Bonka was the obvious choice, and swiftly named (Ana insists that all her dogs begin with B) after a brand of coffee. She bore the closest resemblance to her mother, and seemed to have inherited her calm, playful manner. She also had paws like shovels, promising to match her mother for size. Most endearing of all, however, was her bark. For some reason Bonka’s bark sounded uncannily like a dog trying to impersonate a duck, an impression that grew stronger the more menacing she tried to sound. As far as we knew this was a unique ability in the dog world and not to be overlooked when considering the future matriarch of El Valero’s pups. Beaune, sadly, had been neutered when young and could do little to further the line herself.
Bonka ingratiated herself easily with Beaune and soon made herself at home with the other inhabitants of the farm. We were amazed how quickly she seemed to slot in. One day, however, she came haring into the house with her tail between her legs, whimpering in terror. Some strange new experience had proved too frightening for her. I went outside to investigate. The hillside above the house was awash with sheep. It was the flock of Geraldo, a young shepherd who grazed the high eastern Alpujarra, round the villages of Nieles and Juviles. Every winter he would come down to pasture his flock for a month in the almond groves of the Venta del Enjambre following the Via Pecuaria, an ancient drove-way, that runs straight through our farm.
I watched as the main flock scuffed down the track. They were a pretty unprepossessing bunch, being on the thin side and scraggy with it, with a pronounced tendency towards the goat in them. Yet, as they dropped out of sight into the tamarisk woods by the river, leaving an unmistakable miasma in their wake, I found myself lost in covetous thoughts. A decision that I had delayed making began to resolve itself and press for action. The time had come to buy some sheep of my own.
Ana had reservations about sinking most of our remaining savings into sheep-rearing, and reminded me that our sheep enterprises in Britain had hardly succeeded in making us rich or even comfortable. It was a fair comment but one that pitifully overlooked the existential nub of the matter. I pointed out how essential livestock were to a farm; that it was a travesty to even call El Valero a farm, or expect us to be taken seriously as the owners of it, when we only had a couple of dogs and cats in residence. Surely also she didn’t want to let her skills as a stock-woman go to waste?
Then, embellishing freely, I depicted how trim the farm would look with sheep nibbling away at all the thickets and encroaching creepers and clipping considerately the overgrowth that threatened our paths. This last thought seemed to sway her just a little. I could tell that with some more skilful persuasion, she could be brought round to my way of thinking.
The Sierra de Segura is a rather bleak range of high mountains four hours’ drive away in the north of Granada province. The hub of the area is the small agricultural town of Huescar, a modest place callously omitted from every guidebook that I’ve ever consulted, but the home, nonetheless, of the exalted Asociación Nacional de los Criadores de la Oveja Segureña – ANCOS – the Segureña sheep society.
I hadn’t actually seen a Segureña sheep in the flesh but I had seen them portrayed on a chart in the agricultural office in Órgiva. Their carriage and conformation were quintessentially ovine and the wool was white and, well . . . woolly. They looked so superior that I was convinced they were the stock for El Valero. Anxious not to let the side down as a fellow farmer and breeder, I polished my shoes, put on a white shirt, shaved, and fished out the only pair of jeans that I own with no holes in them. Then, on a chill December afternoon, I removed some cash from the bank and headed north from Granada.
It was evening when I arrived in Huescar and its streets were empty. The whole population, it seemed, were either out in the fields or huddled around braseros – small coal stoves that are fitted under the table – in their homes. As I had no idea how to find the ANCOS office, I slipped into a bar. There was only one other customer.
I ordered a drink and asked the bartender for directions. ‘Toñito!’ he called to the other customer far down the bar in the shadows. ‘This gentleman is looking for ANCOS. You know where it is, don’t you?’
At this signal Toñito slithered along the bar towards me, burbling and dribbling as he came. I looked to my clean shirt with misgivings. ‘Good evening, Antonio,’ I greeted him. ‘I am told you know where I might find the offices of ANCOS.’
