Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  The snow had actually done us a favour. The village square, old and not designed for extremes of weather, disintegrated. Huge cracks formed, and slabs of stone fell away. That spring, Geronimo and his colleagues built a spanking new square and to our relief, constructed a new fountain to replace the one we had damaged last summer.

  The chickens had settled in well. They had grown in confidence and strutted around the coop happily. We felt they were ready to roam the orchard, so we opened the coop. Mala led the way, followed by Ginger and the No-Name Twins, then the rest. It was more entertaining than T.V.

  Chickens are as inquisitive as small children and everything was investigated, even our shoelaces, as we sat on Alonso’s yellow vinyl sofa watching our flock. When we brought scraps, they hopped on to our knees and ate from our fingers.

  Late in the afternoon we decided it was time to lock them up in the coop for the night. Not an easy job. We herded them and succeeded, a few at the time. But as fast as we caught some, others would escape, squirting back through the wire into the orchard. It took half an hour and left us breathless and panting.

  “Can’t put up with that every night,” said Joe.

  “Absolutely not!” I said. “But what choice do we have? If we leave them out at night the foxes will have them.”

  All the next week we went through the same fiasco. Mala was the most cunning. She would wait until we crept up on her, then she’d bolt flapping and squawking across the orchard. We chased chickens round trees, over old furniture, across piles of rubble ... they ran everywhere except back into the coop.

  “Quick! The No-Name Twins are coming your way!” yelled Joe. I hurled myself at the nearest Twin and succeeded in grabbing one small tail feather and a mouthful of grit.

  “I’ve got one!” shouted Joe, triumphantly carrying a protesting, squawking Blanca over to the coop. It was inevitable that an old coil of wire would trip him up. Blanca struggled free and bolted to the far side of the orchard.

  “Well, the foxes can bloody well eat you! I don’t care!” said Joe to all chickens in general. However, in spite of severe sense of humour loss, we persevered and every last chicken was eventually caught and shut in the coop.

  One memorable night we were late. The sun had already dipped behind the mountain and the street-lights had flickered into life. Fully prepared to repeat our usual frenzied chase, we looked for the chickens. There was no sign of a single chicken in the whole orchard.

  “Where are they?” said Joe, peering into the twilight gloom.

  “The fox has had them,” I said, guilt washing over me in painful waves.

  The sky was turning inky, pierced with pinpoints of starlight. The village rooftops were mere silhouettes and the trees and bushes blurred shapes. The unearthly bark of a fox ricocheted around the valley.

  A chicken coughed and we swung round. In the coop, on the perch, like a row of naughty schoolgirls, sat eight chickens, six brown and two white. The saying ‘chickens coming home to roost’ became evident. And so it was, as soon as the sun set, the girls would put themselves to bed. No fuss, no chasing. Another chicken cliche nailed.

  I never dreamed that chickens were interesting, but I was wrong. Each individual developed her own personality, comical to the extreme. Fraidy was the coward of the bunch, setting off alarm calls if a beetle crossed her path. Shawly (so named because of her darker head and shoulders) was the kleptomaniac. Slowly, stealthily, she would sneak up behind the others and launch a surprise raid, whipping juicy morsels from under their beaks. Then she would dash away like an Oxford Street mugger and gobble her spoils in a hidden corner. Ginger was the boldest and most sociable, the first to greet us at the gate, the one to stay and chat if we sat on the sofa.

  We were utterly hooked, these silly birds so delighted us with their funny ways. For example, when we came to the orchard empty handed, we were ignored, except, of course, by Ginger who met us at the gate and told us all her news at great length.

  However, if we were carrying the blue plastic treat box containing kitchen scraps, their welcome was very different. Eight chickens charged to the gate, some flying like feathered bricks, some running, heads down, legs pumping like pistons. They would arrive in a heap, disentangle themselves and press against the fence. The excitement was intense. Necks became elongated as they craned up, desperate to see what the treats box contained. They wound round our feet, tripping us up. So we’d throw a few scraps as far as possible and they’d all thunder to the spot like rugby players. If we threw more in a different direction, they’d all abandon the first scraps and career over to the latest offerings. Another rugby scrum, until all scraps were exhausted. If the scraps contained spaghetti, two chickens might grab either end of a strand. They would suck in their end until they finished up eyeball to eyeball - unless Shawly sneaked in and stole the middle section.

  Dust baths were another source of amusement. The first time we saw a motionless chicken lying in a scrape in the ground with her feet in the air, we thought she was dead. However, after careful scrutiny, we saw she was not dead, but in some kind of trance.

  Chickens take dust baths very seriously. First they find a patch of soft ground and scratch at it until the soil is loose and crumbly. Then they lie in it, using beak, wings and feet to shower themselves with the earth. Somehow, they manage to separate their feathers so that the soil invades every crevice. This continues for maybe half an hour, the chicken resting every few minutes, eyes glazed in ecstasy. They lie on their fronts, sides and backs so that every feather becomes coated in dirt. Finally satisfied, they climb out, and this is when the wise stand back. Like a dog after a swim, chickens shake their bodies and rattle their feathers to dislodge every speck of dirt. The result? One shiny, clean, parasite-free chicken. It was a sight to behold, particularly with the white girls, Mala and Blanca. Before our eyes they transformed from mucky chimney sweeps to snowy angels.

  We grew ridiculously fond of our girls. Sometimes we talked about the horrible chicken shop and I suppose it was only a matter of time before we found ourselves there again.

  This time, the cages contained some young black chickens and some ravishing grey and speckled ones. As before, the stench and noise was overpowering. It was even more distressing to see the unfortunate chickens packed together in tiny cages now that we understood chicken behaviour so much better.

  “¿Cuantos quieren Ustedes?” asked the assistant. “How many do you want?"

  “Two,” said Joe.

  “Eight,” I said.

  And so ‘Ello Vera, Little Grey, Speckly, Bugger, Fuck and the others entered our lives. We couldn’t wait to get them home. In the jeep, we told them all about their new home and how they would be able to scratch in the dirt and spread their wings. We told them all about the chickens already there. We warned them about Shawly stealing their food, and told them to take no notice of Mala and her bossy ways. They were quiet in their box so we assumed they were listening carefully to our advice.

  In the orchard, the older chickens were consumed with curiosity. They circled the cardboard box, chattering amongst themselves.

  “We’ve brought you some new friends,” said Joe, gently upending the box. The new girls slid out, blinking in the sudden light. We were about to learn a huge lesson in chicken politics.

  Attack! With squawks of rage, the original girls set about the newcomers. The air turned thick with chicken swear words and insults. The little ones shrieked with terror and cowered as the big girls pounced. Beaks stabbed, feathers were wrenched and became airborne before drifting back to ground. It was World War 3, and then some. The new kids in the flock fled, scattered to all corners of the orchard. Total disaster. Our visions of one big happy chicken family sadly dissolved.

  The original eight, now known collectively as ‘The Mafia’, were relentless. Even gentle Ginger revealed an alter ego we had never suspected. The new girls hid under bushes and behind trees because as soon as they were spotted by the Mafia, they were hammered. Doing gr
eat impressions of Road Runner, they fled to escape from their bullies. In Britain, the Mafia would all have been served Antisocial Behaviour Orders.

  We were at a complete loss. The new girls were uncatchable, scattered to all points of the compass.

  I wondered if the Internet might help, and typed in ‘introducing new chickens to an existing flock’. The results were varied.

  The first advice page adopted the ‘No Nonsense’ approach, as follows:

  ‘Introducing New Hens to the Flock

  Where new birds are introduced to an existing flock, there are always problems because the natural pecking order is disrupted. A hen spotting a newcomer will utter a single warning croak that alerts the rest of the flock. It then becomes fair game to peck at and chase away the stranger.

  If it is absolutely necessary to introduce new birds to an existing flock they should be penned in a temporary area next to the run so that they can be seen but not harmed.

  Birds can also be beak-trimmed so that they are less able to do damage to each other. The procedure is to trim the pointed tip of the upper mandible of the beak.

  Once the birds are taking each other for granted, they can be amalgamated, but a careful watch needs to be kept for potential problems.’

