Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  The grapes were ignored and everyone burst into the cool and dark of the cortijo. A wonderful aroma pervaded from the bunches of herbs strung from the ceiling. Paco gave me a guided tour which didn’t take long. The room was dominated by a huge fireplace, complete with neatly stacked logs. In the centre stood a long table with mismatched chairs placed around. In one corner was a sink, supplied by water from a rainwater tank, a couple of kitchen wall cupboards and a gas burner. Evidently there was no electricity or mains water. I wondered how and where anyone answered the call of nature.

  In another corner near the entrance was a built-in Heath Robinson affair which I couldn’t identify. It consisted of a large vat with reservoir below, and weights standing by. Another gadget stood nearby. It was a kind of metal barrel on its side, on wheels. It had a huge handle that turned a horizontal corkscrew.

  All was to be revealed later, but for now the women were on autopilot and a delicious meal of patatas a lo pobre (poor man’s potatoes) was conjured up and set on the table. The meal was not rushed, but eventually the women cleared away, while the men wheeled out the barrel contraption and set it up with buckets placed under. Next, the first crates of grapes were hauled in. Time to begin work.

  “Veeky, watch me,” said Bethina. All the women were crowded round the barrel and I carefully copied Bethina’s actions. She grabbed a bunch of grapes, checked them over, then stripped the grapes in fistfuls, throwing them into the barrel. The big stems were discarded. That’s not too hard, I thought, and imitated her movements.

  Juice ran down my arms, dripped off my elbows. Grape skins wedged under my fingernails. Half an hour later I felt like a zombie, sticky, hands already stained black, fingers aching, back sore from stooping. My movements became mechanical - grab, strip, chuck, drip. It was relentless, hour after hour, the heaps of waiting grapes diminishing oh, so slowly. The flies tormented, never ceasing. The women laughed and chattered without pause and I became too tired to try to work out what they were talking about. I felt deeply ashamed for being such a namby-pamby weakling while these strong women just took the task in their stride.

  Every now and then someone would seize the handle and turn the corkscrew device that crushed the grapes and separated more sticks from the pulp. The juicy pulp splattered into the bucket below, splashing our legs and soaking our feet with syrupy goo.

  When the bucket filled, the men lugged it away and emptied it into the vat. Sinews straining, they heaved the massive weights on top, then turned a wheel to lower them and crush the pulp. A steady stream of pure clear grape juice poured from the reservoir into plastic buckets, which was transferred to barrels. Paco filled a cup for me to sample. It was like a taste of heaven.

  At one point, Bethina stopped. She dipped her hands into a bucket of water to rinse them, then beckoned.

  “Veeky, follow me.” Off she trotted, into the bright sunshine outside, to the back of the quail pens, with me two steps behind. The children were giving the chickens a hard time, chasing them through the olive trees. First chickens, then children galloped past in clouds of dust, too immersed in their own pursuits to notice us.

  “Veeky, this is the place.” She pointed down at the spot of ground we were standing on.

  “Here?”

  “Claro.” She was nodding furiously and looking at me expectantly.

  I had absolutely no idea what Bethina was trying to show me. I bent down low, examining the soil closely. Was she trying to show me a seedling? Or was the earth special here in some way? I looked up at her blankly. She sighed, exasperated, then flipped up her apron, hauled down her voluminous white bloomers, squatted, and relieved herself on the dusty ground. Now I got it. I averted my eyes and thanked her, assuring her I didn’t need to do likewise just now.

  Back to work. More grapes, more flies, more purple sludge. It all ended at eight o’clock when it grew too dark to see what we were doing. I was numb with tiredness. Every bone ached and I felt as dirty and sticky as though I’d been dipped in honey and rolled in grit.

  My shower at home that night was blissful and the water ran pink with juice, grape skins clogging the drain hole. Gradually, my back stopped aching and I could flex my fingers without discomfort.

  Judith phoned many times, usually just to check if all was well. And there was always some drama or crisis in her life to relate.

  “Vicky! It’s Judith!” Dogs barked loudly in the background.

