Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

by Victoria Twead

  So we turned back, collected Great Aunt Elsa, wrapped her tenderly in a blanket and set off again. We still reached Portsmouth in good time, boarded the ferry and waved good-bye to England's grey receding shores.

  As we stood on deck, I tried to analyse my feelings. Now that moving was a reality, was it a wrench to leave England behind? Perhaps I was unusual, but I felt only excitement, no regret. What would I miss? I could think of nothing except Marmite and Heinz baked beans. What about friends? Well, they were welcome to visit us and we were bound to make new friends in Spain. And the Internet ensured easy contact with all our family.

  I recalled the neat modern house we’d left behind. Well, we would work hard and soon make our Spanish house into a home. I was fifty, Joe fifty-three, but we weren’t ready for Zimmer frames yet. I caught my breath, overwhelmed by the excitement of it all. Joe misread my sigh and his big warm hand closed over mine on the rail.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “If it all goes wrong we can always come back. Don’t forget, it’s a Five Year Plan.”

  But I was sure we had made the right decision. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I was utterly positive we were doing the right thing. And in five years time, I would try to convince Joe we should stay.

  The ferry crossing was uneventful except that we avoided Dick and Dale at all costs. We ducked behind bulkheads, dived into rest rooms, anything rather than being forced to sit and chat with them. Joe insisted that we didn't need to drive in convoy. After all, we had the Google route directions and could keep in touch by mobile phone when necessary. Dick had Kurt's number just in case.

  “Dick by name, Dick by nature,” Joe growled. “Dick and Dale - sounds like a bloody double act. I'm not going to break my neck trying to keep up with that pair of clowns. Huh! We'll go as fast as we comfortably can, but that's it!”

  We were much more optimistic when we arrived in France. We didn’t see Dick’s lorry disembark, but we had the Google directions so we knew we weren’t far behind. However, I’d clearly overestimated my own navigation skills.

  We were lost even before we left Le Havre. The Google directions were hurled out of the window amidst curses unbecoming to a lady. At the first service station we bought a map that covered both France and Spain, and chose the route we thought shortest. Mile after mile we drove, through rustic towns, past acres of vineyards, alongside fields of sunflowers and up into the mountains. On and on and on. By nightfall we were exhausted but had still not quite reached the Spanish border.

  “This is ridiculous,” muttered Joe for the fiftieth time. “I’ve had enough! We're stopping, and that's all there is to it.”

  “Perhaps we're ahead of them?” I said as we pulled into a particularly grotty service station that offered overnight accommodation. “My! This place looks awful!”

  “You’re right, it’s horrendous, but it’ll have to do. I can’t drive anymore tonight.”

  “Do you think they have a star system in France, like in Britain? You know, Five Stars for the best…”

  “Judging by the outside, I’d say this is a Minus Five. Come on, let’s get Great Aunt Elsa in, have a wash and go to bed.”

  We didn’t complain anymore, we were too bone-tired. Joe, Great Aunt Elsa and I put up with the grimy decor and moth-eaten carpets. In spite of the grey sheets, Joe and I slept the sleep of the truly exhausted.

  Morning arrived too soon. Another day of solid driving. At least the jeep’s roof was folded back now and we could bask in the heat. It was a bit of a shock when we reached the edge of the map and realised that we were still four hundred miles away from Almería.

  And then the mobile shrilled.

  “This is Kurt.”

  “Oh, hello...”

  “Here is Dick and Dale.” The signal was weak, the voice faint.

  “Kurt? Kurt? Where is Dick and Dale? I mean, where exactly are they?” It sounded like a comedy sketch.

  “...unfortunate event...” The signal died.

  “Kurt? Kurt! What unfortunate event? I can't hear you! Damn!”

  But the mobile refused to connect us. Unfortunate event? Had they driven off the mountain road in their haste? Was the lorry upside down in the bottom of a valley, wheels spinning in the air, our worldly possessions strewn through olive groves?

  “They beat us,” Joe said glumly. “They got there first.”

