Sometimes Uncle Felix sat with them. His clothes were as ancient as himself and hung off his wiry frame like a sack thrown over a nail. His flat cap was threadbare and pulled down to shade his eyes. He had only two teeth, one upper, one lower. Uncle Felix had been a shepherd all his life and could neither read nor write. Nor had he ever visited a doctor or dentist, and Paco once whispered to Joe that Uncle Felix had ‘never had a woman’.
Paco told us that during the reign of the Spanish dictator, General Franco, Uncle Felix, like all young men, had been conscripted. Never having left the village before, his family pinned a label on his back with his name and destination, and left him at the railway station. Felix served his time, and when his tour of duty ended, the army once again pinned his name and address on his back and put him on a train home.
Uncle Felix lived in a two-roomed cottage in the village. One room was his, and the other was home to his mule and two chickens. The mule was a glossy beauty and clearly adored Uncle Felix. He would tether her on patches of waste ground to graze, but she had only one thing on her mind - Felix. Countless times we saw her trotting through the streets, rope trailing, often still attached to the stake she had managed to wrench from the ground. Ears alert, eyes bright, she was on a mission - find her beloved master.
Her ability to find him was unerring. As she rounded a street corner and caught sight of him, she would break into a canter. She had found him! Whinnying happily, she lovingly nuzzled the object of her affections. It was a never-ending source of amusement to the villagers.
I once patted the mule and asked Uncle Felix what her name was. He looked at me with scorn. “Mule, of course,” he replied. Of course. Silly me.
Although our new mailbox was always empty, my inbox was being bombarded with emails. Back in Sussex, my two friends from school, Juliet and Sue, were preparing for their first visit out to me. The Gin Twins were coming for four days during their half term and they were full of questions. What shall we bring? What clothes do we need? Is gin cheap?
I made it as clear as I could how basic their accommodation would be, even sending photographs so that they wouldn’t be disappointed. I told them how they needed to bring only shorts and maybe jeans if we went out to eat. No posh clothes, no high heels. And, yes, gin was cheap.
Much as I loved the solitude in the village, it was wonderful to see them. They brimmed with hilarious stories from the staff-room and juicy morsels of gossip from my former life. They brought gifts, like books and bayonet-type light bulbs for my English lamps, as Spanish bulbs are different. For my part, I made sure there was plenty of gin in the cupboard.
A word about my lovely friends. Juliet is blonde, dizzy and a coiled spring. Unable to keep still, she lives off nervous energy, exhausting all around her. However, she was the best teaching assistant I had ever had, the sort that knows what you need even before you do. Juliet is up for everything, including representing England in the International Marbles Tournament.
Sue is very different. She is quiet and thoughtful, musically talented, and reveals a wicked dry sense of humour, particularly after a few gins.
There is nothing quite like a Girls Only holiday. The absence of men makes us loosen up and shrug off our roles as wife/mother/teacher/whatever with delicious abandon.
The weather stayed hot and we could drive with the jeep’s roof down. Sue (ever the music teacher) led us in raucous songs which we bellowed out to the mountain goats as the jeep meandered along the dusty roads. We visited other villages, went shopping in the city, sunbathed, did crosswords, played games and generally chilled out. When the sun passed the yardarm (often straight after breakfast) the gin bottle came out.
On their last night, we drove down to the city and ate at our favourite restaurant. The Moroccan waiter took our order but only had eyes for Juliet.
“Salad to start?” he asked, his eyes sliding up and down Juliet’s body.
“Yes, please, then a tortilla. And two more gin and tonics, please, and an orange juice.”
“Of course, beautiful lady. Anything else?”
“No, thank you, that’s all.”
“Beautiful lady, you are most welcome…” He backed away reluctantly, delivered our order to the kitchen and returned to the dining room, flicking longing glances at Juliet. Still watching her, he reached for the music system controls and turned the volume up high. He approached our table again and bowed low to Juliet, taking her hand.
