Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

by Victoria Twead

  Tears of laughter ran down Paco’s weather-beaten face. He passed the snake to Joe and plonked himself down in a chair, hands gripping the table edge, shoulders shaking with mirth. Joe and I, with Little Paco trailing along, took the snake outside. The street was deserted, no sign of any of the women. We headed for the wasteland behind the cemetery and admired the exquisite reptile one last time before we set it free. It slid away gracefully, invisible in seconds.

  Later we saw Little Paco and his cousins searching for it again, but the snake had wisely vanished.

  ∞∞∞

  The Spanish had a very different attitude to animals than we were used to. In Britain it is normal practice to neuter or spay pet cats and dogs. In Spain, puppies and kittens abound. I suppose it was inevitable that villages were overrun by cats and dogs, and strays roamed the mountains.

  In our village, many of the big new houses on the outskirts had a resident dog. Usually mean looking German Shepherds, these dogs guarded the houses and stayed alone when their owners returned to the city during the week. Often they would bark all day and night. It became a background noise we didn’t even notice after a while.

  By contrast, the Spanish adored and pampered their little house dogs, although dog obedience classes did not seem to exist. In our street, a neighbour had a Yorkshire Terrier named Lala. This little dog sat on their doorstep and yapped continuously. Small she may have been, but cowardly she was not; Lala considered any human ankle fair game. I took to finding alternative routes to avoid her attacks. Of course her owners always apologised when Lala nipped someone’s foot. They’d smack her, then pat her and smile fondly. And so her delinquent behaviour continued, unchecked.

  Dogs were allowed to bark, to bite, to roam in packs. Our Spanish friends were not concerned. Little songbirds were kept in tiny cages, chickens confined in wire prisons no bigger than shoe boxes.

  Sometimes, however, the Spanish surprised us. This clipping from my favourite English language newspaper, ‘The Messenger’, both interested me and made me chuckle.

  BUTCHER DEDICATES

  LOTTERY WIN TO HIS OXEN

  A butcher from Pontevedra called

  Marcelino has won nearly a million

  and a half Euros in the Primitiva

  lottery. He says that he always played

  the lottery with the same numbers in a

  bar in his local town of La Cañiza, and

  now he knows exactly what to do

  with his money.

  He's closing the butchers shop, giving

  away all his stock to his clients and

  will dedicate his time to looking after

  his two oxen which Marcelino says he

  loves as if they were his own children.

  Often the mountain roads were deserted and half an hour might pass before we saw another vehicle. In the matter of road building, the Spanish are a ground-breaking people - literally. If they decide on a route, nothing stops them. Mere mountains do not stand in their way. Channels are blasted through the rock and brand new roads laid.

  We were travelling along one such new road with banks of hewn rock touching the sky on either side, when something caught my eye. It was a movement. Something was hurtling down the steep slope at speed.

  “Stop the car!” I said, pointing.

  Joe braked. I thought it was a large rock falling, but as it descended, bouncing and tumbling, we saw that this was no boulder. It was a bird, a huge bird. As it descended, smaller stones dislodged and created a mini avalanche. We could hear the bird squawk in alarm. Finally, it hit the ground and came to an ungainly halt in the middle of the road in front of our jeep.

  “What on earth…?” said Joe, climbing out of the car for a closer look.

  The bird didn’t move. It just sat there, stunned and silent, completely dazed by its fall.

  “It’s a bloody vulture!” said Joe, mouth hanging open.

  There was no doubt about it, it was definitely a vulture, a young one. It sat hunched, but still waist high, its wings just grazing the ground. Its head and neck were characteristically bald and the beak was hooked and wicked looking. It ignored Joe, apparently still trying to gather its senses after its plunge down the rock face.

  “Is it hurt?” I asked, joining him.

  “I don’t know,” said Joe. “I’m not going any closer - have you seen that beak?”

  “But we can’t leave it there, it’ll get hit by a car!”

