ON SUNDAY in a rural Andalusian village, all the shops should be shut. Except there is one stall, set outside a busy local bar, breaking the normally strictly observed trading principles. A woman, probably in her mid-thirties, is selling produce from her garden: boxes of sweet-flavoured grapes, figs, eggs, jams and honey.The bar clientele, passing the stall, do not seem to mind her being there at all. In fact most seem to know her and stop to greet her. When they buy from her, she seems desperately grateful. The impression being that the few euros for a few kilos of grapes were critical. This is a village, far off the tourist trail, mired in Spain’s recession. Somehow the crystal light of Spain is dimmer, the air dirtier and the proud people humbled by their need to keep a roof over