No one lives in the house next door. Day after day, year after year, the gate remains locked and the windows shuttered. The house is a silent neighbor, minus the occasional catfight in the abandoned yard. No summer parties in the garden, no other signs of life, which is such a shame.
This house must have been a lively place at some point. In the early 1900s, La Alberca, my village, would fill with summer residents, city dwellers of means who came here to escape the heat of downtown Murcia, just a few miles away. Many of these folks had likely earned their money in the thriving local silk industry.
La Alberca, surrounded by farmland and in the foothills of the low-lying mountains, was cooler than the city . There were popular baths here and a small alberca, or reservoir, where holidaymakers enjoyed refreshing and reputedly restorative waters. Knowing the Spaniards, homes like the one next door would have seen their fair share of parties, particularly in this time of relative prosperity.
I love the house next door. Es preciosa, says Manolo, and I agree. It makes me daydream. I imagine opening the front door, which creaks of old age and lack of use, and entering the world as it was at least a lifetime ago. In my mind, the table is still set for a family luncheon, all doilies and silver and china. I tiptoe through the scene, not wanting to disturb the peace of decades of rest. The floors are stunning, a mosaic of colorfully elaborate Victorian encaustic tiles, typical in homes here in the first part of the last century. Dusty family photos sit atop antique commodes, elegant señores and señoras wearing the formal expressions demanded of the occasion. And a radiant portrait of Murcia’s patron virgin, La Fuensanta, hangs on the wall.
In another fantasy, I somehow earn enough money to buy the house next door, and the owners, whoever they may be, agree to sell. I repair the roof, which has begun to crumble in places, and add a fresh coat of paint. Manolo, whose thumb is much greener than mine, brings the garden back to life, pruning the majestic palms, perhaps planting some more lemon trees (there are already a few), and restoring the trellised walkway leading to the front door. The evening of our housewarming, I string lights among the grape vines to welcome visitors, bringing the house back to life.
It pains me to think of the continued effects of time on the house next door. Other beautiful old houses in my neighborhood seem to be in a similar situation, all but abandoned. In some cases, the homes have been passed on to future generations and now belong to so many people that they belong to no one, really. And perhaps nobody in the family has the means, or the time and will, to maintain these historic properties. Each house has its own story, and, yes, its own potential to inspire.
ADDENDUM: And, thankfully, many old houses in the neighborhood have been lovingly maintained and restored. Here are a few: