Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  After two days of hourly treatments, through the day and night - and very little sleep - on the third morning I woke up early and went out to check on the girls, only to find that Black Dancer had died that morning. It was very distressing, but we truly could not have done any more than we did; we gave her every chance.

  “I’ll go out and move Black Dancer, maybe try to get her into the car,” I said to Lorna.

  “I don’t think I can lift her body Alan, it’s too heavy for me, and I just don’t think I can do it.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do on my own.”

  I spoke to both Peter and Manuel, and Peter suggested that we could arrange for Cassandra to move back to their farm for a few months, until she had her baby, and give us a chance to get our heads together again. Alpacas are herd animals, and we had heard stories of animals dying of loneliness without companions, so this was a good option. Manuel gave up his whole Sunday to help me move the body and transport it to the University where they carried out an autopsy and disposed of the body for us.

  I was worried about Cassandra being on her own overnight, so I said to Lorna, “I’m going to go out and sit with her, to make sure she is alright.”

  I went out during the wildest electrical storm I have ever seen, planning to sit with her through the night to make sure she didn’t die of loneliness. The sky was an angry purple colour, and there was fork lightening all along the horizon, but no thunder. It was unnervingly quiet. Cassandra settled down and to be honest seemed more uneasy with me there, than on her own, so after an hour or two I decided she would be okay, and went in to try and sleep.

  The following day Lorna and I breathed a sigh of relief, although we felt incredibly sad, as Cassandra was collected. We had never thought that it would be like this. When we spoke to people after and since, we are always told, “If you keep livestock, you have to deal with dead stock too!” It is true, and maybe obvious, but no one tells you that when you are buying the animals. No one says to you, “How are you going to cope when they get sick or die?” Maybe they should!

  19 Bingo

  Animal count : Two dogs, one feral cat, two feral kittens and one pot-bellied pig.

  After a couple of weeks of self-imposed exile, we were starting to feel a little more like facing the world. It just so happened that, on that day, Miguel was out and about once again. He called out to me, and was chatting away, asking about the alpacas, where they were, etc, and I did my best to explain the problems we had had. I told him that Cassandra was okay, but had gone to Ronda for a while. He looked at me sympathetically, and then almost as though a light bulb had gone off in his head, an idea occurred to him.

  “¡Esta noche, ocho en punto, AQUI!” This translated as, ‘Tonight, eight o’clock, HERE!’ He also threw in Adamuz ( a very small local village) and “¡Mucha cerveza!”

  “Erm, Lorna, I think I might have got us into something,” I started quietly. “Miguel was outside, and he invited us out tonight. Well, I say invited - he told me he is picking us up at eight o’clock.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Hmm, I don’t really know that. He said Adamuz, and he said lots of beer, of course.”

  “Well, maybe it will do us good to get out for a bit, I could do with a laugh!” Lorna likes any opportunity to mix with the locals, and embarrass ourselves with our truly inept Spanish.

  At eight o’clock, we waited outside for Miguel to arrive, dressed up in our ‘going out clothes’. We had no idea where we going but at least we had made some effort, and better to be safe than sorry.

  When Miguel arrived we clambered onto the back of his battered, old, pick-up truck, either side of his daughter Andrea, who was holding a rather large box of assorted and oddly shaped vegetables. Miguel raised his hands in the air, and said loudly “Vin-ho!” as if this explained the box. Off we went, with a little look of trepidation to each other.

  After about five kilometres on our road, we made a turn signposted for Adamuz and followed a winding road for about 10 minutes, before pulling into a crowded car park, in the middle of nowhere, outside what seemed to be the equivalent of a roadside bar. Outside there was a collection of small animal pens, some with chickens and turkeys in, a couple with goats in, and there was even an old donkey tied to a post outside the bar. We walked into the bar a few steps behind Miguel and Olga, feeling incredibly conspicuous as the Spanish farmers present turned to look in our direction.

  Inside it was like a farmers’ convention: the bar was heaving, ninety percent full of men in blue overalls direct from working in the country. The few women that there were there could have been related to Olga, all of them were rather round and dumpy. In Spain, or certainly Montoro, the women all seem to be incredibly slim and beautiful and then, at a particular age, the olive oil seems to begin to settle on their hips. The air in the bar was thick with smoke and it was difficult to see from one end to the other. There was a loud hum of chatter from all around. “Luuuuuuuunnnnnaaaaaaaaa,” we heard from near the bar. (None of our neighbours have ever got the hang of pronouncing Lorna’s name correctly.) We spotted Ramon at the bar and went over. There was much handshaking, backslapping and cheek-kissing but the conversation passed us by, although we did again pick up this word “¡Vin-ho!”

  Ramon bought us a drink, and once again I had to endure the inevitable laughter at my expense about my refusal to drink alcohol. “Solo Coco-Cola” and much hilarity followed. I was then offered a cigarette. I had to bite the bullet and say, “No gracias, no fumar,” The laughter grew, and Ramon said, “You do sex?” Oh dear, I was certainly going to be the figure of fun that night!