  “Hello, Judith!"

  “How are you coping on your own?” Bethina next door could have heard her through the metre thick wall.

  “Fine, thank you. Everything’s fine,” I replied. “How are you and Mother?”

  “I’m top hole. Couldn’t be better, m’dear. But poor Mother’s been through the bloody wars lately.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  “Fell over one of the bloody cats, dear! Nasty fall. Lucky she didn’t break anything. Ghastly bruises, though. Really shook her up. Called the bloody Spanish doctor in to check her over, and would you believe it? He was off on some bloody conference and we had to make do with the locum!”

  “Oh dear, was he no good?”

  “Turned out to be a bloody woman, dear! Said Mother was fine, just shaken and bruised. Said regular glasses of red wine would help, and gave her a spliff!”

  “A what?”

  “A spliff, dear. A joint! Bloody marijuana!”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Nope! A bloody spliff!”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Well, Mother tried it and said it sorted her out a treat. Said she felt very relaxed. Cheered her up no end. Surprised me, though, I can tell you! Fancy the locum being a bloody woman!”

  So that was okay then. Another crisis averted.

  Telephone calls with Judith were never boring, and often very enlightening. The next call from her would leave me squirming and pink with embarrassment.

  10 The Eco-Warriors

  Barbecued Sardines

  “Bloody Hoover’s packed up, dear,” Judith lamented. “And we’ve got visitors coming over from England on Wednesday. Our charlady, Ana, is in a real tizz. Get DOWN, Tyson. Curly, be quiet!”

  “Well, why don’t you borrow my Dyson?” I said. “I’m in all day if you want to pick it up.” Secretly I sympathised with Ana. Cleaning that house must have been an uphill task.

  “Marvelous idea! Mother? MOTHER! Vicky’s going to lend us her Dyson!” Her shout set the dogs barking again. “I’ll pop round later and get it. Tyson! Leave Fluffy alone - she’s not interested. Now, m’dear, what have you been doing since Joe went back to England?”

  “Oh, just stuff on the house. And Paco and Bethina took me up to their cortijo for grape pressing.”

  “God’s teeth, Tyson, STOP IT! Fluffy doesn’t want to do that… Sorry, Vicky, were you talking about Paco and Carmen?” She sounded puzzled.

  “Paco and his wife, Bethina,” I repeated.

  “Your next door neighbours, Paco and his wife Carmen, with Sofía and Little Paco?” Judith knew everyone in both villages, so I was confused.

  “Oh,” I said, “we call her ‘Bethina’. Paco introduced her as Bethina when we first met, ages ago. Has she got two names?”

  There was a short silence as she thought about that, then a huge guffaw erupted, setting the dogs off again.

  “Vicky! Are you sure he didn’t say ‘vecina’?” she roared, choking on more laughter. She explained that in Andalucía, ‘v’ is pronounced ‘b’ and that a ‘c’ in the middle of a word is said with a lisp, sounding like ‘th’. Thus ‘vecina’, meaning neighbour, became Bethina. Understanding dawned. That first day, Paco had said, pointing to himself, “Soy Paco.” (I am Paco) and when he had introduced Carmen, he had pointed at her and described her as ‘vecina’ (neighbour). I was mortified. We had been calling Carmen ‘neighbour’ for many months. Joe sometimes even called her Beth, or Betty for short.

  I couldn’t apologise enough to Carmen when I saw her
next.

  “No pasa nada,” she said, round cheeks dimpling. “It doesn’t matter. I thought that is how people call each other in England.”

  Judith borrowed the Dyson and returned it the next day after Ana, her cleaner, had finished with it. It was stuffed full with enough animal hair to reconstitute a decent sized dog, but at least her house was ready for the expected visitors.

  The Dyson had done a very thorough job. When I emptied it, several odd things fell out. A dog tag, a black lace garter, a guitar plectrum and a small but important looking key.

  I phoned Judith to report the key find. I didn’t mention the black lace garter.

