Five
Bestselling
Travel
Memoirs
Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools ~ Victoria Twead
That Bear Ate my Pants ~ Tony James Slater
More Ketchup than Salsa ~ Joe Cawley
Sihpromatum - I Grew my Boobs in China ~ Savannah Grace
Seriously Mum, What’s an Alpaca? ~ Alan Parks
FIVE BESTSELLING TRAVEL MEMOIRS
These five, full length, bestselling travel memoirs describe experiences as wide as breeding alpacas in Spain, helping at an animal refuge in Ecuador and back-packing in the Gobi Desert. And for foodies, there are some Spanish recipes to try.
Already downloaded over 200,000 times, these books have more than 1,800 reviews between them, at an average of 4.5! The authors include a New York Times bestselling author and an award-winning travel writer.
This box set is guaranteed to keep you engrossed and laughing, so sit back, put your feet up, read on, and enjoy!
THE BOOKS
BOOK ONE:
Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools ~ Victoria Twead
**New York Times bestselling author**
If Joe and Vicky had known what relocating to a tiny mountain village in Andalucia would really be like, they might have hesitated…
BOOK TWO:
That Bear Ate my Pants ~ Tony James Slater
Tony James Slater went to Ecuador to help in an animal refuge, determined to become a man. It never occurred to him that 'or die trying' might be an option...
BOOK THREE:
More Ketchup than Salsa ~ Joe Cawley
When Joe and Joy trade life on a cold fish market to run a bar/restaurant on a sub-tropical resort island they discover the grass is far from greener on the other side.
BOOK FOUR:
Sihpromatum - I Grew my Boobs in China ~ Savannah Grace
14-year-old Savannah Grace's perfect world is shattered when her mother unexpectedly announces that the family would embark on a four-year, 80 country backpacking adventure.
BOOK FIVE:
Seriously Mum, What’s an Alpaca? ~ Alan Parks
Leaving England and moving to Spain to set up an alpaca breeding farm was never going to be easy…
To meet and chat with any of the authors, join the friendliest group on Facebook, We Love Memoirs. You’ll get a warm welcome!
https://www.facebook.com/groups/welovememoirs/
BOOK ONE
Chickens, Mules
and Two Old Fools
Tuck into a Slice of Andalucian Life
VICTORIA TWEAD
New York Times bestselling author
The first in the Old Fools series
Also available in Paperback
Dedication
To the villagers of El Hoyo, young and old,
whose warm welcome, patience and generosity was astonishing.
I thank them all from the bottom of my heart.
And to Juliet and Sue, the Gin Twins.
May their bottle never run dry.
Contents of Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools
1. The Five Year Plan
2. Judith, Mother and Kurt
3. Signed and Sealed
4. Paco and Bethina
5. The Dynamic Duo
6. Beware the Man with the Van
7. August
8. Satellites and Parties
9. Grapes and Doctors
10.The Eco-Warriors
11. Mules and Storms
12. ¡Fiesta!
13. Processions and Puddings
14. Chickens
15. More Chickens
16. Eggs
17. The Equators
18. Colin Helps Out
19. Cocky
20. The Commune
21. Deaths and Pancho Pinochet
22. Supporting Pancho
23. Away-Days and Animals
24. Jellyfish and Chickens
25. The New Houses
26. Gifts
27. More Gifts
28. The Jeep
29. Doctor’s Orders
30. House Swap
31. Epilogue
So, what happened next?
Preview - 1. The Fish Van
Books by Victoria Twead
Contact the Author and Links
Recipe Index
1 The Five Year Plan
Grumpy’s Garlic Mushrooms Tapa
“Hello?”
“This is Kurt.”
“Oh! Hello, Kurt. How are you?”
“I am vell. The papers you vill sign now. I haf made an appointment vith the Notary for you May 23rd, 12 o’clock.”
“Right, I’ll check the flights and…” But he had already hung up.
Kurt, our German estate agent, was the type of person one obeyed without question. So, on May 23rd, we found ourselves back in Spain, seated round a huge polished table in the Notary’s office. Beside us sat our bank manager holding a briefcase stuffed with bank notes.
Nine months earlier, we had never met Kurt. Nine months earlier, Joe and I lived in an ordinary house, in an ordinary Sussex town. Nine months earlier we had ordinary jobs and expected an ordinary future.
Then, one dismal Sunday, I decided to change all that.
“…heavy showers are expected to last through the Bank Holiday weekend and into next week. Temperatures are struggling to reach 14 degrees…”
August, and the weather-girl was wearing a coat, sheltering under an umbrella. June had been wet, July wetter. I sighed, stabbing the ‘off’ button on the remote control before she could depress me further. Agh! Typical British weather.
My depression changed to frustration. The private thoughts that had been tormenting me so long returned. Why should we put up with it? Why not move? Why not live in my beloved Spain where the sun always shines?