“Beautiful lady, would you like to dance?”
Sue and I were smirking, and Juliet played along fuelled by gin and her natural effervescence. She plucked a plastic flower from the vase on the table and gripped it between her teeth. Standing, she gave him an exaggerated curtsey. The waiter slipped his other hand around her waist and off they whirled between the tables.
The clattering of cutlery on crockery ceased as diners leaned back to watch the floor show. The Flamenco music was infectious and Sue started to clap in time to the twang of the Spanish guitars. The whole room took up the clapping. Shouts of encouragement in Spanish, English and German accompanied the pair’s spinning path. The waiter, head held arrogantly high, eyes hooded, stamped his heels together one last time and finally delivered his flushed partner back to our table.
“Thank you, beautiful lady,” he said, and pressed his lips to Juliet’s hand.
With a last lingering glance, the waiter went back to his duties and the diners took up their knives and forks again. At our table, the gin continued to flow. The Gin Twins giggled like teenagers throughout the meal amusing me greatly as the sober designated driver.
When we left, the Moroccan waiter shook hands with Sue and me but kissed Juliet on the cheek. He held onto her for far too long, brown eyes smouldering with intent. She extricated herself with difficulty. More cause for hilarity as we stood outside.
“Wow, the wind’s really picked up, hasn’t it?” observed Sue at last. She was right. Outside the restaurant was an ornamental fountain and the road was soaking wet from where the wind had blown the water sideways. The palm trees lining the roadsides rustled and bent in the wind.
“Don’t worry, it’s always windy down here in town. When we get back up into the mountains there won’t be any wind.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course - we never get really strong winds in our village.” A tumbleweed bowled down the street followed by carrier bags and crisp packets.
We set off and headed home. The Gin Twins were in full singing voice while I concentrated on driving. I was a little concerned. Instead of calming, the wind seemed to be growing in strength. Sharp blasts rocked the jeep and made the Gin Twins squeal. Branches and debris littered the dark road.
At last we turned onto the road that descended to our village. The street lights twinkled below as I carefully negotiated the bends. I drove cautiously, ever mindful of the narrowness of the road, the steepness of the drop down and the sudden gusts of wind.
Suddenly a vast shape loomed in front of us. I braked sharply, spoiling the Gin Twins’ rendition of ‘Windmill in old Amsterdam’.
“I saw a mouse! WHERE? There on the stair! Where on the... Whassup?”
“There’s something big in the road.” I tried to peer through the dark.
“Big? Big like an elephant?” Howls of laughter from the Gin Twins.
“No, big like a tree.”
“A tree?”
“Yes, there’s a fallen tree blocking us.”
Silence while they thought about that. A gust of wind swayed the jeep. Then, “Can you drive round it?”
“No way! The road’s much too narrow.”
“Oh, come on, let’s get out and have a look.” Juliet was already opening the car door, fighting the wind.
Talking was almost impossible; the wind forced us to shout. We stood assessing the situation. I’d left the headlights on and the size of the obstacle was spotlighted. The uprooted tree stretched right across the road. Its roots pointed into the night sky on one side, while it
s crown vanished into the darkness of the precipice on the other. The street lights of the village below flickered invitingly. So near, yet so far.
“Right!” shouted Juliet, the practical one. “If we all pull, I bet we could move it.” The three of us got into position, arms round the trunk, tugging. “No! All together! Right, one, two, three, PULL!”
Even when synchronised, we made absolutely no impression. The tree didn’t budge an inch. The Gin Twins collapsed laughing while the wind howled and tore at the leaves of the branches.
“Okay, use your mobile, call someone to help,” yelled Juliet, recovering.
“Who would I ask to come out?”
“The Mayor?” Juliet shouted, and she had a point. The Mayor lived in Judith’s village, but was also in charge of our village.
“Why would I have the Mayor’s home phone number? And there’s no mobile signal here, anyway.”
“PARDON?”
“Oh, never mind. Any ideas, Sue? Sue! You haven’t said anything for ages.”