  Well, it was much too late to erect a separate pen and introduce the new ones slowly. And there was no way we were going to catch the Mafia and trim their beaks. Unthinkable. I sighed and pulled up another poultry advice page.

  This one was … well, frankly, ridiculous.

  ‘How to introduce new chickens to an existing flock

  Allow the new bird to roam around a bit in your kitchen (where the inevitable poop won’t be too difficult to clean up) or bathroom while you croon SOFTLY to it and feed it little bits of cheese, lunchmeat, diced grapes, raw corn, etc. Sit down on the floor so you aren’t towering over it and give it a good 20 minutes to get to know you, and realize what a TERRIFIC person you are. Pick it up and pet it, talking softly and cooing to it all the while. Keep your voice GENTLE, soothing and quiet. Watch your birds’ eyes--you may see the pupil expanding and contracting rapidly. This signals excitement, in a GOOD way, for birds. It means that they REALLY like what you are doing to them. Continue to coo at it and praise it for the good little chicken it is. Chickens LOVE to be talked to in a loving tone.

  Pick it up and take it into the yard during the day. Hold it tucked under your arm and call your flock. Continue to hold and PET the new bird as you talk to the flock and walk around the yard a bit, showing the new bird around. Walk in and out of the coop. View the nest boxes. Point out the food and water dishes. Give ‘em the two dollar tour.

  When everyone is ready, go ahead and put the new bird down slowly and stand next to it. Warn them off with a firm, "NOOO--!" and take a step towards them if need be. You may need to chase off aggressors a bit.

  YOU are the TOP HEN! Remember, and what YOU say, GOES! Praise GOOD behavior. After a while, your flock WILL remember they have better things to do, lose interest and wander away. After that it’s safe to go back inside the house, leaving the new bird to its own devices.’

  Oh, please! Our Spanish neighbours already thought we were insane, sitting on the yellow sofa gazing at our flock, letting them hop onto our laps, talking to them. Even if we could catch the newcomers, taking eight chickens, putting them into the bathroom and whispering sweet nothings into their ears was bordering on complete lunacy.

  When night fell, the Mafia went to bed and the little ones regrouped. They found the grain feeder and water and gorged themselves while the coast was clear. Finally, they too went to bed, on the floor under the Mafia’s perch. It was an uneasy truce.

  16 Eggs

  Chickpeas and Chorizo

  Mediterranean Eggs

  For the next couple of weeks work on the house suffered. The punch-ups were so severe that we felt obliged to go into the orchard on ‘playground duty’. At least that way we could break up some of the fights. But I suppose we were lucky as the orchard was big and had plenty of hiding places. No chicken was ever badly wounded. And as the little ones grew in size and confidence the confrontations dwindled.

  Weeks drifted by and we had still not seen an egg. All the girls now had handsome red combs and had grown considerably. Bugger and Fuck, the two black girls, were particularly beautiful. When the sun caught their feathers they shimmered blue, green and purple. Their names were unfortunate, not intended, but just kind of stuck. Little Grey, once the smallest, had grown into a huge chicken, towering over the others. She became bad tempered and rose in the pecking order. We renamed her Attila the Hen.

  The Internet advised us to provide a dark, quiet box for laying. They suggested we place some golf balls inside to give the chickens the right idea. Joe found an old discarded wooden trunk and cut an entrance in the front. The girls explored it thoroughly but no eggs were forthcoming. Every day we lifted the lid of the trunk hopefully and every day we were disappointed. Perhaps they were hiding their eggs around the orchard? We bribed Little Paco and the village children, a euro for every egg found. Still no eggs.

  One day we entered the orchard, with treat box, and were mobbed as usual. All seemed fine except that Ginger was behaving in a very strange fashion. She was agitated, nervous, obviously troubled by something. We sat down on the sofa, and Ginger hopped onto Joe’s lap and buried her head under his arm. Then she tried to get herself inside his jacket, it was most peculiar.

  “Do you think she’s ill?” I asked.

  “I think she might want to lay an egg,” Joe said. He carried her tenderly over to the wooden trunk and popped her in, blocking off the exit. She scrabbled about at first, then went completely quiet. Half an hour ticked past, then the scrabblings started again.

