Seriously Mum, Where's that Donkey?

by Parks, Alan

  Chapter 2

  Have you ever licked a toad?

  In our initial enthusiasm when we first arrived at the Olive Mill, we threw ourselves into land-clearing with gusto and, on one occasion, unearthed a giant toad. I don’t know much about toads and whether it was male or female, but for the purpose of the story I will name it ‘he’. He was hidden underneath some mud and rocks and, as Lorna turned over a stone, there was an ear-piercing scream. Thinking something terrible had happened, I ran over to Lorna and her daughter Frankie only to discover them both speechless, just standing and staring.

  On the ground was the biggest toad I have ever seen; he was about the size of a dinner plate. His fat body glistened in the sun and our dog Geri, who had travelled over from Brighton with us was becoming very interested. We decided to leave the toad to it, took Geri and went and had lunch. When we returned, Mr Toad had gone.

  Frogs and toads are a fact of life here: our little stream seems to be a breeding ground for them in springtime and, as dusk falls, you can hear the croaks and ribbits of the night-time mating sessions. We have a water deposit outside the part of the Olive Mill in which we live and there is also an overflow drain to prevent the water from becoming stagnant. Even in summer this drain is a damp haven, and every year we have had a toad ‘move in’ for the long, hot months. Maybe he is even that same toad. We occasionally get a glimpse of His Toadness - he is, as I said, rather big - and over the autumn months when it is time to clean out the deposit, we always find the odd tadpole (maybe Mr Toad is female then!) which we turf out to be washed back downstream.

  During the rare occasions when we have terrible weather here in Andalucia, it can be a bit grim and depressing, but thankfully it doesn’t happen too often. It was, however, on one such day that we had the toad experience from hell.

  The day started like most. I was woken at about 8.15 by a cacophony of dogs’ howling to be let out. I got up and opened the door for them and went back to bed. Fifteen minutes later, I woke to find Lorna getting up as Geri could be heard mooching about. We are pretty sure Geri is deaf as she doesn’t join in the barking sessions unless she is awake and can see the others doing it. We have to get to Geri quickly: she is 15 now and once she is up she is liable to poo and wee all over the living room. The alarm was due to go off anytime so we thought we might as well get up. Outside the weather was damp and grey, as it had been for a few days. I flicked a light switch.

  “Great,” I said. “No electrics!”

  Living off-grid, we depend on solar panels for our electricity. We have a bank of batteries to store what we generate, but if it is cloudy for a few days in a row, our stores start to deplete. Sometimes we can go for days with the fridge turned off to save power.

  I fumbled around for some clothes that were not wet or damp, and got dressed. First job of the morning is to walk the dogs. We have to do this in two shifts: Blue and Arthur first, as they are so big, and then the little ones. I always walk Blue as she is strong and built like an ox, while Lorna takes Arthur. We have to be on guard in case any horses have been around and have done their business. For some reason, this is of great attraction to the dogs and if Blue and Arthur want to charge off and roll in it, we can’t stop them!

  Half an hour later we returned for the second stint. Miliko was crazily excited, running round in small circles and jumping up while Carlos was whipping everybody into a frenzy with his barking. Geri was oblivious. “In your own time, Geri!”

  We returned at about 10am to find that although still cloudy, the electricity had come back on. Although the fridge had been off for two days, we could at least get online. When the weather is inclement, we can’t do any washing as the washing machine uses a lot of power so we have to recycle clothes once we run out of clean things. However, if there's no sunshine, it's not hot, so they don’t get sweaty. We try and do outside tasks in between the heavy showers and storms.

  By mid-afternoon on this particular day, however, it was so cold and horrible that we decided the best place to be was under the duvet, so we retired for a siesta for a couple of hours with a mug of hot chocolate and a book. At about 6pm, just as it was getting dark, we treated ourselves to the generator for the evening. We can’t afford the petrol to run it all day, but at least it meant we could watch a little TV, turn the fridge on and for a few hours have a bit of comfort.

