She was right. Gresh didn’t know how to relax. Becky was soon horizontal on a sun lounger with a cold drink in her hand, but Gresh couldn’t sit still.
First he explored the house, then the roof-top terrace. Next, he walked round the village, calling “¡Hola!” to the bemused villagers. He introduced himself to Geronimo (using sign language) and peered inside Marcia’s shop waving cheerily at the old lady behind the counter.
Then he headed for the new bar and poked his head in the door. A number of Spanish heads swivelled. They were all men aged over seventy, and every one of them gawked at him. Gresh beamed and called out another cheery “¡Hola!”.
Having run out of things to explore, he looked around. He heard a mule bray somewhere. It was probably old Uncle Felix’s mule grazing higher on the mountain.
“Gosh, you look a bit hot and bothered,” said Becky when Gresh eventually returned home. “What have you been doing?”
To be perfectly honest, Becky looked equally hot and bothered, but we must blame the sun and chilled wine for that, not exercise.
“I heard a donkey braying, so I climbed the mountain to look for it,” said Gresh.
“Ah, that was probably a mule,” I said. “Her owner died, but she’s well cared for. She’s often tethered somewhere on the mountain to graze, usually with a horse. Did you find her?”
“No, I didn’t,” Gresh admitted. “I could hear her, but I couldn’t see her.”
His answer came as no surprise. The valley has a peculiar effect on sound. Sometimes, especially at night, one could clearly hear conversations emanating from the other side of the valley.
“Never mind,” said Becky. “Come and sit down and have a drink.”
So he did.
But only for two minutes.
Then he was up again, sorting out our winter firewood, or some such task that he imagined was desperately in need of doing.
Not only did Gresh carry out useful jobs round the house and garden, but we soon discovered that he loved to cook. Lucky us! He insisted on a daily drive down the mountain, accompanied by Becky, to shop for fresh ingredients. He cooked splendid dinners every evening, and we were completely spoiled.
One particularly hot day, Joe suggested we should drive to the Enchanted Pool. Gresh hadn’t brought any swimming trunks with him, so he purchased some especially for the occasion. They were bright red and matched his English sun-scorched skin.
A number of people were at the Enchanted Pool when we arrived, but I was pleased to see the Metronome wasn’t among them. I recognised an elderly couple, regulars at the pool. They never swam, preferring to stand and chat in the shallow end, doubtless there just to cool down.
Becky was already wearing her bikini under her shorts and top.
“Can’t wait to get in!” she said, flinging off her clothes and jumping into the water. I thought her olive green bikini looked a little strange, but I didn’t have time to look properly, so I didn’t say anything.
When she climbed out of the pool, I stared at the bikini again. Then I understood.
“Becky, that's a lovely bikini,” I said, laughing, “but I think you may need to adjust it.”
Joe and Gresh heard me and swung round to look, then roared with laughter.
Bewildered, Becky stopped towelling her hair and looked down at herself, then turned the same colour crimson as Gresh’s new swimming trunks.
“Oh no!” she squeaked, wrapping the towel around herself and fleeing to the changing rooms. She was wearing the bikini bottoms inside out and the white gusset was on the outside for all to see.
The rest of our guests’ stay went without a hitch, except for one night when Gresh organised a barbecue. After a few beers, he dropped nearly every uncooked sausage and burger onto the ground. He laughed so hard, he promptly dropped a chicken piece.
“You’ve found a good one there,” I said to Becky privately. “We really like Gresh.”
Becky smiled and her eyes sparkled.
When their holiday ended, we drove the couple back to the airport. They were the most undemanding of visitors and Gresh proved to be a great cook. He served up delicious meals every night and, despite its gritty taste, the barbecue was a highlight.
“Gresh, you and Becky are welcome to come back any time you like,” we told them as we hugged at the airport.
And we meant it.
How quickly that summer flashed past! The village emptied of families and children began a new term at school.
Before we knew it, the fig leaves had puckered into brown, crisp, shrivelled misshapes. The leaves on our vine yellowed and loosened, dancing crazily in the wind until they lost their hold and drifted away. Unpicked grapes rotted, attracting wasps. The Enchanted Pool’s gates were locked.
It was hard to believe I would be jetting off for another summer in Australia, while poor Joe would be heading for the freezing temperatures of a British winter. I was already making lists in my head of the things to be done before we locked up the house for the winter.
But first, the village was preparing for the annual fiesta. At the weekends, ladies cleaned their homes from top to bottom. It was common to see the entire contents of a house turned out onto the street, room by room, while walls were being whitewashed. Men were banished to stock up on winter firewood and the buzz of chainsaws could be heard all over the mountain. Next weekend, each house would be crammed full with family and friends, to celebrate the fiesta.
Girls showed each other new outfits and little boys chatted about the firecrackers they would buy from the African stallholders.
By now, we were very familiar with the expected routine. Friday noon would see Geronimo lighting rockets in the square to celebrate the opening of the fiesta. Vehicles would begin to arrive. Later, the streets would be choked with parked cars as would the road winding down into the village. Our car would be in our garage, and there it would stay until the conclusion of the fiesta on the Sunday evening.