‘Pah!’ he spat. ‘I know where to find ANCOS and all the other cabrones you might wish to find. But first we must take a few drinks together, eh?’
Why is it that I so often seem to find myself in this ridiculous situation? Other men manage to enter and leave bars without having to spend whole evenings entertaining the local drunk. But for some reason big-talking boozers unfailingly zero in on me, sniffing perhaps a foolish politeness, a wish not to offend a stranger in a strange town.
Anyway, of all the many local drunks I’ve had the misfortune to attract, Antonio was the dregs of the barrel. One drink followed another and another until I despaired of completing my mission and resigned myself to remaining a drinking hostage for the rest of the night. Then all of a sudden he swung to his feet, announced that he would now take me to ANCOS and lurched out of the bar hauling me along by the arm. I could have wished for a better guide than this man who was staggering ahead of me, slobbering and howling obscenities as he went, but there was no other choice and he at least knew the way.
‘Where are you from, my friend? I can see you are not one of us?’ We had already covered this ground in the bar but repetitions seemed not to bother him.
‘I’m English actually.’
‘And from where would that be?’
‘England.’
‘Ah England, yes . . . I am well known in that land . . . perhaps you know Fernando Jiménez . .? ’ He shot me a quizzical look.
‘No . . . I don’t think so. I couldn’t be sure. Where in England would Fernando Jiménez live now?’
‘Barcelona.’
‘Ah, now there you are mistaken, my friend, for Barcelona is not in England, it is in the north of Spain . . .’
‘No, Fernando lives in England – Barcelona, England.’
Thus we progressed towards the offices and waiting worthies of ANCOS. I wanted to cut short this conversation about the location of Barcelona – it wasn’t getting us anywhere – but introducing another topic seemed somehow reckless. Toñito, however, had no such reservations.
‘Did you see the football?’
‘No. I don’t actually have a television . . .’
‘Then you’d have seen the goal in the second half . . . ’
‘I didn’t see the match, man!’
‘You couldn’t have missed it – Fernando Jiménez . . . ’
‘Surely not the same Fernando Jiménez who . . . ’
But we had arrived outside the offices of ANCOS.
‘Well, my friend, thank you very much for . . . ’
‘Wait. I am known here. I’ll get Pedro for you.’
‘Really, please, I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble.’
‘No, no, it’s no trouble.’
He stood on the opposite pavement and yelled up at the first-floor window.
‘Pedro! Pedro Gallego, you son of a whore!’
There was no reply. I considered bolting.
‘Pedro! Pedro, are you deaf, you pox-spotted shit? I shit on your dead, man – can’t you hear me?’
Toñito stooped to pick up a stone and hurled it at the window. The fates had not at least deserted me altogether. The stone crashed into the frame.
‘Pedro, you Black Milk! Dick in vinegar, where are you, man?’
The window flew open and a face appeared. The face considered us without enthusiasm. I smiled, made a little bow and attempted to introduce myself. Toñito shouted me down.
‘I’ve brought someone to see you, Pedro. He wants some sheep. I shit on your sheep!’ And so saying, he lurched off down the street.
It wasn’t the most pro
mising start but I’d forgotten the whole episode within a couple of hours, as I found myself dining with Pedro Gallego and his family and friends. We ate among other things the delicious cêpes of the Sierra de Segura, seared in butter and then simmered in wine and herbs. After the meal, the men, who had done most of the cooking, washed up, while the women dandled the babies. This was modern Spain.
The next day I set out with Pedro and his father, Don Antonio. Pedro was the secretary of ANCOS; his father, a real Spanish grandee, passionate about sheep, was the president. We clattered around the mountain tracks all morning, visiting farms and looking at beautiful ewe-lambs in stables deep with bright straw bedding.
We eventually selected twenty-five lambs, a dozen in-lamb ewes, and a ram-lamb. I paid a very fair price for them and we organised a lorry to bring them to Órgiva a few weeks later. Then we repaired to a bar to refresh ourselves.