  We were in our living room watching TV, turned up loud over the din of the generator and Miliko (now affectionately known as ‘Shit Face’ because he likes to eat, well you know…) started going mad. Now, this in itself is nothing unusual. If the chickens come too close, he barks at them; if the kittens are in sight, he barks at them; if the young alpacas fight, he barks at them. You get the idea. But after a few minutes of constant barking, he wasn’t stopping. So I picked up a torch and went out to investigate. It was a dank, wet night and because of the clouds there was no moonlight. We were in total darkness. I finally located Miliko and could see him barking at the ground in front of him.

  To my horror, on closer inspection, I could see the remains of Mr Toad. Poor Mr Toad had been squashed by Miliko who must have been playing with him, or trying to eat him. (Miliko has a mouth problem and can only open his jaw about 18mm, so he was probably licked and pressed Mr Toad into submission). The rain had evidently brought His Toadness out from his hiding place, but it wasn't his lucky day and he had been cornered.

  I chased Miliko off and let him in to the apartment where the dogs sleep on one sofa. He went straight to his water and drank for ages. Then he flopped down on the sofa.

  “He doesn’t look right,” I said to Lorna as we went to bed.

  A few minutes later we heard the unmistakable sound of a dog vomiting. We both leapt out of bed to find Miliko being sick. Normally, although unpleasant, it is nothing to worry about but with Miliko being unable to open his mouth there was the added worry of him choking. As we came into the living room he vomited for the second time, spewing stuff sideways through the gaps in his jaw. He looked very sorry for himself. We threw him outside, followed quickly by Carlos and Geri who were looking as though there was a snack in the offing. We cleaned up the mess, threw away a cushion cover, disinfected the floor and let them back in. Miliko jumped on the sofa and curled up. We put two and two together and came up with… toad. We had never seen Miliko being sick before and we had heard that toads could be poisonous. We gave him a cuddle, and hoped he was going to be OK, although we weren’t completely convinced.

  When morning came we were, as usual, woken by the dogs’ chorus. The sun was shining and Miliko was up and bouncing around, jumping on Carlos and wanting to go outside with no signs of any adverse reaction to the previous night.

  Miliko clearly has a short memory and is not very bright, as he still tries to play with toads if he sees them. If we hear him barking outside at night, we always go and check. Just in case!

  Chapter 3

  Ricardo and Rita

  During an excursion to the supermarket - a day out for us (living where we do, we look forward to our ‘outings’) - we were wandering round Carrefour during siesta time, which we know to be the best time to go shopping. As we approached the fruit and vegetable section, we heard an unmistakeable loud female English voice.

  “What do we want that bloody great bag of kiwis for, you prat!”

  Lorna and I looked at each other. We don’t hear very many English voices and, whereas I have the urge to run away and hide, Lorna’s initial reaction is always the opposite.

  “I’m going to go and say hi.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  While I was hovering in the background, as I tend to do in these situations, Lorna approached the owner of the voice.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t help overhearing and realised you were English,” she said. “We’re English, too. Do you live around here?”

  “Hiya love. Yeah we do; we live in a town called Mengibar. I’m Rita and this is Ricardo, my husband. He’s Spanish, but we lived
in Brighton for 40 years. He is originally from Montoro.”

  “No! We live in Montoro,” replied Lorna, “and we come from Brighton! Alan, come here, meet Ricardo and Rita, they used to live in Brighton.”

  It turned out that Ricardo and Rita had lived on our doorstep for 40 years, but we had never bumped into each other before. I shook hands with Rita and went to shake hands with her Spanish husband, not being sure of his level of English.

  “¡Hola!” I said, extending my hand.

  “Ello mate! Nice to meet cha,” said Ricardo, and pulled me into a man-hug.

  Ricardo was, like many Spaniards, a man of small stature with a round belly and piercing blue eyes. Obviously after 40 years of living in Brighton, his English was good, if a little unrefined. We stood around chatting in the produce section, as is the way of the expat, and exchanged email addresses.

  After a bit of emailing back and forth between Lorna and Rita, we decided to invite the couple over to our house for lunch one day. We very rarely get visitors where we live so the chance to get to know these people was too good an opportunity to miss. We set a date.