  After about 30 minutes, a rather large man entered at the front of the room. He had a cigar protruding from his mouth, a rather large stomach hanging over his trousers and a grey handlebar moustache on his round face. He arranged an upturned crate for himself to be seated on and a small table, onto which he placed a large, old fashioned tombola. A queue started to form at the man’s desk, everybody either waiting in line with a box of vegetables similar to Miguel’s or with a little white ticket. Once the offerings were handed over, they were given a bundle of photocopied papers.

  As Miguel returned to the table we clicked as to what was going on. The photocopies were of old bingo cards, and Miguel had got us some too. We smiled at each other; our big night out was farmers’ bingo. All these, hard-drinking, tough-as-nails farmers were all sitting down to play a friendly game of bingo. This, however, proved to be bingo with a difference.

  The first winner won a selection of seedlings for the allotment. The second winner won Miguel’s box of irregular home-grown vegetables. As we worked our way through the games, the crowd got rowdier and noisier as more and more alcohol was consumed. The atmosphere was approaching fever-pitched. Nearing the final three games, to our surprise two of the animal containers were brought in. The first had about four chickens in it and the second had two young turkeys. Finally, a proud-looking young man entered with two goats on leads and tied them to a post by the stage. These animals were the last three prizes of the night.

  To be honest, as much as we would have loved one of the little goats, we were never going to win any prizes, as the man calling the bingo numbers was speaking so fast we could barely understand. If we got fifty per cent of the numbers right I would be surprised. Our only fear was that the animals would be slaughtered for the winners but thankfully they were all taken back to their country houses - although I am sure they have all ended up on many a dinner plate since.

  At one point in the evening Lorna plucked up the courage for a trip to the bar for us. There was a small area where the women sat knitting, with children or grandchildren around them, with a bullfight being shown on a small television in the corner. It was one of these ladies who put down her knitting and served the drinks, rather perturbed to have to stop what she was doing, and of course interrupt watching her bullfight!

  As we left the bar, feeling slightly bewildered by the events of the e
vening, the large man who was doing the calling was climbing onto the donkey to go home. We laughed to see this big guy clambering on to his ‘steed’ and then steadying himself for his journey. I wonder if you can be fined for being drunk in charge of a donkey?

  Suddenly, Ramon came running over to us, carrying two scraggy looking chickens upside down by the legs. He thrust them into our hands, and laughed as we must have looked confused. We tried to refuse but he just gestured us away, so we had to sit in the back of the car each with a scraggy brown chicken on our lap. Every so often, we would hit a bump in the road and the chicken would jump about. My chicken pecked my hand one time and I let it go: all hell broke loose in the car. The chicken was jumping around bashing the windows, and we were laughing and screaming. Miguel had to pull the car to the side of the road, and grabbed the chicken forcibly and pushed it to me with a look of, don’t let it go again!

  Miguel took us home, and every few minutes in the back of the car we just looked at each other and smiled; we couldn’t believe the evening we had just had. It was probably the first time we had laughed properly since the death of Black Dancer and it had been just what we had needed. We thanked Miguel and Olga for the evening and left the car with our chickens.

  As it was dark, we were able to use Geri’s large pet carrier for them to sleep in for the night, and we could move them in the morning. We were left in complete darkness with only the brightness of the stars in the sky. I swear, there are a million more stars here than there ever were back in Brighton or maybe we just take a bit more time to appreciate them here.

  “We’re going to be okay, you know,” I said to Lorna.

  “I know we will.”

  We felt as though we had turned a little corner, and collapsed into bed, exhausted!

  20 First Cordoban Summer

  Animal count: Two dogs, three feral cats, one pot-bellied pig and two chickens. (Due to a large amount of bum wiggling, we decided to name the new chickens Beyonce and J-lo.)

  Our first Andalucían summer stretched on throughout four months of blazing weather and long, hot summer evenings. When we had originally visited the Olive Mill it had been August and it had been hot, but you simply cannot ever be prepared enough for living through months and months of extreme temperatures. In the UK people will do anything possible to avoid being seen sweating, but here you have to accept it as part of life - from waking up some mornings with sweat-drenched hair, to leaving your car with sweat-drenched clothes. In fact, any physical activity whatsoever results in a sweat. Even sleeping in close proximity to another human being becomes impossible. It is necessary to find yourself a position, laid out on the bed in such a way that parts of your own body do not touch another part of your own body, let alone someone else’s! Eventually this results in a kind of demented starfish approach to sleeping.

  We survive the summer by siesta-ing during the afternoon, having a series of cool or cold baths and showers, and much like the natives, getting work done early in the morning, or late in the evening. We like to visit the local park late at night when, after sunset at about 10 pm all the families come out and socialise: the children play, maybe have a drink and something to eat. It’s lovely to see such a family atmosphere flourishing in this day and age, and we can wile away the hours until two or three in the morning just watching the world go by.

  One major, major high point of the summer for us was accepting an offer on our house in the UK. Nearly one year after initially putting it up for sale, and after numerous reductions and negotiations, we did finally accept an offer. We did though, end up losing around £70,000 on our original price and, by this time, the crisis was driving down the exchange rate, so we found ourselves much less financially secure than we thought we would be. However, at last we were able to start decorating and renovating some parts of the Olive Mill.