Don Antonio rejected a good-looking seafood tapa.
‘Take that muck away, boy, and give us a proper tapa of Segureña sheepmeat.’
‘Yes sir,’ said the boy.
By the end of December, the river had swollen with the winter rain. The rickety old footbridge that had served us since we came was listing badly to one side and the bits of driftwood that comprised its walkway were either broken or gone, leaving intimidating gaps. Crossing the bridge was disconcerting enough for Ana and me, well practised in the art, and we had the new flock to think of. There was no way that I would be able to coax such skittery creatures onto such a flimsy contraption. The bridge needed rebuilding. I discussed the problem with Domingo. He had an idea about a quick and easy way to get the job done.
On New Year’s Day Domingo killed his pigs. After the midday feasting he suggested to the dozen or so men who had come to the matanza that they should help me rebuild my bridge. Not everyone fancied the prospect of splashing around in icy water but he was persuasive. It would be in their interests to do so, indeed it was even their obligation as owners of land on the far side of the river. It would also be a good way to dispel the boozy torpor that held them all in its grip.
‘The trouble with all these slobs,’ he complained, ‘is that they’ve lost the habit of building bridges. Before, when it rained properly, we had to build a new bridge at least four or five times a year. We used to be pretty good at it.’
We trooped down the hill to the river and looked at the sad collection of poles and driftwood that spanned it. Of all the company I was the only one who had never before built a bridge. Everyone else knew exactly how it was done. They knew how big it should be, what it should be made of, and, most importantly, where to put it. Unfortunately, building homespun bridges is not an exact science, and thus no two men’s notions coincided exactly. Frasco, who had had a lot of experience, being the eldest present, said that we should forget about Romero’s lethal jumble of wood and build a new one just downriver from the track, where we could anchor the beams to a giant eucalyptus.
‘You’re talking silly, man!’ said Domingo. ‘You can’t possibly build it there; the ground is soft and as soon as the river gets up it’ll wash it away.’
‘This is the spot,’ said José, stamping the ground a few metres upriver of the old bridge. ‘It’s the narrowest point and the ground’s good and solid.’
‘Solid – the Host! If you build it there it’ll be swept away in days. There’s never been a bridge there.’
‘Yes, it must be upstream, over there by the oleander – there the river won’t move . . .’
‘No, the most important thing is to take advantage of that boulder and use it as a pier, that way we’ll . . .’
‘I shit on the Host man! If you build the bridge there no one will cross it in safety.’
‘And how many bridges have you built?’
‘Well, you can listen to me if you want, and I’m telling you . . .’
The polemic raged ever more ferociously and as one idea supplanted another, and the debate spun into a number of simultaneous arguments, the only thing everyone seemed to agree about was that Romero must have been either mad or drunk to choose such a ridiculous spot to build his bridge. The site was so utterly lacking in any of the desirable qualities, that the idea of simply rebuilding it didn’t even merit consideration.
In the end, of course, we rebuilt it precisely where it was. Pedro had, perhaps, known something about his river.
First, with the help of twelve strong men all pulling and pushing in different directions we hauled the great eucalyptus trunks from the wood where Domingo and I had stacked them so many moons before. Then we rebuilt the first pier. We carried huge rocks over and dumped them in the edge of the river, everyone vying to heave the largest rock, reckless of almost certain hernias. Then we cut oleander and broom and branches of eucalyptus and made a thick bed of brush on top of the stones. Then another heavy bed of stones, then more brush and so on until we had a new pier jutting out over the river about five feet above the water-level.
The beams cost us a lot of effort to haul into place. We managed to heave the first one so that it jutted from the pier about two thirds of the way across the river. Everybody sat on it while Domingo, who had inevitably taken over the running of the operation, wobbled out along it with a rope. He leaped for the far bank and fell in the river.