  “Well, what do you suggest we do?”

  The vulture roused itself somewhat. Vision swam back into its dazed eyes and it shook itself slightly. At that moment, another car speeded towards us.

  “STOP!” I shouted, waving my arms like a demented windmill.

  The car pulled up and a couple got out. Their eyes grew round when they saw the problem. The vulture was obviously gathering its wits and feeling a bit better. It opened its razor-sharp beak and squawked again. We all stepped back.

  “¡Precioso!” murmered the lady.

  I agreed with her. The vulture was beautiful. Not in a conventional sense, but its sheer size, curved talons and aquiline beak inspired awe.

  Meanwhile, her husband was busy on his mobile phone. Another car appeared.

  “STOP!” we all shouted, and waved the car down.

  The new arrivals gaped when they saw the cause of the delay. The vulture shifted from foot to foot, but made no effort to move away. More cars stopped. People craned their necks to see.

  The husband’s call on his mobile phone bore fruit. I could hear a distant siren increasing in volume as it neared, blue lights flashing.

  As the police approached, the vulture was recovering. It spread its wings experimentally, drawing a gasp from the spectators. The wingspan must have been over six feet. The policemen marched up and sized up the situation quickly.

  One of the policemen may have been a frustrated bullfighter. He quickly unbuttoned his jacket and stepped closer to the bird, holding the jacket matador style. With an expert flick of the wrist, he threw the jacket over the vulture’s bald head. The crowd gasped again, then applauded. The vulture jumped in surprise, which dislodged the jacket a fraction. It slipped down the vulture’s neck and caught on its hunched shoulders, rather like a scarf. No longer blinded, the vulture twisted its neck and looked left and right. Then it spread and flapped its vast wings. At first it barely cleared the road surface, then it gathered momentum and soared up, taking the policeman’s jacket with it.

  The audience held its breath. Shading their eyes from the glare of the sun, they watched vulture and jacket rise.

  The jacket soon fell off, catching on an outcrop high above us. The vulture continued on its way, evidently fully recovered. The policemen dispersed the crowd and ordered us all to resume our journeys. I assumed they scaled the rock face to retrieve the jacket when the onlookers had disbanded.

  We had no idea why the vulture tumbled down the rock face. Perhaps it tried to perch and lost its foothold.

  Back at the village, I practised my Spanish by telling our neighbours all about our eventful Away-Day.

  “Tenia una aventura,” I began. “I had an adventure.”

  Carmen-Bethina’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, as did Paco’s. Then they both giggled, and finally laughed unrestrainedly. I was totally bewildered. What had I said that was so funny?

  I told Joe about the laughter and he suggested I call Judith. I lost no time.

  “Judith, why did Paco and Carmen-Bethina laugh when I said, ‘Tenia una aventura’?” I asked, when the barking dogs had subsided enough for Judith to hear me clearly.

  “Lord, dear! Is that what you said? No wonder they laughed!”

  “Why?” I was baffled.

  “Bloody Spanish language, dear! Strictly speaking it’s correct, but it can also mean, ‘I’ve had an affair.’”

  I never used the word ‘aventura’ again, and we named that stretch of road ‘Vulture Gulch’.

  ∞∞∞

  In the heat of
summer, we often escaped for a day on the beach. Early in the season we frequently encountered jellyfish. Experts agreed that numbers were increasing steadily due to climate change. Usually, they were not difficult to spot as they floated like discarded plastic bags near the surface.

  “The beach?” said Judith one day. “Mmm, quite fancy that meself! Let me know next time you plan to go, dears. Mother won’t come, stays out of the sun, don’t you know. But I’ll join you.”

  Judith a beach babe? I couldn’t quite picture that. And I knew with absolute certainty that a day on the beach with Judith would be eventful.