  “I’ll let her out,” said Joe, and unblocked the entrance hole of the trunk.

  Ginger came out, blinked and stood still. Then she stretched herself very tall, pointed her beak to the sky, and sang. Well, perhaps not everybody would call it ‘singing’, chickens not being the most tuneful of creatures. But it was a song of sorts, a ‘bok bok bok bok BOKKKKKKK!’ sort of song which later became very familiar to us. It was the triumphant Egg Song.

  And sure enough, snug in the straw, still warm, so precious, was a perfect little egg.

  We were inordinately proud of Ginger and her first egg. I shot off emails to all my friends and family, headed ‘We are grandparents!’. I took our little egg next door to show Paco and Carmen-Bethina. They admired it politely, but rolled their eyes when they thought our backs were turned.

  The Egg Song was heard increasingly as the No-Name Twins, Mala, Blanca and the others followed Ginger’s example and started laying. We discovered that brown hens lay brown eggs and white hens lay white. Obvious really. We wondered what colour eggs Speckly and Attila the Hen would produce. When their time came, a few weeks later, they laid pinkish eggs. Attila the Hen’s were huge and often double yolkers. Bugger and Fuck, the two black hens, laid darker brown eggs.

  It became a daily pleasure to lift the lid of the trunk and reveal that clutch of perfect eggs, like finding treasure in a pirate’s chest.

  The trouble was, we hadn’t done our sums. A quick session with the calculator revealed that sixteen chickens, laying one egg each per day, lay a total of one hundred and twelve eggs a week. That’s four hundred and forty eggs a month. Let’s be fair, and allow the chickens a day off every few days. That still amounts to about four hundred eggs a month. An awesome amount of eggs.

  Joe took a dozen eggs with him to Marcia’s shop to give away. It was the weekend and the bread van happened to be there surrounded by village ladies.

  “Would anyone like some eggs?” he asked. He was almost trampled in the rush. The eggs were snatched out of his hands, and orders were placed for more. One of the Smart Ladies advised Joe to charge 70 cents for half a dozen in future, and so our unplanned business was born.

  Joe put up a ship’s bell outside our garden gate and our customers rang i
t constantly. It was good that there was a regular demand for the eggs and that the income paid for the girls’ grain. And it was pleasant to chat with the village ladies and practice our Spanish. We got to know our regulars quite well as they’d often stay for a natter. They’d always begin by saying how fresh and tasty the eggs were, then tell us their family news and village gossip.

  My favourite ‘Egg Lady’ was Pepa, a buxom elderly lady with dyed red hair and naughty crinkled eyes. She would ring the bell, then pant her way up the garden path and collapse in a chair under the vine while I fetched the eggs. Then we’d both agree how fresh and tasty the eggs were. Formalities over, she would lean forward conspiratorially and tell me what was going on in the village. I didn’t understand everything she said, but I gleaned some juicy snippets worthy of a soap opera.

  “Have you met Antonio, your neighbour?” she asked, her face inches from mine across the table. She kept her voice low as though there may be people listening.

  “Yes, he seems like a nice man,” I said.

  “Well! Sí, he is my second cousin and you’re right, he is a nice man,” she said, chins wobbling as she nodded agreement. “But do you know his history?”

  I shook my head, curious now. I liked Antonio. He was a small, dapper gentleman who rarely smiled but always greeted us if we passed in the street.

  “Antonio used to be a taxi driver in Almería,” she began. “A real hard worker. He specialised in taking people across on the ferry to Morocco. Our family was very proud of him because he soon sold his taxi and bought a lorry. Soon after, he bought another lorry. In no time at all he had a whole fleet of lorries!” Dramatic pause which I felt I needed to fill.

  “He was doing really well, then?”

  Pepa’s eyebrows twitched into her red hairline. “Doing well? Very well! Too well!” she said. “Our family was amazed at how well he was doing. He bought a smart house in Almería and married a Moroccan lady. Not that we ever met her, she stayed in Morocco.” She paused for effect and I sensed the punch line was coming. I wasn’t disappointed.