  When the day came around, we had spent our usual two days cleaning and preparing for guests. The two of us are probably the world’s most untidy people, so every time we have visitors we have to clean and tidy everything. Again. Of course, we love to show off our house, and people are usually intrigued to meet the alpacas. Almost without fail, the two questions we get asked are; ‘How did you find this place?' Followed quickly by, ‘Why alpacas?' So we tell the story of Lorna's illness and our wish to leave the rat-race before we sit down and get acquainted.

  It was one of those beautiful spring days we have in Spain and the temperature was warm by the time R and R arrived. We ate lunch al fresco and talked at the table in the sunshine. At one point Rita asked for a tissue to wipe her brow, and Ricardo piped up, “Rita, you are sweating like a donkey!” Lorna and I looked at each other aghast; I cannot imagine saying that to Lorna without getting a smack on the face. That is exactly what happened. Before we could say anything, Rita’s arm shot across the table and whacked Ricardo smack on the side of his head, knocking him backwards on his chair. He ended up in a heap on the ground. Ricardo clambered to his feet with a smile on his face while Rita laughed so much she had tears in her eyes. It really broke the ice, and since then we have been great friends.

  Ricardo really liked our house; he had been brought up in the campo of Montoro so he felt almost at home here and, after a long lunch, he wanted to go out looking for espárragos, which grows wild in the spring. I am not really a ‘hunter-gatherer’ type but it is very popular in Andalucia and Ricardo had told us that he was a fan of hunting, even shooting rabbits somewhere back home in Sussex.

  So Ricardo and I headed out to ‘hunt’ the asparagus. Now I know what I am looking for; if unpicked, the wild asparagus resembles a prickly fern that normally grows around the bottom of either an oak or an olive tree. Ricardo, however, was like a man possessed. While I wandered around grabbing spindly bits of asparagus, he was under trees, rooting through the undergrowth, even crawling about on his stomach drenched in mud. He was, though, emerging with credible examples of this Andalucian delicacy.

  “Alan, what are you doing? Look at your ‘aparragu’, it is no good!”

  I looked down at the grass-like offerings I was carrying and then at Ricardo. He had amassed a large bunch and had a beaming smile on his face. He also had wet clothes and muddy knees but that didn’t seem to bother him. On our return, Ricardo was like a conquering war hero proudly showing off his treasure, while laughing at my inadequacy.

  “How long will that lot last you Ricardo?” I asked.

  “I will eat it later today, with some ‘crambled egg!” he said proudly.

  “All of it?”

  “Yes, there is only enough for one.”

  “You mean to tell me we spent two hours searching for asparagus out there, routing through the undergrowth like Bear Grylls, and it will only last you one portion of scrambled eggs? We could have bought that in the supermarket for about 70 cents!”

  “Ah, but there is nothin’ like fresh ‘aparragu’!”

  All I could do was raise my eyes to the sky: this living off the land malarkey is not for me.

  As we walked our new friends back to their car, Ricardo said, “Hey Alan, I would like to bring my friend Paco to your ‘owse. We could go ‘unting in the ‘ills.”

  I thought little of it until, a few weeks later, we got a phone call one evening. It was Ricardo.

  “Alan? We are coming tonight,” he said. “We will sit up and then go out before sunrise. See you soon.” And with that he was gone.

  Later that night, a car arrived. After hearing the horn tooting, I went out to unlock the gate. Two men were standing looking at the alpacas in the bright moonlight. The first was obviously Ricardo decked out all in green with a camouflage T-shirt and a green flat cap. The other man was similarly attired but was wearing a black balaclava. All I could see were his eyes. Truth be told, I was a little bit scared. As he took off his balaclava and his face was revealed, it became apparent he was in his 70s and had a smile as wide as you can imagine.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Ricardo introduced us, had a laugh about my inadequate asparagus-gathering skills and followed me in. I left them at the table drinking Fino, a Spanish sherry, and headed off to bed. They were supposed to be getting up at 5am to go out before sunrise and catch the poor rabbits unaware.