“Hi Mum, how are you?”
“Good, thank you! Are you all okay?”
“Yes, we’re fine. Summer’s coming and we’ve had some amazingly hot days already. Just thought I’d tell you our latest plan.”
“Oh yes?”
“We have this funny little room off the garage. The previous owners laid wooden floors. We’re going to make it into a writer’s retreat for you.”
“That sounds amazing!”
“We’re going to paint all the bricks white, and we’ll get a desk. And a sofa, perhaps one of those that folds down into a bed. Always useful. And a TV, Internet, coffee-making stuff…”
“Gosh! My own writing lair! I’ve never had one of those! How fabulous!”
It was all so exciting. But first we must survive the village fiesta.
Catalan Spinach
Espinacas a la Catalan
This is superb with a little blue cheese crumbled over the top at the time of serving.
Ingredients (serves 2 as a side dish)
A medium shallot
A fistful of pine nuts, or almonds, or walnuts
A fistful of raisins
500g (18 oz) baby spinach leaves
Some blue cheese to crumble over the top
Olive oil for frying
A couple of pinches of sea salt
Method
Pour a healthy glug of olive oil into a large frying pan. A wok is perfect for this.
Bring the heat to medium/high and throw in the nuts and raisins. Stir a little and cook for about 90 seconds.
Add the spinach.
Sprinkle with the salt.
Keep tossing the spinach, ensuring it all gets covered in the olive oil, and the ingredients are well mixed.
Cook to your liking, depending whether you prefer it wilted or crisp.
6
A LOST CHICKEN AND OBSERVATIONS
Not many folk turned out to watch the opening of the fiesta at noon on Friday. Joe and I were there, and Marcia sat outside her shop, her silver hair-pins glin
ting in the autumn sunshine. Valentina sat beside her. She must have finished her mail round early and come to support Geronimo, I concluded.
Another lady sat by herself in the square, an infant on her knee. It was Lola Ufarte. I saw Valentina steal a curious glance at her. Did she know that Geronimo and Lola Ufarte shared history? Probably. I was sure Marcia would have told her.
A few other people were dotted around, but the vast majority would arrive later that night. The stage had already been erected, and Geronimo stood at the side of it, his strong arms encircling some outsize fireworks that he clutched to his chest. A priest in full regalia climbed the steps up the side and took centre stage.
“Who’s that?” I asked Joe.
“The new priest’s assistant,” Joe hissed. “Marcia told me that the church has appointed him to help Father Rodrigo with his duties. Poor old Father Rodrigo is in his eighties now and Marcia says he has terrible rheumatism.”
The new priest was young and tall, and looked rather splendid in his robes. His crisp, dark hair had a tendency to wave, and his jawline was strong and masculine.
The priest crossed himself and smiled at the people below. He said a few words, then pressed his palms together, closed his eyes, tilted his chin heavenwards and began the Padre Nuestro, or Lord’s Prayer.
“Padre nuestro,
que estás en el cielo.
Santificado sea tu nombre…”
The villagers stood, or sat, with bowed heads, allowing the familiar chant to wash over them. I sneaked a look round and was surprised to see one other person who was clearly not praying. Somebody was staring at the young priest.
I nudged Joe and flicked my eyes at Lola Ufarte. He looked too, but Lola had seen my movement or had suddenly remembered she was supposed to be behaving herself. Now her eyes were downcast and she was mouthing the last words of the Padre Nuestro in time with the priest.
“No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal.
Amén.”
The priest said a few more words. I caught the words ‘Santa Barbara’, the patron saint of El Hoyo, and then the priest declared the fiesta open.
Geronimo stepped forward, and tumbled the fireworks into a pile at his feet. Then, picking up a giant rocket, he lit the touch paper and sent each soaring, one by one, into the blue sky. Soon, grey smoke trails criss-crossed each other and muddied the blue of the sky.
The villagers oooh-ed and ah-ed as the rockets exploded. I did too, but my exclamations were more of horror as I never got used to Geronimo’s utter disregard for health and safety precautions.
Only one face wasn’t upturned. One rather dowdy-looking lady with a small child wasn’t watching the firework display. Instead, she stared, almost hungrily, at the priest.
Lola Ufarte.
“Vicky, you’re imagining things,” said Joe when we got home.
“I’m not! I promise you, Lola Ufarte was staring at that young priest as though she planned to eat him on toast for breakfast.”
“Well, she’s not going to get any joy there. Catholic priests aren’t allowed to marry.”
Something was happening in the street outside our house so I broke off the discussion to investigate. The whirl of polka dots made me smile.
“Hello Tía Veeky!”
“Do you like our costumes?”
“They are real flamenco dresses.”
“Tomorrow we are performing.”
“On the stage.”
“With lots of people watching.”
Twin #1 wore a wonderful flounced dress of red and white polka dots, while Twin #2 wore the same in blue. Their black hair shone, swinging with each step, and their heeled shoes matched their dresses perfectly. Even though no music accompanied them, their steps were perfectly synchronised and I clapped with delight as they swirled and tapped.
“Joe! Come and see!”
Joe appeared beside me on the doorstep and smiled.