  “Good Lord, Vicky. Awfully well done, m’dear! We’ve been looking everywhere for that wretched key!”

  “Oh, is it important?”

  “Important, dear? It’s bloody vital! It’s the key to the drinks cabinet. We were just trying to pick the lock with Mother’s nail file when you phoned.”

  September brought my first visitors. Knowing they were coming sent me into a flurry of preparation and panic. I frantically sorted out a bedroom. I assembled the double bed, found suitable furniture, evicted families of geckos and swept the dirt floor until I exploded into sneezing and coughing fits from dust inhalation. The result wasn’t too bad. The roof didn’t leak in that room and the mountain views (if you could force the ancient shutters open) were magnificent.

  Although the bedroom was just about acceptable, there was nothing I could do about the bathroom. Or the fact we had no kitchen. Until Joe returned in December any major renovations were out of the question.

  However, I comforted myself that my sister Caroline and her husband Nicholas had spent time in Africa doing voluntary work, and assumed they were probably used to basic accommodation.

  Caroline and I look alike, but there the resemblance ends. She is confident and lively. I am quiet and circumspect. She speaks seven languages fluently - including Spanish. I still struggle with Spanish. She is scathing of television and cars (she and Nicholas choose to have neither), whereas I love my TV and couldn’t be without a car. They never buy new if they can make do with the old. Any necessary purchase is weighed up and rigorously discussed before the shared purse sees the light of day. I am the opposite; if something breaks down, I usually buy a new one rather than trying to get it fixed. Both Caroline and Nicholas’s passion in life is the Environment and Saving the Planet. I try to do my bit but don’t get much further than throwing paper and wine bottles into the recycling skip.

  In spite of their foibles, they are incredibly thoughtful and generous. They arrived carrying only backpacks and still managed to bring presents for me: books, candles and bread-making flour for my bread-making machine.

  I needn’t have worried about the house, they slotted into the way of life perfectly. Not even the washing facilities bothered them. In fact, washing became a ritual and masterclass in conservation.

  It went like this: Caroline would announce she was having a shower. She would take her shower swiftly, mindful of economising on water, leaving the plug in the bath so every drop was saved. Then Nicholas would use this water to take his bath, even though it was only a few inches deep. Next they would bring their clothes to the bathroom and wash them in the same water. Finally, the now grey water was scooped out and used to water the grapevine. I was filled with wonder.

  I had never met a couple who shared so many things. Apart from bath water, they also shared a towel. They refused my offer of big, fluffy bath towels, preferring instead to share a threadbare remnant that I probably wouldn’t even use to clean the car. They shared a toothbrush and comb. They shared a tea-bag, then shared it again for a second cup. They shared food from their plates like new lovers, and being small in stature, even sat together in an armchair like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

  Most days they would set out on a trek up the mountains. First they plastered each other with total block sun-cream. Then they donned their sun hats, complete with flap to protect the back of the neck. Their water carrier, which closely resembled a colostomy bag, yellowing and floppy, was filled. Final check - binoculars, compass, camera, glucose sweets. Because of their fascination with all things natural, they avoided tracks and paths. They preferred to scramble up the most rugged terrain in search of rare lichen or indigenous succulents. From our garden, they looked like tiny insects clambering up a compost heap.

  When they returned, they proudly showed me the photos they had taken. Frame after frame of close-up studies of plants. Nicholas, usually silent, transformed into an enthusiastic instructor, describing the plant species, using the Latin terms, almost stuttering in his excitement. And there was plenty of flora and fauna for him to study. The geckos I had evicted earlier had returned to the bedroom, much to his delight, and our overgrown garden was another rich vein of botanical discoveries.

  One day Nicholas went missing for a couple of hours and I asked Caroline where he was. She merely pointed to the garden. Barely visible, crouched in the scrub, Nicholas was motionless. He was in a world of his own, binoculars trained on a wasps’ nest in the garden wall. I am ashamed to admit that a few months later, we interred that same wasps’ nest with cement.