  The rest of the journey was a game of ‘Guess the Accident’. It was nightfall when we reached the village but, being July, the village was packed. Children played in the square, people sat chatting on the benches. Everybody froze and heads swivelled to watch us pass. I smiled and waved, feeling like the Queen on a drive-past. Hearts racing, we pulled up outside our house, behind the lorry. It seemed intact, until Joe silently pointed. It had a huge dent in one side and heavy black scrape marks. No sign of the Dynamic Duo.

  Then Kurt’s car pulled up and Dick and Dale leaped out, looking fresh and immaculate.

  “What kept you?” said Dick. “We got here at lunchtime. Phoned your bloke Kurt. He showed us where to come and took us back to Almería. Booked in one of them ‘hostal’ places - had a meal and a bit of a siesta. So where you been?”

  “Just driving,” I said. Why did I feel guilty? We had got there as fast as we could.

  “And where did he get that tan?” accused Dale pointing at Joe. Joe’s face and bald head shone like a red pepper, burned by the sun through the jeep’s roof.

  “Well, we gotta get this job done quickly,” said Dick and exaggeratedly rolled up his sleeves in readiness.

  I unlocked the front door and turned back to speak to Kurt and thank him for directing the Dynamic Duo, but he and his car had vanished. It was then that I registered the lamp-post. Like an inebriate outside a pub at closing time, it leaned precariously, the lamp lolling loosely like a drunken man's head. That explained the ‘unfortunate event’ and the damage to the truck. I was mortified. This was not how I wanted to make an entrance to the village.

  So began a night of work unloading the lorry. Dick and Dale exercised as much delicacy and care for our possessions as a pair of particularly bad-tempered airport baggage handlers. Boxes clearly marked ‘FRAGILE’ were crashed down. The washing machine was dropped. Drawers spilled out of chests and trails of debris began to mark the path from house to lorry. Dale got away with doing as little as possible. Dick checked his watch every few minutes. Joe was totally exhausted and pale under his sunburn.

  Unlike us, Great Aunt Elsa had travelled well. She still looked as fresh and serene as she did in 1897. I carried her carefully to a safe, quiet place, away from the mayhem. I chose the bathroom.

  Paco appeared from next door.

  “Pah!” he said, thumping a box marked ‘Fragile’ and making the contents rattle. “We will soon finish moving these.” The only cheerful one of the group, he threw himself into the task and lifted boxes as though they contained feathers. We were overcome by his kindness and gratefully accepted his help.

  “Veeky, do you have glasses?” he asked, hours later.

  “Yes, but I don’t know which box they’re in.”

  Paco disappeared for a few moments, then reappeared with a bottle of whiskey and glasses. Joe looked at Paco’s smiling face, then at the whiskey bottle. I witnessed his pallor change from pale to green as he bolted to the bathroom, his hand clamped to his mouth. Joe made it to the bathroom, but unfortunately Dale was relieving himself at the time. He was singularly unimpressed by the contents of Joe's stomach being sprayed forcefully all over his designer tracksuit.

  Even more unfortunately, Joe’s outburst also drenched Great Aunt Elsa.

  Mercifully, the lorry was finally empty. Manoeuvering it into the village had been no picnic, hence the lamp-post casualty, but getting it out was going to be worse. The streets were narrow, barely the width of the lorry. The corners were right angles, and at three in the morning, it was pitch dark. Paco took charge, and waved and signalled as Dick reversed. Apart from giving the poor suffering lamp-
post another swipe, all went well until they reached the square.

  Paco was doing a sterling job of directing but something important was lost in translation. With a sickening crunch, Dick backed the lorry into the village fountain. We could only gaze dumbly as the previously proud little spout of water wilted and became a trickle that puddled inkily at our feet.

  Paco seemed unconcerned and went off to bed. Dick and Dale drove away and out of our lives for ever. I gently sponged Great Aunt Elsa, restoring her to her former glory.

