by Parks, Alan
Reviews of The Seriously Mum series by Alan Parks
"What an engrossing read! Leaving England and moving to Spain, I know from personal experience, is tough and certainly life-changing. But this brave couple, not only uprooted themselves, but set up an alpaca breeding farm in rural Andalucia. I laughed and cried, sharing their highs and lows, willing them to succeed. An inspiring and fascinating story" - Victoria Twead, Author of NYT bestseller Two Old Fools on a Camel and the Old Fools series.
"As you can imagine, their stories of adjusting to life in Spain just keep getting better, and in comparison with Driving Over Lemons, Alan and Lorna's tales seem more contemporary, and still as true of expat life today as when they arrived in Spain.
This really is a ripping tale of authentic Andalucia, from a family known and loved within the expat communtiity, precisely because they chose to remove themselves and breed alpacas. If living the expat life appeals to you, or you are already doing it, then Seriously Mum, Whats an Alpaca? should be considered a must read." - Ronda Today
“I really enjoyed reading Alan's account of his brave and adventurous move to Spain. Despite the many challenges - both emotional and physical - that Alan and his wife Lorna face, there is still a genuine feeling of happiness and almost childlike excitement about the whole experience, which shines through in the narrative. I'm almost tempted to pack up, move abroad, and try something similar myself. Nah, I'll just read Alan's sequel instead.” George Mahood, Author of the bestselling Free Country.
“What a great read, I could not put it down until I finished it!”
"Absolutely delightful. Humorous, well written. Well done, Mr. Parks."
“So good - looking forward to the sequel!!”
“A rollicking story of British ex-patriots in Spain.”
“These books are hilarious, funny and entertaining. At the same time educative. Easy to read.”
Seriously Mum,
Where’s that Donkey?
Alan Parks
The sequel to the Number One Amazon bestselling animal book, Seriously Mum, What’s an Alpaca?
Also available in Paperback
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1 ~ The Pharmacist and the Carnival
Chapter 2 ~ Have you ever licked a toad?
Chapter 3 ~ Ricardo and Rita
Chapter 4 ~ Jose’s Family
Chapter 5 ~ Geri, the poor old girl
Chapter 6 ~ Guests from Hell
Chapter 7 ~ Guests from Home
Chapter 8 ~ Gol, Gol, Gooooool!
Chapter 9 ~ Like a Child at a Party
Chapter 10 ~ Zumba Wars
Chapter 11 ~ Sarcoidosis and Dolores
Chapter 12 ~ Iceland and Expat-Land
Chapter 13 ~ Lost in Translation
Chapter 14 ~ Crisis? What Crisis?
Chapter 15 ~ Dogs and Onions
Chapter 16 ~ Lows
Chapter 17 ~ Highs
Chapter 18 ~ Fiesta de Zumba
Chapter 19 ~ The New Bar
Chapter 20 ~ Showtime
Chapter 21 ~ Training Time
Chapter 22 ~ Ever Increasing Circles
Chapter 23 ~ After Drought cometh the Rain
Chapter 24 ~ Sounds like the Countryside
Chapter 25 ~ It’s a Dog’s Life
Chapter 26~ Cordoba in Springtime
Chapter 27 ~ Caught in a Trap
Chapter 28 ~ Nakedness and the Donkey Man
Chapter 29 ~ Third Time Lucky?
So what happened next?
Contacts and Links
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Introduction
After all the trials and tribulations that we faced during our first couple of years living in Andalucia, you'd be forgiven for thinking that maybe, just maybe, our life had become a little bit easier. I guess in many ways, it has.
We now know that winter is going to be so cold that we need to wear numerous layers of clothes, even to bed. We now know that when it rains, it really rains (and yes, the roof still leaks). We now know that by about mid-July we will be fed up with the hot weather and will be wishing for a cloudy day, or a little bit of drizzle. We now know that money is scarce and we have to live accordingly.
We have been held up with our alpaca plans, both by our early experiences with the animals, and by the financial crisis still gripping the world, Spain in particular. We still haven’t got a good grasp of the language, although we are getting better. We continually make embarrassing gaffes in front of the locals, who thankfully smile politely and do their best to help us.
Spain, and of course our little town of Montoro, is always throwing up surprises and as time has gone on we have become a little more integrated into local life. Lorna now teaches a weekly Zumba class in Montoro, and has a regular following of ladies (more about that later). We have made some great new friends, too.
We have had a TV crew here to film our house for a ‘Fantasy Home’ programme in Canada, and a few canine visitors that have come and gone. We have had more strange experiences with the neighbours and made some great new Spanish friends.
All in all, life is good and there is always a great story to tell around the dinner table. I hope this one entertains you, too.
Alan
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Chapter 1
The Pharmacist and the Carnival
If any of the animals here at the Olive Mill get injured, maybe hurt a foot or something similar, we have become pretty efficient at dealing with minor mishaps without the need of a vet. Firstly, we clean the wound with Betadine and keep an eye on it. If it doesn’t clear up in a day or two, we get the vet, Manuel, to come and have a look in case we need antibiotics to clear up an infection.