Sue put her hand up like a child in class. “Girls,” she said, "I’ve got something important to say. REALLY important.”
“WHAT?”
“I… I need the loo. And it’s urgent!”
“What?”
“I NEED THE LOO!”
“Well, go on the side of the road. We won’t look.”
Sue’s face was red, even in the car’s headlights. “No, I can’t. It’s not just, er, I mean...”
Juliet was severe. The wind died for a second allowing us to hear her perfectly. Her voice changed and she spoke as though back in the infants’ classroom. “Goodness!” she said, wagging her finger at Sue. “You’ve chosen a fine time to need the toilet, haven’t you? Well, you can’t do it now. You’ll just have to wait!”
This was too much. Juliet and I were helpless with laughter. Poor Sue clutched at herself, exercising supreme control while tears of laughter ran down her face.
I stirred myself into action. I would try signalling. Back in the driver’s seat, I flashed the headlights spelling out S.O.S. (Joe, with his military training would have been proud of me.) Zero response. I tried sounding S.O.S. on the hooter. Again, zero response. I leant on the hooter for a full minute but the noise was snatched away by the wind. Nothing happened for about half an hour. We had almost agreed to abandon the jeep, climb over the tree and walk the two miles down to the village. Sue’s evacuation problem had subsided for the moment and she felt able to walk.
Then we saw something. Far below us a single moving light faltered. One second it was there, the next it was gone. But every time it reappeared, it was closer.
“It’s not a car, there’s only one light. Perhaps it’s a motorbike?”
“No, it’s moving all wrong, and it’s too high off the ground for a motorbike.”
“Then what is it?” whispered Sue. “It’s moving much too fast for a person, and it’s sort of, bouncing.”
If it wasn’t human, what could it be? Juliet voiced what we were all thinking. A thought that filled three middle-aged, normally sensible ladies with dread.
“It’s a ghost…”
The wind howled around us again and we huddled closer together, clutching each other in fear. Sue’s previous problem returned with a vengeance. The light continued to float towards us, closer, closer.
I didn’t believe in ghosts, never had, but that windy moonless night I was sure I was seeing a ghastly apparition. And it was coming closer.
12 ¡Fiesta!
Spicy Almonds with Paprika
Catalan Chicken and Chorizo Stew
Gradually I could discern a shape. But not a shape that belonged to our world. An irregular, many humped, black shape. A shape that bounced slightly as it covered the ground between us. It was rounding the last bend, phantom light glimmering through the trees, ever approaching.
“It’s horrible…” breathed Sue. “And it’s nearly here...”
“I think we should run,” whispered Juliet, white-faced and serious. “We’ve still got time.”
But our legs had turned to rubber. I could hear my own heart thumping and Juliet’s fingernails were digging into my arm. Sue was rigid, none of us could move. United in terror, we held our breath as the vision revealed itself.
Trotting towards us were Geronimo and Uncle Felix, both astride Uncle Felix’s mule. Geronimo’s long hair and Real Madrid scarf whipped in the gusts, and Uncle Felix had to hold his flat cap down or lose it. Geronimo held a torch and the ubiquitous beer bottle.
“Ladies!” Geronimo waved his beer bottle in greeting. “Do not worry, just wait there. We will move the tree out of the road.”
“Hurrah!” yelled Juliet, jumping up and down, fear forgotten. “We’re saved!”
“Thank God,” muttered Sue to herself.
The mule, cheerful as ever, halted when she reached the fallen tree. Geronimo and Uncle Felix slid off to the ground. Silently they looped a rope round the trunk and secured it around the mule’s neck. The mule scarcely strained as she hauled the tree to the nearest widening of the road. Our ordeal was over.
We climbed back into the jeep and drove over the remaining debris, tyres crunching over the almonds that the tree had shed. I slowed down to thank our rescuers.
“Muchas gracias,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
“Muchas gracias,” chorused the Gin Twins, leaning out of the windows.