I walked to the window. Raindrops like slug trails trickled down the windowpane. Steely clouds hung low, heavy with more rain, smothering the town. Sodden litter sat drowning in the gutter.
“Joe?” He was dozing, stretched out on the sofa, mouth slightly open. “Joe, I want to talk to you about something.”
Poor Joe, my long-suffering husband. His gangly frame was sprawled out, newspaper slipping from his fingers. He was utterly relaxed, blissfully unaware that our lives were about to change course.
How different he looked in scruffy jeans compared with his usual crisp uniform. But to me, whatever he wore, he was always the same, an officer and a gentleman. Nearing retirement from the Forces, I knew he was looking forward to a tension-free future, but the television weather-girl had galvanised me into action. The metaphorical bee in my bonnet would not be stilled. It buzzed and grew until it became a hornet demanding attention.
“Huh? What’s the matter?” His words were blurred with sleep, his eyes still closed. Rain beat a tattoo on the window pane.
“Joe? Are you listening?”
“Uhuh…”
“When you retire, I want us to sell up and buy a house in Spain.” Deep breath.
There. The bomb was dropped. I had finally admitted my longing. I wanted to abandon England with its ceaseless rain. I wanted to move permanently to Spain.
Sleep forgotten, Joe pulled himself upright, confusion in his blue eyes as he tried to read my expression.
“Vicky, what did you say just then?” he asked, squinting at me.
“I want to go and live in Spain.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Yes, I am.”
Of course it wasn’t jus
t the rain. I had plenty of reasons, some vague, some more solid.
I presented my pitch carefully. Our children, adults now, were scattered round the world; Scotland, Australia and London. No grandchildren yet on the horizon and Joe only had a year before he retired. Then we would be free as birds to nest where we pleased.
And the cost of living in Spain would be so much lower. Council tax a fraction of what we usually paid, cheaper food, cheaper houses… The list went on.
Joe listened closely and I watched his reactions. Usually, he is the impetuous one, not me. But I was well aware that his retirement fantasy was being threatened. His dream of lounging all day in his dressing-gown, writing his book and diverting himself with the odd mathematical problem was being exploded.
“Hang on, Vicky, I thought we had it all planned? I thought you would do a few days of supply teaching if you wanted, while I start writing my book.” Joe absentmindedly scratched his nether regions. For once I ignored his infuriating habit; I was in full flow.
“But imagine writing in Spain! Imagine sitting outside in the shade of a grapevine and writing your masterpiece.”
Outside, windscreen wipers slapped as cars swept past, tyres sending up plumes of filthy water. Joe glanced out of the window at the driving rain and I sensed I had scored an important point.
“Why don’t you write one of your famous lists?” he suggested, only half joking.
I am well known for my lists and records. Inheriting the record- keeping gene from my father, I can’t help myself. I make a note of the weather every day, the temperature, the first snowdrop, the day the ants fly, the exchange rate of the euro, everything. I make shopping lists, separate ones for each shop. I make To Do lists and ‘Joe, will you please’ lists. I make packing lists before holidays. I even make lists of lists. My nickname at work was Schindler.
So I set to work and composed what I considered to be a killer pitch:
Sunny weather
Cheap houses
Live in the country
Miniscule council tax
Friendly people
Less crime
No heating bills
Cheap petrol
Wonderful Spanish food
Cheap wine and beer
Could get satellite TV so you won’t miss English football
Much more laid-back life style
Could afford house big enough for family and visitors to stay
No TV licence
Only short flight to UK
Might live longer because Mediterranean diet is healthiest in the world
When I ran dry, I handed the list to Joe. He glanced at it and snorted.
“I’m going to make a coffee,” he said, but he took my list with him. He was in the kitchen a long time.
When he came out, I looked up at him expectantly. He ignored me, snatched a pen and scribbled on the bottom of the list. Satisfied, he threw it on the table and left the room. I grabbed it and read his additions. He’d pressed so hard with the pen that he’d nearly gone through the paper.
Joe had written:
CAN’T SPEAK SPANISH!
TOO MANY FLIES!
MOVING HOUSE IS THE PITS!
For weeks we debated, bouncing arguments for and against like a game of ping pong. Even when we weren’t discussing it, the subject hung in the air between us, almost tangible. Then one day, (was it a coincidence that it was raining yet again?) Joe surprised me.
“Vicky, why don’t you book us a holiday over Christmas, and we could just take a look.”
The hug I gave him nearly crushed his ribs.
“Hang on!” he said, detaching himself and holding me at arm’s length. “What I’m trying to say is, well, I’m willing to compromise.”
“What do you mean, ‘compromise’?”
“How about if we look on it as a five year plan? We don’t sell this house, just rent it out. Okay, we could move to Spain, but not necessarily for ever. At the end of five years, we can make up our minds whether to come back to England or stay out there. I’m happy to try it for five years. What do you think?”
I turned it over in my mind. Move to Spain, but look on it as a sort of project? Actually, it seemed rather a good idea. In fact, a perfect compromise.
