“It says ‘postre’ here.”
“Pudding, dear. They take their cooking and their competitions bloody seriously, don’t you know!”
This was not good news. I had no kitchen, no oven, no hot-plates. How could I create a delicious dessert when none of my kitchen utensils was even unpacked? How could I represent Britain under those conditions? I was in danger of betraying my country! My mind wrestled with the problem until I came up with a possible solution. I would call in reinforcements; my ocean-going sister-in-law Grace and her husband Paul. I reached for the phone again.
“Hi, Grace! How are you? How’s Paul?”
“Vicky! We’re absolutely fine. What a coincidence! We’re just entering Almería Marina, and I was going to call you so we could meet up.”
So my calculations were correct. I knew they had sailed out of Portuguese waters a week or so ago and I guessed they’d be close by now.
“How long are you mooring for?” I asked.
“Oh, about three weeks.”
Aha! Perfect.
“How do you fancy coming to stay for a long weekend? Say, the weekend of the fifteenth?” I asked. My plan was coming together. I held my breath.
“That would be lovely,” said Grace. “Are you missing Joe and want company?”
It was time to come clean and expose my ulterior motive. Apart from being nice people, Grace is a fabulous cook. She could produce a veritable banquet even in the tiny galley of their boat. I explained my problem and, bless her, she was amused and promised to provide a dessert. I replaced the receiver and stopped worrying, knowing that Britain’s culinary reputation would be safe in Grace’s capable hands.
During the week before, Geronimo and some colleagues from Judith’s village erected a stage in the square. They hung coloured lights from all the trees and ‘Welcome to our Fiesta!’ signs across the road coming into the village.
On the Friday, my visitors arrived. Paul lugged their suitcase up the stairs while Grace stowed the precious postre ingredients in the fridge. Although we had no kitchen yet, the fridge was an essential item and one of our first purchases.
I gave them the guided tour of our little estate, then we went for a stroll around the village. It was still only midday and the streets were quiet. The church-bells chimed twelve times, then paused for thirty seconds or so and chimed twelve times again.
“Do they always do that?” asked Grace.
“Do what?”
“The church-bells. Do they always ring twice?”
“Yes,” I said. I had stopped noticing them. Geronimo had shrugged when I asked him why they always rang twice. Paco and Carmen-Bethina didn’t know either. It was just accepted.
“I can’t believe you’re living here,” said Grace. “It’s a lovely village, but it’s a bit of a culture shock, isn’t it? A bit ‘third world’. I mean, it’s not like Sussex, is it?”
“That’s why I like it. It’s just so different. The pace of life is so much slower.”
“Don’t you miss going to the pub, or shopping, or speaking English?”
“No, not really.”
“What does Joe think?”
“Well, he likes it too, but probably not as much as I do.” I kicked at a pebble. “We have this Five Year Plan, you see.”
“What’s that?” asked Paul.
“We’ve given ourselves five years. We want to finish doing up the house, build two houses in the orchard, then decide whether we want to stay in Spain or go back to England.”
“What d’you think you’ll do?”
“Well, it’s early days yet, but I think I’ll want to stay. Not sure about Joe, though. He’s going to take some convincing.”
As we passed the square, Geronimo was fiddling with some coloured lights on the stage.
“¿Qué tal?” I asked, as usual.
“Mal, señora,” he replied, tossing back his long hair and continuing to fiddle with the bulbs.
Uncle Felix strolled by and settled himself on a bench. Geronimo hooked the last string of lights into place and disappeared behind the stage. We waved to Uncle Felix and headed home.
Suddenly, a deafening explosion echoed round the valley. Grace, Paul and I jumped and clapped our hands to our ears. Turning back, we saw Geronimo standing in the centre of the square. Hugged to his chest was a huge bundle of fireworks. One by one, he lit the fuses of the rockets, not letting go his hold on the stick until the last split second. One by one the rockets roared into the sky. The blasts shook the village and the air was filled with smoke.
“He doesn’t even stick the rocket into the ground!” squeaked Grace, her hands over her ears.
“Imagine what Health and Safety in Britain would say if they saw this!” said Paul.
I was not particularly surprised. I was already accustomed to the Spanish lack of safety precautions. Most of the village roofs were made from asbestos. Nobody wore goggles, gloves or earmuffs when employing a chainsaw. And many times I had seen Geronimo stagger onto his doorstep and launch rockets into the sky after his beloved Real Madrid had won a match.
Back in our garden, we exchanged family news and gossip over the first drinks of the day. Paul, Welsh and bearded, told tales of how the boat had behaved and who they had met on the high seas. It fascinated me how he opened can after can of beer, tipping them down his throat in seconds, but never appearing affected by the alcohol. An old sea dog’s skill, I assumed.
I checked the programme of events to see what was happening first. According to the timetable, there was to be ‘firing of rockets’ at 12.00 midday to open the Fiesta. So that explained the fireworks.
The lack of people at the opening ceremony was no indication of what was to come. That evening, people poured into the village. Headlights blazed as a constant stream of cars headed down into the valley. Cars blocked the streets, people gathered in noisy clusters, dogs barked, children yelled; the village was transformed from ghost town to Bangkok at night.
“You haven’t put our names down for the Dancing Contest, have you?” asked Grace, flicking pages in the Fiesta programme. “It starts at seven o’clock.”
“What?” Paul sat bolt upright, panic in his eyes.
“Calm down, calm down. No, I didn’t. Relax, have another beer. We can give the Dancing Contest a miss. The big dance starts at ten o’clock tonight so we’ve got plenty of time to have a drink and get ready.”
We sat in the garden, ate, had a few more drinks, then dressed for the dance. As the bells chimed twenty we were sauntering down to the square.