  One common mistake, made by many an expat, not just us, is to use only people they know, or who speak the same language. We fell into this trap when we wanted work doing on the Olive Mill. There was lots of decorating that needed doing and we felt we were up to managing that for ourselves, but we approached Neil, the previous owner, about giving us a price for repairing the roof on an empty shell area, and then creating a large open-plan living space, with tiled floors, electrics and all the plumbing. We were happy with his ideas and the price he quoted, and not knowing anyone else, we made a deal with Neil to start as soon as the house sale in the UK was completed.

  While we had been talking to Neil, we got onto the subject of our car and its ongoing off the road state. We said that the people in Montoro were not being very helpful, and that it had been sitting on the roadside for months. We had paid a tow truck to take it to Cordoba, where we could get the Mitsubishi garage to look at it, and hopefully give us a price to fix it. After a week, and over €500 for a diagnosis they had quoted us over €7,000 Euros to fix the car, so it had been sitting outside their garage ever since and we didn’t really know what to do next.

  Neil told us about ‘Jack, the German’, a mechanic on the coast, who might be able to help us if he could locate a second-hand engine. If so, he could do the work and have it back on the road for around €1,800. Well, obviously this was music to our ears, and although still a lot of money, we needed to do something. We were still spending out on hire cars, and the car had cost us €4,500 so we really needed it back on the road.

  So one day we met Jack the German in Cordoba. He was quite a scary, unsmiling man who chain-smoked and spoke only a few English words. He was wearing dark grey overalls, had grey hair and thick-rimmed glasses. We sent the car off with him and crossed our fingers: it had to be our best shot at getting it running again.

  A few weeks later we went to collect the car, and even then he charged us an extra €200 over what we were expecting. We were beginning to feel like all the people we met were only out to get as much money as possible from us, only taking time to help us if there was something in it for them. It is a bit of a sad fact of the expat community that there are many tales of scams and cons, and they generally concentrate on the vulnerable and naïve. Even Alex, the man from whom we had bought the car and refused to help us, had scarpered back to the UK leaving behind a garage full of debt, and a wife and two kids stranded in Spain with no money.

  Once we had collected our car, it didn’t take long for us to realise that the air conditioning no longer worked. So, having collected the car in mid-August we now had to endure the hottest part of the summer in a vehicle without much-needed air conditioning. One journey we had to endure was a seven-hour round trip to collect the latest additions to our menagerie.

  Ever since the two dogs that appeared on the day that Frankie and Chris left, I had made up my mind that I wanted to get a Spanish mastiff (the Spanish call them Mastin Español). They are such large and loyal beautiful dogs, with amazing temperaments, plus they are noisy and make great guard dogs. On a visit to a coastal market, we got talking to a lady who worked for one of the many dog rescue centres that exist there.

  “Really? Are you looking for a mastin? I might be able to help, let me make a call.” She was on her mobile in a flash. Then she returned, smiling. “There is somebody we know, looking to re-home a brother and sister, who they rescued after they were abandoned with their ears chopped off and their tails wired. But they must be kept together!”

  We looked at each other. The thought of these dogs having their tails wired and their ears chopped off was horrifying, but we hadn’t wanted two; these dogs grow to be at least 60 kilos in size and two of these will eat their way through a lot of dog food.

  We decided we would get in touch with the people and see what they said, but we knew we wouldn’t be able to separate the brother and sister. We made contact with the current owner and told them about our house and land, and how we had been looking for one of these dogs, and then we had heard about their situation.

  They were very keen for us to take both the dogs, as they had been thinking that they may be forced to ha
ve them put to sleep if they couldn’t find homes for them. We discussed it over the next few days, talked about the pros and cons, but, in truth, I think we decided the minute we heard about them. We would take them.

  We set out on the long journey to collect them, with the dog crate that we had brought Geri to Spain in. Thinking they were only 12-week-old puppies we could put them in there for the journey. We arrived at the house, three and a half hours later, very hot, and found two lolloping great lumps of puppy, with legs too long for their bodies and no control over them either. At 12 weeks old they weighed over 20 kilos each, and were already bigger than our other two dogs. No way were they going in the crate. We had to heave them into the back of the car, and hastily close the door so they couldn’t escape.

  The temperature gauge in the car as we set off read 45 degrees, and without the air conditioning, we planned to stop regularly for water and a break for the pups. We set off, bumping down the dusty track that led from the house to the road. Lorna was in the back seat and the dogs in the boot. After no more than 100 metres, we heard the most stomach-churning noise.

  “Oh no, what on earth was that?” I asked.

  “Err, Blue has just been sick,” Lorna said, cringing.

  We decided to press on hoping she would settle and feel a little better when we reached the smoother roads and the motorway. After about 30 minutes of heaving and retching, Blue seemed to calm down a little, only for Arthur, who had up until now, held his stomach together manfully, to start being travel sick.