Joe was watching me. “Well? Agreed?”
“Agreed…” It was a victory of sorts. A Five Year Plan. Yes, I saw the sense in that. Anything could happen in five years.
“Well, go on, then. Book a holiday over Christmas and we’ll take it from there.”
So I logged onto the Internet and booked a two week holiday in Almería.
Why Almería? Well, we already knew the area quite well as this would be our fourth visit. And I considered this part of Andalucía to be perfect. Only two and a half hours flight from London, guaranteed sunshine, friendly people and jaw-dropping views. It ticked all my boxes. Joe agreed cautiously that the area could be ideal.
So the destination was decided, but what type of home in Spain would we want? Our budget was reduced because we weren’t going to sell our English house. We’d have to find something cheap.
On previous visits, I’d hated all the houses we’d noticed in the resorts. Mass produced boxes on legoland estates, each identical, each characterless and overlooking the next. No, I knew what I really wanted: a house we could do up, with views and space, preferably in an unspoiled Spanish village.
Unlike Joe, I’ve always been obsessed with houses. I was the driving force and it was the hard climb up the English property ladder that allowed us even to contemplate moving abroad. In the past few years, we had bought a derelict house, improved and sold it, making a good profit. So we bought another and repeated the process. It was gruelling work. We both had other careers, but it was well worth the effort. Now we could afford to rent out our home in England and still buy a modest house in Spain.
“If we do decide to move out there,” said Joe, “and we buy an old place to do up, it’s not going to be like doing up houses in England. Everything’s going to be different there."
How right he was.
Like a child, I yearned for that Christmas to come. I couldn’t wait to set foot on Spanish soil again. We arrived, and although Christmas lights decorated the airport, it was warm enough to remove our jackets. Before long, we had found our hotel and settled in.
The next morning, we hired a little car. Joe, having finally accepted the inevitable, was happy to drive into the mountains in search of The House. We had two weeks to find it.
Yet again the mountains seduced us. The endless blue sky where birds of prey wheeled lazily. The neat orchards splashed with bright oranges and lemons. The secret, sleepy villages nestled into valleys. Even the roads, narrow, treacherous and winding, couldn’t break the spell that Andalucía cast over us.
Daily, we drove through whitewashed villages where little old ladies dressed in black stopped sweeping their doorsteps to watch us pass. We waved at farmers working in their fields, the dry dust swirling in irritated clouds from their labours. We paused to allow goat-herds to pass with their flocks, the lead goat’s bell clanging bossily as the herd followed, snatching mouthfuls of vegetation on the run.
Although we hadn’t yet found The House, we were positive we’d found the area we wanted to live in.
One day we drove into a village that clung to the steep mountainside by its fingernails. We entered a bar that was buzzing with activity. It was busy and the air heavy with smoke. The white-aproned bartender looked us up and down and jerked his head in greeting. No smile, just a nod.
Joe found a rocky wooden table by the window with panoramic views and we settled ourselves, soaking in the atmosphere. Four old men played cards at the next table. A heated debate was taking place between another group. I caught the words ‘Barcelona’ and ‘Real Madrid’. Most of the bar’s customers were male.
Grumpy, the bartender, wiped his hands on his apron and approached our table, flicking off imaginary crumbs from the surface with the back of his hand
. He had a splendid moustache which concealed any expression he may have had, and made communication difficult.
“Could we see the menu, please?” asked Joe in his best phrase book Spanish.
Grumpy shook his head and snorted. It seemed there was no menu.
“No importa,” said Joe. “It doesn’t matter.”
Using a combination of sign language and impatient grunts, Grumpy took our order but our meal was destined to be a surprise. A basket of bread was slammed onto the table, followed by two plates of food. Garlic mushrooms - delicious. We cleaned our plates and leaned back, digesting our food and the surroundings. In typical Spanish fashion, the drinkers at the bar bellowed at each other as though every individual had profound hearing problems.
“We’re running out of time,” said Joe. “We can carry on gallivanting around the countryside, but we aren’t going to find anything. I very much doubt we’ll find a house this holiday.”
Suddenly, clear as cut crystal, the English words, "Oh, bugger! Where are my keys?" floated above the Spanish hubbub.
2 Judith, Mother and Kurt
Spicy Mediterranean Dip
We swung round, just as the owner of the voice found her keys and rattled them in the air triumphantly. She finished her good-byes to her drinking companions in perfect Spanish, loud and fluent.
This opportunity was just too good to pass. As she strode past our table, I smiled and said, “Hello, you’re English, aren’t you?” Unoriginal, I admit, but it had the desired affect. She applied the brakes.
“I’m Vicky, and this is Joe,” I said. “We just love this area. Have you lived here long?”
Judith was unique. Stout, in her sixties, she had a thick plait snaking down her back. She was dressed in English country tweeds and sensible walking shoes.
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