‘The Host! It’s freezing!’
This was the signal for all the more impetuous men to try their luck. They all fell in the water but kept on going until it was decided that there were not enough men left to sit on the beam for support. Then we heaved it into its final position. It was too short. It lay with its far end well short of the bank.
No matter. Everybody slithered across it and set to rebuilding a great jutting pier on the far bank. Finally, after about four hours of work, we had two stout beams laid firmly from one rock-built pier to the other. We all sat on the bank, admiring the grace and elegance of our handiwork. It looked good and it cost nothing, but it was still almost impossible to cross in safety. I spent the next day gathering driftwood and nailing it across the beams to provide a flattish walkway. Domingo disapproved of the nails because they cost money.
‘You don’t spend money on the river. What’s in the river is the river’s. Sooner or later it will just rise up and sweep the lot off down to the sea.’ I should have lashed the driftwood to the beams with ropes of woven esparto grass. That would have satisfied him.
The design of our new footbridge might have been basic but it had an intrinsic beauty and the driftwood walkway gave it a rather picturesque Himalayan look; simply to look at it made you want to cross it.
Sheep, however, have different sensibilities and, after discussing the matter with Domingo, I decided that it would be better to postpone introducing the new flock to El Valero and let them settle in first in a stable prepared on the town side of the river, beside La Colmena.
No groom preparing a nuptial chamber for the arrival of his bride could have taken more care than I did in fixing the temporary stable. I mucked it out, scrubbed and disinfected it, and spent good money installing an automatic water-trough, a contrivance never before seen in the Alpujarra. As a finishing touch I roped up an old iron bedstead across the door and then waited, admiring my handiwork. The sheep arrived, and one by one I carried them down from the lorry, across the threshold. They huddled in a corner in the shadows.
Every day I walked across the river to feed the sheep their barley-straw and grains and to get them used to my presence. When I arrived, they would be lying trim, white and woolly, basking in the winter sunlight where it shone in shafts through the door and windows of the stable. As I entered, they would bound away in a panic and huddle in the far corner. Some days I would sit in the sunshine by the door and read or write letters. As they grew used to the idea of my being there, they gradually resumed their places and lay heaving gently, eyeing me with suspicion. If I moved a limb to scratch or turn a page they would stampede for the corner again and huddle in a mass of panting wool with seventy-four eyes and
one resentful look directed at me.
Progress was slow. The sheep didn’t seem to be getting used to me at all and I wondered how or if I could control the flock when I finally let them out of the stable and into the countryside. I had no dog. A normal established flock would have its mansa – its tame sheep – who would stick to the heels of the shepherd, and lead the rest of the flock. These lambs, having come from various different flocks, and being mostly young and therefore having no flocking instinct, would flee to the edges of the valley as soon as I opened the door.
After an abortive episode, best forgotten, with a couple of goats, Domingo suggested I marry the sheep up with his flock. We stuffed Domingo’s dozen or so older ewes into the stable and fed them all together. It worked a treat; the next day, when we let them all out to graze on the hill above La Colmena, they stayed calmly together. Every day we took one or two of Domingo’s sheep out, until we were left with just one.
‘You can have that scraggy old thing,’ said Old Man Domingo, to whom it belonged. ‘It’s never had a lamb but once and that was years ago. That sheep is good for nothing, but it’ll be fine for your flock leader.’
The sheep in question was a bony old creature, with lop-ears, a permanent string of snot, and a craven look. She was also extremely wily. By a combination of cunning and thinness she managed time and again to insinuate herself into the special creep reserved for the ewe-lambs and wolf their extra rations. The creep was a fenced-off part of the stable with a tiny gap that only the lambs could get through. In the end we tied a stick to a piece of string around her neck, which would jam in the hole.
Thus our flock leader came to be known as Stick. She wore her impediment proudly like a badge of office as she tripped sniffling along at the head of the little flock, slavishly following the shepherd.
Driving Over Lemons Page 14