“Tía Veeky! Tío Joe! We will teach you some flamenco steps!”
“It’s very easy!”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” said Joe. “I’d love to, but I get too out of breath. I’ll watch.”
“Tía Veeky, the steps are easy.”
“It’s just Toe, Heel, Heel, Toe, Flat.”
“Tap your toe.”
“Then tap your heel.”
“Like this!”
“Tap your heel again.”
“And keep it on the floor.”
“Stop!” I begged. “You are going too fast!”
“We will start from the beginning.”
“Watch!”
“We’ll do it slowly.”
“Like a snail.”
“Tap your toe.”
The sad truth is that I am particularly uncoordinated when it comes to dancing. Trying to teach me flamenco steps was a complete waste of time and I failed to pick up even the most basic moves.
Joe, however, was hugely entertained and I blocked out his guffaws as I concentrated. When I finally admitted defeat, I looked up, to see Paco on his doorstep also enjoying the show. The pair of them found my two left feet hilarious.
“Thank you for the lesson, girls,” I said. “I shall look forward to seeing you performing on the stage tomorrow.”
I marched past the men with my nose in the air. I may not be able to dance the flamenco, but at least I tried.
That evening, the band struck up on the stage in the square, but we didn’t join in. The big dance would be held on Saturday night. We strolled around the square and waved at a few people we knew. Elderly couples waltzed near the stage as the girl soloist warbled Spanish songs, and the backing group kept up the rhythm. The next day’s dancing and music would be much more energetic.
Saturday was always filled with fiesta events. There would be organised games for the kids, with clowns and fairy princesses. There would be flamenco dancing, and I looked forward to seeing the Ufarte twins performing. There would be a baby show, and talent contest. A procession would tread along the winding path up the mountainside to the shrine.
Then, when the tired sun slipped behind the mountain, the coloured lights in the square would twinkle, the band would strike up again, and the fiesta dancing would begin in earnest.
At first, just a few couples or family groups with children would take to the floor, but gradually more couples and families would appear, until, by midnight, the square would be a throbbing mass of colourful dancers.
Years ago, Joe and I had made the mistake of arriving at around nine o’clock, wondering why so few people had turned up. We soon learned that Spanish parties rarely begin before midnight. For this reason, we always had a siesta in the afternoon. Even so, we never saw the end of any fiesta dance as they often continued until four or five o’clock in the morning.
Saturday dawned and El Hoyo welcomed another beautiful autumn day. On stage, the Ufarte twins danced their flamenco beautifully, keeping in time with the other girls in their troupe. I didn’t know the baby that won the baby show, but he was a lovely little chap who produced a broad smile for everybody. The talent contest was won by a budding young magician who extracted an egg from behind the mayor’s ear. We also joined the procession that slowly wound its way up to the shrine where cups of hot chocolate were being served.
At midnight, Joe and I sauntered towards the square. Lights blazed in every house and voices and laughter could be heard from within. Young footsteps ran behind and overtook us.
“Hello Tía Veeky! Hello Tío Joe!”
The twins, still in their flamenco outfits, scarcely paused as they swerved past us.
“We’ve lost Pollito again.”
“He was at home.”
“But now we can’t find him.”
“He’s probably in the square.”
And away they ran down the street, their flamenco dancing shoes tapping with each step.
There were plenty of dancers already in the square, and the band was in fine voice. Stall holders had set out their wares: hot d
ogs, neon sticks, glass coolers and the inevitable firecrackers. Two long tables had been set out as a bar, although the only drinks on sale were beer, red wine and Coca Cola.
“Can you see Pollito?” I asked Joe.
“Nope, but look, I think the twins have found him.”
I followed his gaze in time to see flamenco dancer #1 hauling her reluctant little brother out from under a firecracker stall. Flamenco dancer #2 took a firm hold of his other hand.
“Pollito! What were you doing under there?”
“We were worried about you.”
“You must not disappear.”
“You must tell us if you want to go somewhere.”
“Mama was very worried.”
“We found him,” said Twin #1 as we drew up.
“So we see,” said Joe, smiling.
I smiled too. It was past midnight, and this little urchin and dozens of others of around the same age were still wide awake and part of the celebrations. This would never happen in England. It was just so Spanish.
Marcia sat outside the shop, under a lamp-post, fingers busy with her knitting. Everybody wore their best to the fiesta, and I noticed that Marcia’s customary black dress had been adorned with a black lace collar. Geronimo and Valentina stood beside her, Geronimo’s hand on the back of the old lady’s chair.
Although not related, Marcia and Geronimo enjoyed an extremely close bond with each other. Geronimo helped her with everyday tasks and sometimes watched the shop if she was away. They were very comfortable with each other, and Marcia scolded him when she didn’t approve of his behaviour. Marcia already had two fine sons, who lived in the city, and I felt that Marcia regarded Geronimo as another.
Pancho, the mayor, and his wife stood in a group chatting with Father Rodrigo and the new priest.
I waved to Paco and Carmen who were dancing at the edge of the throng. Not far away was their daughter Sofía with her fiancé, Alejandro Junior.
Two Old Fools in Turmoil Page 5