  Gazpacho (cold tomato soup) from Andalucía

  Gazpacho Andaluz

  Serves 4

  2 or 3 slices of white bread

  4 large tomatoes

  1 small cucumber peeled

  1 clove of garlic (finely chopped)

  half a small onion

  1 small red pepper

  3 tablespoons of olive oil

  2 tablespoons of white wine vinegar

  salt and pepper to taste

  water

  ice cubes to serve

  Pull the bread to pieces and soak in a cup of water.

  Roughly chop the tomatoes, pepper, onion and cucumber. Place in a food processor and blend to a smooth paste.

  Squeeze the bread to remove excess water, add the oil, vinegar and seasoning.

  Blend for a second time, adding water little by little until you achieve the desired consistency.

  Refrigerate until well chilled.

  Serve in tall glasses with crushed ice.

  Note: This is a popular Spanish summer starter.

  CHAPTER 24

  JELLYFISH AND CHICKENS

  The next time we went to the beach, we did as Judith asked.

  “Beach tomorrow? Spiffing, dear! I’ll be ready, just pick me up on your way down the mountain.”

  The next day, we stopped at her house and knocked on the door.

  Judith was fully prepared. A day at the beach was obviously an event to be taken seriously. Joe loaded her stuff into the jeep. Items included a parasol, rugs, folding chair, wicker picnic hamper, binoculars, several towels and a choice of reading matter. And she looked the part. Resplendent in a cotton shift the size of a Boy Scout’s tent, she’d topped it off with a giant sombrero. Sunglasses obscured her face. Off we went, Judith holding on to her sombrero all the way down the mountain.

  We always avoided the heavily populated tourist beach and instead chose the stretch the Spanish preferred. There were no souvenir shops or amusements, but we could park the jeep on the sand and enjoy seclusion. We always brought our own drinks and picnic, but there was a shack on the beach that served as a cafe, should we need it.

  It took a while to unpack the car and get settled, and we were hot and perspiring. Both Joe and I were anxious to get in the water and cool off.

  “Coming in for a swim?” I asked Judith.

  “Not yet, dear. I’ll read me paper and get lunch organised. Brought enough for all of us, don’t you know.”

  Joe and I swam for a while then rejoined Judith. She’d been busy in our absence. Spread on a white cloth was a feast. Triangular crustless sandwiches, home-made sausage rolls, scotch eggs, bowls of fruit; it was like a piece of England.

  “Bottoms up!” said Judith, handing us long-stemmed glasses of Pimm’s.

  After lunch, contented and full, Joe and I stretched out on the sand to sunbathe.

  “Damned hot!” said Judith. “Think I’ll put me bathing costume on and go for a dip.”

  “Do you need any help?” I asked.

  “No, m’dear, I can manage.”

  Joe politely averted his eyes while Judith wrestled with changing. She disappeared from view completely under an enormous towel. We heard her grunting, and the flailing under the towel made me think of wildcats fighting in a sack. At last the towel dropped and she was ready. Smelling faintly of mothballs, Judith’s swimming attire was serviceable, but definitely not designer. It was black and large with built-in pleated skirt, reminiscent of the nineteen-fifties.

  “Look out for jellyfish,” said Joe as Judith made her way to the water’s edge. Famous last words.

  Minutes later, an almighty yell woke us from our doze. Judith, sombrero awry, was exiting the water at a rate of knots. Joe and I jumped to our feet.

  “Jellyfish! Bloody critter got me...” spluttered Judith, wincing and holding her leg. “Hurts like hell!” The rash on her leg was already swelling and angry looking. She sat heavily on the sand, her face creased in pain.

  “What can we do?” I asked.

  I looked around, but there was nobody on the beach apart from a family some distance away. Judith was suffering; she was writhing and clutching at her leg. Jellyfish stings are notoriously painful.

  And then I had an inspiration. I love TV survival documentaries, the kind where the presenter makes an A-frame shelter from palm leaves and rubs two elephant beetles together to start a fire. A bit of trivia I had absorbed suddenly surfaced.