  Joe and I spent the first night of our new life on the inflatable mattress on the dirt floor of the cave bedroom, watched over by towers of swaying boxes.

  ∞∞∞

  I awoke that first morning and lay still for a few minutes. Utter silence, apart from Joe’s rhythmic breathing beside me. No traffic noise, not even birdsong. I cracked my eyelids open but could see nothing. I sat up and looked around the room, but it was absolute blackness. Never in my life had I experienced such complete enveloping blackness. In England, even at midnight, there were always streetlights, and dim light showing the rectangle of the window, even with curtains drawn. But here, in our cave bedroom, I felt as though my eyes were still closed.

  Such a feeling of exhilaration washed over me that I had to catch my breath. We’d done it! We were in our new home, in an obscure tiny village in Spain! I left Joe sleeping and, arms outstretched like a blind woman, felt for the doorway.

  Fumbling for unfamiliar light switches, I made my way between boxes to the back door. I pushed it open and stepped into the garden.

  It was a brand new day. The sun still hung low over the mountain tops, but was climbing slowly, heavily. Shadows were long and deep, throwing the gullies and crags into sharp relief. The olive groves were bathed in golden light. A hairdryer breeze ruffled the leaves of our vine. A cock crowed, answered by another on the other side of the valley.

  I inhaled deeply, savouring the pure mountain air. I was filled with such happiness and excitement that I found my fists were clenched.

  “A brand new day, and a brand new life,” said Joe who had materialised beside me. He voiced my thoughts exactly.

  We ate our breakfast alfresco. It was a poor affair of leftover motorway services sandwiches, but eaten alfresco it was ambrosia, food of the gods. Eventually the heat and our need to get sorted drove us back inside, but we never forgot that first breakfast.

  We put aside the problem of the damaged lamp-post and destroyed fountain. We’d ask Kurt what to do about that. And we hoped that the insurance would cover the damage to the truck. For now, one of our first jobs was to set up a kitchen of sorts.

  Bizarrely, at the foot of the stairs there was a sink with running water. We brought in a cupboard for crockery, a kettle and the microwave, and so a temporary kitchen was created. The microwave functioned perfectly, but the novelty of Spanish electricity proved too much for it. Mysteriously, the numbers vanished from the digital display, never to be seen again. We could cook but had to count the number of times we pressed the button to set the minutes required. A minor inconvenience we soon accepted.

  Provisions arrived daily in small white vans which wended their way down into the valley. They announced their arrival to the villagers by hooting furiously during their entire descent into the valley, ceasing only when they reached the square. Bethina, starched apron crackling, marched me along to introduce me to the delights of buying from the back of these vans. Bread, fish, vegetables and fruit, all fresh, all local. On Sundays, delicious cakes came with the bread.

  One afternoon we were taking a siesta when we were woken by urgent loudspeaker announcements. Joe leaped out of bed in terror.

  “It's an earthquake warning!” he gasped. “Quick, get the valuables, we may have to move fast!”

  Spanish Potato Salad

  Ensaladilla

  3 medium potatoes

  150g (5 oz) fresh or frozen peas

  120g (4 oz) green beans

  1 large carrot

  1 small onion

  1 small red pepper

  2 tablespoons green olives

  2 hard boiled eggs

  1 medium tomato

  1 tablespoon capers

  Peel and dice the carrot and potato. Boil the potato and carrot in water until just tender.

  Add the peas and green beans and cook for a further 5 minutes until all the vegetables are cooked.

  Drain and place in a large bowl or serving dish.

  Peel and finely chop the onion, chop the pepper and tomato and slice the hard boiled eggs.

  Add the pepper, onion, eggs, capers, tomato and olives to the other vegetables and mix together.

  In a separate bowl, make the dressing by mixing together the mayonnaise, mustard and lemon juice.

  Slowly spoon the dressing onto the salad and mix together without smothering the salad.

  Garnish with chopped parsley and freshly ground black pepper.

  This is a popular tapa dish that goes particularly well with beer.

