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Did you know cork came from trees? Cortes, sat atop the Guadiaro valley, was built on cork money. On a walk through the slopes of Jimera de Libar I take a knife to the supple bark and prove it to myself. The shavings in my pockets rubbing against almonds and choice stones. It is our last day of rest, in the evening we find cardboard and write ALGECIRAS in colours. Tomorrow we cross the sea to Tangiers, all roads lead to Freetown. At sun rise we walk from Jimera to the junction south of Atajate. Before long Wolfgang slows to a stop, he can take us as far as Gaucin, from there we can get a train to the coast. It is all prize and no consolation. Through Spain we’ve found willing drivers to be scarce, our thumbs weary since Valencia. A young couple near Ronda offered to explain our plight, "there's rumour that picking up hitchers is illegal, perhaps it is, either that or folk are scared, but also I am Italian, so..." Wolfgang is German, a question is answered before it is asked. We file into his grey Volvo estate and join a route he drives twice daily, back and forth to his children’s’ school in Ronda. He is a man of the land, a wind weathered face and creviced brow. Eyes range from long distance gaze to close observation. Hands wide and rough. "First I must go home, is that ok?". We turn off the road, cutting through an opening in the trees. Keeping to tyre tracks we gently rock down the valley. As we come to a rest my eyes make out a wooden structure beyond the oaks ahead. We follow him inside where he lights a stove to boil water for tea. He has lived in the forest above Gaucin for 25 years, the cabin expanding from shelter to home as time passed and needs grew. Now it houses his partner, children and ailing mother, 81 years of age and suffering from Alzheimers. He brought her here from the German nursing home he promised he'd never let her die in. In the quiet that follows I hear the count of time past and question of what remains Cups in hand we step out to the edge of a raised platform, beyond the washing line and water tank you can see Gibraltar and "if the wind is right, Morocco". His tone turns soft and yearning as he sings the praises of a limestone gorge further below, seven metres deep, he can't swim anywhere else. He speaks about the gorge as I sense he feels about his home, that there is nowhere else worth knowing Noticing the shaved cork trees that lined the road I'm eager to share in my recent discovery. Wolfgang smiles above his discomfort. He has worked the harvest so tells us how, though how is changing. "They harvest the trees on a nine-year rotation from the base to a height dependent on their age and strength. It is skilled work." As he talks his voice moves through lament to anger… Once men would head to the forest for two weeks at a time. A water carrier, some axe-men, mules, carts and their drivers. The harvested cork was sorted by quality and transported to town. Now it all goes in together, the men no longer live in the forest but are transported there for the day. What was a government project supporting out of work men from the valleys has been slowly privatised. Last year many men were not paid, and most paid badly. But it’s simple. “They can cheat us on wages but not the work”, he spits. So they work less. It is a billion-dollar industry, Cortes was built on cork money. "Let me tell you, on the surface it's looks like any other whitewashed town. But there are no friends amongst the Spanish there." Younger generations remain burdened by the memory of the civil war. Things their forefathers did or did not do. Seeking distraction from the thought, Wolfgang points towards a hill. "Up there farmers leave carcasses for the vultures". We watch them as they wait, ten to a tree.