  “Quick, Joe! Pee on her!”

  “What?” Joe was aghast.

  “Pee on her leg! It’ll take the sting away!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! I can’t just pee on Judith!”

  “You have to! I can’t do it, it has to be male pee.”

  “But…”

  “Good Lord,” said Judith, extending her leg. “If it’ll take the pain away, just bloody DO it!”

  “Well, I could … but you’ll both have to look away.” Joe was crimson with embarrassment, and scratching his groin in consternation.

  “Okay,” I said, “just get on with it!”

  For a long moment he just stood there in horror. Then, realising that both Judith and I were deadly serious, he eased his trunks aside, took aim, and began urinating on Judith’s leg.

  He was still in midstream when a shadow fell across us. We became aware we were not alone. The man from the distant family group had joined us, presumably having noticed Judith’s predicament. Politely, he held out a tube of ointment.

  “¿Medusa?” he asked quietly. “Jellyfish? This ointment will take away the sting immediately.”

  Joe swung away, tucking himself back into his trunks as fast as he could. The Spanish man avoided looking at Joe, didn’t comment on his bizarre behaviour. Instead, he splashed water on Judith’s leg, then gently applied the ointment. The relief, according to Judith, was instantaneous.

  “Vinegar also works well,” said the man, now looking pointedly at Joe, then nodding towards the cafe up the beach.

  The kind Spanish man departed and Judith’s rash subsided. All was well again. However, I couldn’t help but notice the Spanish women from the family group give Joe frequent sidelong glances. Was it disbelief at his strange behaviour? Or perhaps as Joe asserts, admiration for his equipment. We will never know.

  Summer Baked Potatoes

  These baked potatoes are great cooked on the barbecue and are full of Mediterranean flavours.

  4 medium sized potatoes

  4 cloves garlic

  Oregano

  Thyme

  Salt

  Olive oil

  Wash the potatoes and cut in half, lengthways.

  Peel and crush the garlic and roughly chop the thyme and oregano (dried herbs are also good here).

  On one half of each potato, generously sprinkle the garlic and herbs, add a pinch of salt and a small drizzle of olive oil.

  Put the remaining half of the potato back on top, wrap in foil and cook in the BBQ embers for about 40 minutes - depending on size. You can also cook the potatoes in the oven.

  It was a happy period of our lives. Plenty of Away-Days and leisure time to break the monotony of working on the house. However, yet again it took just one phone call to upset our equilibrium.

  “This is Kurt.”

  “Oh, hello, Kurt. How are you?”

  “I am vell. All the papers are now ready. The builders vill arrive today, this after
noon.”

  “Today? But the chickens are still in the orchard! We need to…”

  But Kurt had already hung up.

  When we first planned to build two houses on our orchard, we knew our less than perfect command of Spanish would be a hurdle. Negotiating with the bank, council permission, building regulations and architects’ plans were all beyond our linguistic capabilities. We needed someone to act as Project Manager, and Kurt was the obvious choice. And Kurt’s business partner, Marco, being on the town council would be very useful.

  We’d waited months for the paper groundwork to be completed, and now it was all finally kicking off.

  “Joe? Joe!”

  “What?”

  “Kurt just phoned. He said the workmen are coming this afternoon to start work on the orchard.”

  “For goodness sake! He could have given us a bit of warning!”

  By choice, we would have moved the chickens at night. We would have waited until they were roosting, then plucked them from their perch one by one. But we didn’t have time for that luxury. Past experience told us that catching them was not an option either.

  “We’ll have to herd them,” I said. “Herd them down the street, round the corner and through the garden gate. Then up the steps in the garden and into the new coop.”

  Joe rolled his eyes. What choice did we have? It was as good a plan as any. Being a week day, the village was almost deserted. The only inhabitants were Marcia and Old Sancho at the shop, Geronimo and Uncle Felix.