  CHAPTER 7

  AUGUST

  An earthquake? I sat up in alarm as he pulled on his shorts (inside out) and raced towards the square and the source of the commotion.

  Valuables? What valuables? Fuzzy from sleep, I couldn’t think clearly. What did one do in an earthquake? Drive away from it? Head for high ground? I didn’t know. I dressed quickly, grabbed Great Aunt Elsa, and was heading for the front door when Joe returned. He was looking rueful and carrying a crate.

  “What was it?” I asked, still clutching Great Aunt Elsa.

  “A van. Selling peaches.”

  “Not an earthquake warning?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. What’s in the crate?”

  “Peaches.”

  “Peaches? A whole crate? How ever many did you get?”

  “Four euros’ worth. That’s all I had in my shorts pocket.”

  “But there must be 40 peaches in there! How are we going to eat so many peaches?”

  “Don’t know. But when I ran into the square, everybody thought I was desperate for peaches. They all stood aside in the queue and let me go first. So I had to buy some.”

  “But why buy a whole crate?”

  “I showed him my four euros, and that’s what he gave me.”

  We feasted on peaches for days, but couldn’t finish them. The fruit flies soon attacked, and we had to throw the rest away.

  ∞∞∞

  El Hoyo boasted one shop, or perhaps that was too optimistic a term to describe it. Years ago it was not only a shop, but a thriving restaurant. In those days, the village was home to lead miners and their families, but the mine now stood idle and the workers had departed. The shop remained but now stocked very little. The owners, Marcia and Old Sancho, were in their eighties and too old to be bothered much with it.

  Marcia was a tiny sprightly lady, dressed in black and with eyes as sharp as a little bird’s. She smelt faintly of almonds and her white hair was scraped back into a bun held in place by countless silver hairpins. These hairpins frequently slid out when she shook her head, which she did often.

  Old Sancho was much more relaxed. Most days he sat outside the shop grinning vacantly to anyone who spoke to him. His mind was obviously deteriorating, but his kind, simple eyes hinted of great wisdom in the past. Each evening he strolled around the village with his black cat. It was a familiar sight, the old man in his slippers and walking stick, the black cat scampering at his heels. We grew to recognise the sound of the tapping stick and Old Sancho’s ever-present flatulence as he passed our house. ‘Tap, tap, paaaarp! Tap, tap, paaarp!’

  Vegetable Kebabs

  Brochetas de Verduras

  Serves 4

  1 aubergine

  8 - 10 cherry tomatoes

  1 medium red pepper

  1 medium green pepper

  1 medium onion

  8-10 mushrooms

  Fresh or dried thyme

  Olive oil

  Cut all vegetables int
o bite sized slices. Peel the onion and slice.

  Create the kebabs by alternating

  Pour a generous amount of olive oil into a large shallow dish, adding plenty of thyme.

  Lay the kebabs in the oil and allow to marinade for about 2 hours. Turn occasionally.

  Add the kebabs and allow to marinade in the oil turning now and then for an hour or so.

  Cook on a barbecue or grill until ready.

  Serve with barbecued meat and crusty bread.

  Buying food was no problem, but there is a limit to what one can microwave or barbecue. Paco and Bethina treated us like impoverished relatives and we often ate in their house, squeezed round their table alongside cousins, in-laws, friends and relations. Wine flowed freely. The food was always fresh, heavily laced with garlic but very strange to our British palates. Once we were served little roast birds not much bigger than sparrows. They lay upside down on our plates with their tiny feet in the air.

  One Spanish delicacy we dreaded was pigs’ trotters. The Spanish don’t object if their food is cold, so by the time we were served, a trotter complete with knuckle sat on our plates in a pool of congealed fat and gravy.

  “Thank you so much,” I said, “but I’m full already. I don’t think I could manage that.”

  Bethina looked disappointed but took my trotter was away. The spotlight was on Joe and the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. Bethina stood poised, smoothing her apron, waiting expectantly. Paco refilled our wine glasses. Silence fell as the cousins and relations stopped everything to watch him taste.