  On another occasion we had been shopping down in the town. An exhausting business when your companions need to discuss every purchase at length. The longest delay was at the fish counter. There was just too much choice. The display was a work of art, fish of every shape and hue reposing on beds of ice. Caroline and Nicholas tested the poor assistant to distraction, changing their minds about which fish to buy for the evening barbecue.

  “We don’t need two, we can share one,” said Nicholas.

  “But will that be enough?” Caroline worried.

  “Well, we can choose a big one.” Then, to the assistant, “That one, please. No, the one behind it. Oh, that’s bigger than I thought - maybe the one on the left, no, perhaps the next one...”

  And so it continued until they were both finally satisfied and the weighed, wrapped fish was handed over like a newborn baby. The assistant and I were united in relief. I sped the trolley away before they could change their minds again.

  It was a beautiful evening. The swallows overhead were replaced by bats. The cicadas chirped their evening choruses before falling silent. A fox barked some distance away. We felt totally at peace. Nicholas had lit the barbecue and the precious fish, now wrapped in foil, was sizzling appetisingly. Nicholas and Caroline shared salad duties and were engrossed in chopping and slicing. The telephone rang, Joe’s daily call from England, and I left the peaceful domestic scene to go inside and answer it.

  As I finished the call and put the receiver down, an agonised howl from the garden split the air. I shot outside and was met by chaos. Chairs were overturned, Caroline stood frozen to the spot, mouth hanging open, while Nicholas was shaking with fury, his fist clenched. Then I saw the cause of the debacle.

  High on the garden wall sat one of the village cats. She was one of our favourites, part Siamese, part tabby, very beautiful. Although feral, she was slightly tamer than the other cats and often snoozed in our garden. We fed her scraps occasionally but had never named her. Clamped between her teeth was a large hunk of fish, complete with aluminium foil.

  Nicholas’s love of wildlife seemed to have evaporated. And his eagerness to share was also under question.

  “Damn cat! How dare you! That was our bloody supper!”

  Caroline was more philosophical. “Well, there’s quite a lot left,” she said. “If we just cut the end off...”

  Nicholas was having none of it, literally. Teeth clenched, he flashed her a glare that nearly turned our wine to vinegar and stomped off to bed refusing any supper, even though it was only nine o’clock.

  And the cat? She dined well that night. I later named her Thief Cat and she continued to ornament our garden with her graceful form, dozing, but always with one china blue eye slightly open, no doubt waiting for that perfect opportunity to return.

  I was so
rry when Caroline and Nicholas left. They were good company. Caroline spoke perfect Spanish and had been a great help to me. Nicholas had taught me how to identify fascinating creatures, like the carpenter bee which, like a huge, harmless, purple torpedo, blundered round the garden in search of rotten wood to build its home. He showed me the busy little shield beetles and identified birdsong.

  But, to this day, none of us have ever mentioned the incident of Thief Cat and the stolen fish again.

  However, my next set of visitors turned out to be even livelier than the last…

  11 Mules and Storms

  Asparagus Salad

  Chicken and Prawn Paella

  By October, there were very few people living in the village during the week. In fact I was shocked to learn that there were but five souls in total. By now I knew them all well. Marcia and Old Sancho at the shop, Geronimo with his three dogs, Paco’s ancient Uncle Felix. And me.

  I saw Marcia and Old Sancho every day as she set aside a loaf of bread to save me listening out for the bread van’s hoot. If I was waiting for a letter I would pop into the shop as Marcia’s was also the unofficial Post Office. We had hung a smart new shiny black mailbox outside our house, but it was ignored by the postman. The only thing I ever found in it was dust, and once a dead carpenter bee that must have blundered in by mistake. All village post was dumped at Marcia’s for collection.

  The weather was still warm enough for Old Sancho and his cat to doze outside the shop, and Geronimo was often there too. I always greeted them with “¿Qué tal?” (How’s things?) and the reply was always the same. Old Sancho just smiled in his simple way. The cat would arch her back to be stroked. Geronimo would shake his head grimly, long hair swinging, and answer, “Mal!” (bad) before taking another swig from his beer.