On one occasion we had gone to the local pharmacy (there is a sign that says ‘Englesh espoken here’ with a picture of a red telephone box) to get some supplies. The pharmacy is split into two sections. As you walk in, on your right is the counter where you queue to get served, and on the left, separated by a glass partition, is the optician area.
After standing awhile, waiting our turn, the glass door of the optician’s area opened and we were beckoned into the small room by a bespectacled, studious-looking man wearing a white lab coat. He closed the door quickly behind us.
“You are Eenglish, right?” the man whispered.
“Erm, yes. This is Lorna and I am Alan. How can we help you?”
“Hello, I am George.” He shook our hands. “I would like to practice my English with you.”
“George? Isn’t that a very English name?”
“Ah, in Spanish my name is Jorge.” (pronounced Hor-hey)
“Fine, that sounds like a good idea. We could really use some help with our Spanish, too. Maybe we can meet up sometime and go for a drink?”
“OK. We can meet in the hotel for a drink on Saturday afternoon. 3pm. See you.”
And off he went, scurrying around the corner at the back of the little room, leaving us to see ourselves out. We looked at each other somewhat bemused but pleased that somebody saw us worthy of practising their English on. Of course, it would also be very handy to get to know the local pharmacist a little better.
As Saturday afternoon drew closer, we were nervous. It was a strange situation: it felt almost like a first date, even a blind date, as we didn’t know much about this man apart from his desire to practice English with us. We didn’t know if we should have some sort of lesson plan, or take pencils and paper. I think, in the end, we plumped
for discreet pen and paper in Lorna’s handbag.
We arrived at the hotel early and sat in the bar area with our drinks, waiting for the mysterious Jorge to arrive. After about 10 minutes, he came through the door, wearing a bright orange tracksuit, Detroit Pistons basketball jersey and red trainers.
We shook hands and Jorge ordered himself a drink. The waiter delivered a cup and saucer, with an ice cube in the cup, and a metal pot.
“What are you drinking?” asked Lorna.
“Tea,” said Jorge. “Camomile tea.” He poured the tea over the ice in the cup.
“But why the ice cube?” she persisted.
“To cool it down, of course.”
Of course…
We started to chat in English, but Jorge seemed a little nervous, always looking over his shoulder to see who was coming into the bar, or who was close by.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“Yes, Montoro is a very strange place. Lots of people here know me and talk about me. I don’t like it.”
“Lorna and I looked at each other. “Do you want to meet somewhere else another time?”
“No, here is good, it is far from my father’s house and he won’t see me. I will email you when we can meet again. See you.”
With that he was off, as fast as he arrived. We had spoken for a while, but not had a chance to practice our Spanish. We decided it was a good start, however, and we would definitely meet up again as it would be useful to have a local friend if we ever needed any help.
Over the next few weeks we got to know Jorge a little better, mainly through practicing his English and chatting about life and Montoro. He even divulged that his parents owned the pharmacy, and while his Father was the boss and always checking up on him, his mother was a staunch Catholic and would not even allow them to sell condoms over the counter. Gradually, we began to understand that his shifty demeanour and constant checking over his shoulder were merely mannerisms. He was not a Russian spy, and had no shocking secrets; it was just his way. He rarely talked about himself, so we were surprised on one occasion.
In walked Jorge, decked out in his normal basketball attire. However, this time he had with him a little mini-me version of himself wearing matching clothes and bouncing a ball. The boy was about four or five.
“This is my son,” said Jorge. “His name is also Jorge.”
Quick as a flash, little Jorge said, “Hello. Nice to meet you!”
We were astonished. This little boy could speak English? Well, in actual fact he couldn’t really, but he could introduce himself, and he knew the names of animals and most of the numbers up to 20. It was slightly embarrassing for us that a small boy could speak more English than we could speak Spanish, but apparently Jorge had been clever, using posters around the house and subliminally teaching the boy since he was tiny. It had become almost second nature. Little Jorge was also a prodigious basketball player and, at four years old was playing in a team with seven and eight-year-olds.
A few weeks later, Jorge’s wife and baby, Maria and Jesús, came along. Maria spoke no English but she was very friendly and we sat around talking for a while. As they left, they invited us to their house for a meal. We then had to explain about my peculiar eating habits.
“We would really like to come and have a meal with your family, Jorge, but I am afraid Alan is a very fussy eater; he only really eats meat and potatoes,” explained Lorna.
“No problem,” said Jorge. “I am the same, it will be things like pork or chicken. Do not worry.”
A few days later, we tentatively arrived at the pharmacy for dinner. The family lived in a small apartment above the shop and we were ushered down a corridor, through a terrace with a child’s basketball hoop fixed to the wall, up some stairs and into a very small, very cramped space. We were herded around the back of an extremely large table, far too big for the room, and encouraged to sit on the soft sofa. After about five minutes Lorna and I were practically asleep: the heating was on and we were lovely and warm.
