ‘ Es un pañí muy puro. ’
    ‘ Gracias ,’ I reply and gratefully tip the cold water down my throat.