  At about 11am, Ricardo and Paco returned to the house with a rabbit. One rabbit! The poor little thing looked like it wouldn’t feed a dog, but they were pleased with their efforts. The one downside to going out in the early morning was that Ricardo had returned covered from head to toe in mosquito bites, and his face looked as though he was having some kind of allergic reaction. But he was happy and assured us that he was fine. The dynamic duo headed off back down the road after packing the car with their guns and carefully stowing their prize. I can just imagine what greeted Ricardo when he got home when Rita saw the tiny rabbit!

  “You what? One pathetic rabbit? Is that all you got?”

  Chapter 4

  José’s Family

  One evening I went out to lock the gate before we headed for bed and found a carrier bag hanging from the padlock. Ever since we moved here we have been told tales by fellow expats about neighbours who swamp them with vegetables from their allotments, however this has never happened to us. To be fair, one time when we went to talk to Miguel, the neighbour who tends to our olives, when he happened to be digging up that year’s crop of potatoes he did throw a couple of bags our way. Anyway, that was what I thought might be in the bag but it felt empty. Inside was a note. I took it in to Lorna.

  “I found a note on the gate, and it’s in English.”

  “Oh no, what does it say?” she asked.

  “Nothing bad, listen.”

  ‘To the English people. My name is Ana and my family live near your farm. My mother loves animals and they want to ask you if they can buy one of your llamas. She is very nice and already has a deer on her farm. You can email me on…’

  “How strange. Well it’s good that they like the alpacas, I wonder who they are,” said Lorna.

  So we emailed Ana, found out that she actually lived in Dorset but was home for a holiday and her family had asked her to make contact with us about the alpacas. We had to explain that they were not like goats; they were expensive and you couldn’t keep just one on its own. Over the course of a few emails, the family invited us to their farm to meet them and to see their animals. I think they wanted to prove how loved their animals were and maybe convince us to let them have one of the alpacas. As usual, Lorna was excited and I was nervous, but we agreed to meet them and a date was set. We were given directions to drive further up the road where our track turns off, and then to turn off at a certain kilometre mark.

  The track was bumpy, much bumpier than ours, and there were big holes to avoid. A c
ouple of times Lorna’s head hit the roof of the car. After a few minutes just as we began to think we had taken a wrong turn, we rounded a bend and found a large welcoming committee of people outside a house. The house was magnificent, I think probably another old olive mill but this one had a façade of intricate stonework and an elaborate cobbled terrace. The outside furniture, however, was bog standard Spanish and looked as though it had been stolen from a 1970’s beach bar - faded red plastic chairs and tables complete with a couple of Coca-Cola umbrellas. We got out of the car and a woman walked over and introduced herself.

  “I’m Ana,” she said. “I’m afraid only I speak English, but this is my father Pedro and my mother Maria. This is my sister Paqui and her husband José. And these are all our dogs.”

  She laughed as she pointed out about 10 dogs sheltering from the sun under tables or bushes. We hadn’t even noticed them as we drove in. Paqui was carrying a tiny Yorkshire terrier puppy.

  “Isn't he cute!” said Lorna, reaching out to say hello to the puppy.

  The puppy snarled and snapped at her fingers, which she snatched away quickly, out of range.

  We were shown in through the main gate, which was large and wooden with iron adornments, into a beautiful courtyard with geraniums and petunias in blue-painted terracotta pots lining the walls. It was truly stunning.

  “Come, come,” said Ana and walked through an arch to a large kitchen area. This was a lovely room, despite being somewhat rustic. An estate agent would probably say it had potential. The kitchen cupboards were traditional, with curtains instead of fitted wooden doors. We were given drinks and directed through to a spacious living room, complete with an enormous inglenook fireplace. The walls were covered, and I mean covered, in hunting trophies - mainly deer heads, but one large wild boar had been mounted on the wall above the fire in pride of place. Pedro gestured to us that he had killed it himself with the gun hanging underneath when he had found the boar on his land. He indicated that the boar had been bigger than his dining room table and it had fed them for weeks.