Then it was time to rearrange the room, as dinner was ready. We were given chairs and the table was manoeuvred to the centre. Once seated, the heat was intense and we couldn’t work out why until Maria pointed under the table and lifted the material draped over it to reveal a brasero, which is a tray of burning coals from a fire, placed under the table to keep your legs warm while eating. It is a very traditional way to keep warm and these days most of the big shops sell electric versions. I can’t begin to imagine how many people have been burnt by these old-fashioned braseros, or how many fires may have been started.
As we were preparing to leave, Jorge suddenly exclaimed, “It is the carnival on Saturday, would you like to come with us? We can meet in the town, have a drink and watch the parade, as long as you won’t think badly of me if I act a little different.”
“No, of course we won’t, Jorge, we would love to come.”
In the car on the way home we discussed what Jorge could possibly do to make us think badly of him. The only thing we could come up with was maybe, just maybe, he would get drunk, and indulge in some dad-dancing. We would just have to wait and see.
Saturday came around, and to be honest, we didn’t really know what to expect. We had, by now, again been invited for dinner before the festivities started and this time I was more relaxed knowing that they were aware of my food tastes. However, as we entered the apartment I became nervous: in the kitchen was a bag of live snails! I could see them crawling around and it turned my stomach. We were shown to the table once again and I said to Lorna, “I’m a bit worried about this. There were snails in the kitchen!”
“I’m sure it will be fine, they know you won’t eat that!”
Jorge came out and, in his customary whisper, told us that Maria was cooking snails for herself. He didn’t like them and was having pork (fabulous, phew), but did either of us want to try them? Well, Lorna, being ever game to try new food said, “Go on then.”
After a few minutes, there were plates of pork, ham and cheese on the table, but in front of Lorna was a big bowl of snails cooked in garlic - still in their shells and with a cocktail stick to pick them out. Lorna did well. She managed to polish off a reasonable amount but did admit later that, if given the choice, she wouldn’t have them again. However, she was glad she’d tried them.
After the meal, to our surprise we were ushered out while Jorge, Maria and the children got ready, and we arranged to meet them in the Plaza de España at 8 pm. We walked slowly down to the square and began to feel very conspicuous as, without fail, every person we passed was wearing some kind of costume. We saw pirates, flamenco girls, matadors, princesses and all sorts of animals. Men were dressed up as women and some wore extravagant make-up. In the run-up to carnival time, we had noticed costumes appearing in the Chinese bazaars, often with pictures of men dressed as cowboys and women dressed as wenches or gypsy girls. There even seemed to be a large amount of plastic genitalia available to buy, both female and male - presumably a long-standing custom to which we had not yet been introduced.
People congregated in the plaza, and there was loud music playing, drinking, dancing and everyone generally having a good time. As the time for the parade approached, large groups began arriving in fancy dress. We saw people dressed as bunches of mops (I’m not sure what the collective term for a bunch of mops is), children dressed as cigarette packs (yes, that’s children dressed as cigarettes), papier maché cars, spaceships, bottles of beer, plenty of Popes and Jesuses (as befitting a Catholic country), girls dressed as Buddhist monks and a group of firemen dressed as the cast of Grease. There were even some men dressed as superheroes, one of whom had spectacularly padded Y-fronts over his tights, with the name ‘Captain Salami!’ emblazoned across his chest.
After a few bewildering minutes of people-watching, a strangely dressed couple approached us. Tottering on a pair of red high-heeled stilettos was Jorge, wearing fishnet tights, a very tight mini skirt and a boob-tube style top, complete with a pair of stupendous
fake bosoms. To top off the look, he was in full make-up with a long-flowing dark brown wig. Maria was wearing a smart man’s suit, with her hair tied back under a bowler hat. The children were dressed up as cowboys, although Jesús was still in his pram.
“Hi. I told you, I hope you don’t think we are strange; it is tradition for the men to dress as women at carnival time,” Jorge said, looking slightly embarrassed.
Jorge and Maria were beckoned away by fellow workers from the pharmacy dressed as characters from the Wizard of Oz. There was a tin man, a lion and a Dorothy. After about half an hour, sitting and having a drink and watching in increasing amazement as more and more people turned up in ever more extravagant costumes, there was a change in the atmosphere. The parade was about to start. Jorge came over to us.
“The best place to watch is up the road a little bit, keep your eyes open for us.” he said.
So we wandered up the road and grabbed a space from where we could watch. There were more people here, although not all were in costume; they had obviously come out of their houses to watch the parade. All of a sudden loud music cranked into life, and the throng of people in the street squeezed onto the pavement. After a few minutes, the first people started to pass. We didn’t know whether to expect sweets to be thrown, like in the King’s Day parade, but no, this seemed to be just for the sheer fun of it.
Then we spotted Jorge and Maria dancing up the road, whooping and singing loudly. How strange it was! Imagine watching your local pillar of the community in fancy dress and dancing on the street. As the parade ended, we decided to head for home. As we drove past the car park surrounding the bullring, there was a full-blown party going on. Goodness knows what time it finished but I can assure you that not many of the fine folk of Montoro would have been at work bright and early the next day.
The next time we met up with Jorge for English practice, carnival night was never mentioned.