Uncle Felix merely nodded, eyes downcast, hands twisting the mule’s rope. Looking directly at three women was clearly beyond his capability. Geronimo’s face was red, whether from the wind or beer, I couldn’t say.
“How did you know we were here?” I asked. But Geronimo was otherwise occupied refreshing himself from his bottle.
“Must have been your expert signalling,” said Juliet as we drove away. “Joe’ll be really impressed when he hears about this.”
Back home, Sue now vastly relieved, the Gin Twins happily renewed their acquaintance with the gin bottle. It had been an eventful night.
When we drove past the fallen tree the next day, the leaves had wilted and the tree looked a fraction of the monster it had appeared the night before. By the following day it had been chopped up into neat lengths for firewood. Only shattered almonds on the road gave any clue to our adventure.
I waved goodbye to the Gin Twins and assumed that the village would remain almost deserted until spring. However, as usual, I was wrong. Although the village was empty on week days, the population still swelled at weekends as families arrived from the city. But now there was a new sense of urgency in the air. People arrived with purpose, with an agenda. And the reason for this energy and atmosphere of anticipation?
I had forgotten the most important annual event in El Hoyo’s calendar. The Fiesta!
The streets became a hive of activity. Houses were whitewashed, doors varnished, doorsteps polished. The town council hung terracotta pots bursting with crimson geraniums on the walls.
One weekend I heard a commotion outside. To my surprise, the street was filled with furniture. Tables, chairs, a television, all manner of things were stacked up and standing in the street. Any approaching cars would need to reverse and find another route to avoid flattening the sideboard and three piece suite. Carmen-Bethina and Sofía bustled in and out of their house, absorbed in their task.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Cleaning,” said Carmen-Bethina, pausing to wipe her hands on her apron. “In two weeks it is the Fiesta.”
“Mama is hoping this year I will find a husband,” said Sofía, her beautiful eyes dancing. “She has been to church every week praying that I will.”
“Claro,” said Carmen-Bethina.
“Pah!” said Paco, staggering out of the house with yet more furniture. “For that we need a miracle.”
Neighbours we had never met before materialised. A car drew up beside the little tumbledown house opposite our garden gate and three elderly people got out. They stood surveying their house, hand
s shielding their eyes from the sun in identical poses.
“We will begin outside,” said Brown Shirt. He must have been in his seventies, wrinkled but full of drive and energy.
“¡Madre mia! No, it is much too hot. It is better to begin inside,” said the lady. She had the same build as her companions, the same way of holding her head to one side like an inquisitive sparrow. I guessed they were siblings; two brothers and a sister.
“Always begin on the roof,” said Flat Cap. “Always begin at the top, then work down. Sí, that is the best way.”
The discussion got more heated, then abated as they unloaded the boot of the car. Buckets of whitewash, brushes, cleaning materials and step ladders all lined up along the street.
“We will have coffee first,” said the lady.
“No, we must start,” said Flat Cap.
“Sí, let’s start,” agreed Brown Shirt. “And do not put too much water in that whitewash.”
And so it went on. Every action was discussed and argued over. Every suggestion became a heated debate. They quarrelled, bickered and squabbled over every tiny thing. However, by the time they left that evening, white-speckled and still arguing, the little house looked smart and refreshed.
Next, I had a visit from two smart ladies selling the Fiesta programme. I paid up, accepted the programme and was given a pottery jug with ‘Fiestas Patronales El Hoyo’ inscribed. The ladies pointed to something in the programme. I nodded politely even though I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. The ladies looked pleased and added the word ‘English’ to a list.
I got on the phone and checked with Judith. When the barking of the dogs had subsided, I asked my question.
“Judith, what exactly does, er, ‘Concurso Gastronomico: presentación de platos’ mean?”
“Oh, well done, dear! So you’ve entered the Cookery Contest, have you?”
“I have? Cookery Contest? Oh hell!”
“Main course or dessert?”
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