There’ve been floods, gales and heat waves across Europe-and some lay the blame for the unpredictable weather on climate change.
Spain is undergoing its worst drought for sixty years with many areas in the south of the country not seeing a drop of rain for months. Some reservoirs are nearly empty while the volume of water in some rivers is down to a third of its normal level.
Guadalajara, in the centre of the country, used to be a prosperous tourist area. Its old Moorish name, ironically, means "water running through rocks." But when Emma Jane Kirby visited the small town of Buendia, she found an ecological disaster area in the marketing.
There’s a strange smell around the lake at Buendia, the sort of smell that greets you when you first open the fridge after a week or two away from home—a putrid stench of salad leaves that’ve begun to turn to compost in their cellophane bag. I’m reluctant to mention this to my companion, Marco ObisP0 because this after are is the place where he has spent every one of his summer holidays and a just few hours ago we were pouting over the family photograph books while he reminisced wistfully about his idyllic childhood.
The problem is I don’t recognize this place as being the same one he showed me in the pictures Those images boasted bronzed children racing joyfully down a bank of emerald green grass towards a vast expanse of water so blue that the cornflower sky above looked dazzled. But this landscape is bleached and barren, the banks crusted white, the ponds patchy and the colour of thin ink.
Guadalajara in the centre of Spain has been hit hard by drought. The rains haven’t come since spring last year, leaving the soil parched and lifeless, as cracked and scarred as the face of a small pox victim. The sun has sucked the life from anything that once had the energy to be green and stealthily, its hot tongue has lapped away at the lake’s edge reducing the reservoirs to a fifth of the size they were twenty years ago. As quickly as the water’s evaporated, so have the tourists—the holidaymakers from all over Europe with whom Marco played as a child have been lured away to other areas of Spain where swimming or sailing a boat can be done without fear of scraping knees or hulls on the lake bed.
If the landscape is crying out for new water management, then it’s weeping with painful dust-dry tears. North east of Buendia, only the ancient Spanish pine forests seem able to sustain life, some atavistic survival instinct wing them triumph over droughts which long ago killed off the weaker competition. But the trees are now so dehydrated and sapless they’ve become irresistible to fire-two weeks ago, thirteen thousand hectares were lost to a spark from a barbecue-an inferno that also claimed the lives of eleven men. As far as the eye can see now, the hills are almost bare.