The band, ‘Sparkling Mediterranean’, was on stage, but they hadn’t even started to twinkle yet. Bunches of children chased each other in circles, enjoying the empty space. Old Sancho still sat outside the shop, smiling and staring at nothing in particular. A few groups of villagers stood deep in conversation, and around the edges, some stall holders were setting out their wares. Cars jammed the narrow streets, parked nose to tail, silent and empty.
“Where is everybody?” asked Grace. “I thought the dance started at 10 o’clock?”
“Probably finishing their suppers,” I said. “And getting ready.”
“Well, we might as well go back to the house and have another drink,” said Paul. So we did.
In fact the dancing didn’t begin in earnest until well after midnight. The lead singer of the band cleared his throat and growled a final, “Uno, dos. Uno, dos,” into the microphone. The band throbbed into life, the beat as hot and heavy as the night air. Slowly but steadily the houses disgorged, people migrating to the square like exotic parrots flocking to a waterhole.
I looked up to see Paco arriving with his usual entourage of friends and relations and a lady I didn’t recognise.
13 Processions and Puddings
Winning Rice Pudding Recipe
Paco was smartly turned out; polished shoes, pressed trousers, crisp shirt, oiled hair. But the vision on his arm was none other than Carmen-Bethina! Gone was the apron, replaced by the soft folds of an
off-the-shoulder evening number that floated around her ample curves. High heeled shoes with matching bag and scarlet lipstick completed the ensemble. I tried hard not to stare. She looked stunning.
Sofía looked wonderful, proud head held high. Little Paco was also dressed smartly. He pulled away from his big sister to run excitedly to a bunch of children.
Uncle Felix had made a big effort with his appearance, too. His flat cap had been left at home and his few strands of remaining hair were plastered to his skull with water. He looked curiously naked without his cap, almost vulnerable. I’d never seen him in smart trousers and neat checked shirt before, either, and couldn’t help wondering if his mule would recognise him now.
The live band was in full swing, the valley alive and vibrating with noise. Elderly couples gyrated, upright and dignified, while family groups danced together in circles. Children darted in and out, trailing each other and pestering their parents for small change. The stalls were now set up, mostly manned by dark-skinned Moroccans doing a roaring trade in fire crackers, hot dogs and cheap plastic toys. Around the edge, leather-clad youths leaned nonchalantly against parked motor bikes, eyeing up the girls who danced with their families.
Marcia and Old Sancho sat in straight-backed chairs outside their shop. The black cat was absent, probably inside with its paws over its ears, hiding from the constant explosion of firecrackers set off by small boys. Other more needy village cats lurked around the hot dog stalls, watching hopefully for fallen scraps.
Spanish fiestas never revolve around alcohol. Yes, a couple of bars had been set up and were selling drinks, but they were very low-key affairs. The emphasis was on dancing and family enjoyment. The only drunken rowdy behaviour I ever saw at a fiesta was by Brits, never the Spanish.
At about two in the morning Geronimo let off more fireworks into the night sky, to a larger and more appreciative audience this time. The square was a seething mass of colour, the noise tremendous. Everyone cheered and whooped and clutched each other, pointing up at the sky. Even Marcia stood and clapped, dislodging hairpins which glittered to the ground. Old Sancho just smiled in his simple way, enjoying everyone else’s pleasure. I reminded myself that he had probably attended more than eighty village fiestas before this one.
Fireworks over, the band struck up again and dancing recommenced. By three o’clock Grace, Paul and I were all danced out and crawled our way, exhausted, to bed. But the locals were tireless. The children still weaved in and out of the dancers and the music continued to pound. And this was only Friday night; the Fiesta had hardly begun.
Next morning, Grace and I examined the programme closely to find out the order of events. We soon found the running order rarely followed the programme so we just listened. When noise emanated from the square, we walked down to see what was occurring.
Clowns arrived and put on a show for the children. Five-a-side football games were organised. Flamenco dancers performed. An open air theatre company put on ‘Fires of the Orient’ including fire eaters. The Saturday night dance was even bigger and louder than Friday’s.
What the programme didn’t mention were the fireworks going off at unexpected times. Saturday’s dance hadn’t finished until 4 a.m. and we were sound asleep. At eight o’clock on Sunday morning, the valley exploded into a cacophony of gunshots setting off car alarms and dogs barking. We leapt out of bed in fright and converged in the garden to see what was happening.
“Watch out!” shouted Paul. “Don’t look up!” We were forced to take cover as a hail of rocket sticks rained on our heads like arrows in 1066.
And the programme only mentioned one of the many processions. The one advertised began with the church-bells clamouring insanely. This was the call to Sunday Mass. Then again, as though rung by mad Quasimodo, the bells announced the end of Mass. The church doors burst open and spewed out the congregation. The statue of Santa Barbara (patron saint of the village) was to be given her annual airing.
Heading the procession was a marching band, percussion thumping, trumpets wheezing. The Mayor followed accompanied by some military dignitaries in uniform. Then came Santa Barbara, proudly carried aloft on a flower-decked bier by Geronimo, Paco and other villagers. Then came the Smart Ladies I recognised from the programme selling. Finally came the rest of the villagers, their visitors and the village dogs.
We stood on our doorstep and watched. The procession took five minutes to pass, then halted and hushed to allow a small boy on a balcony to read something. Suddenly everyone cheered, flowers were thrown down on the crowd, and the procession continued back to the church. Santa Barbara’s annual outing was over, and she was put back on her pedestal in the gloomy church until next year. Geronimo let off a few more fireworks for good measure, and the crowd dispersed.
Unfortunately, a firework had landed in the olive grove above the village, setting the parched scrub alight. At first, just plumes of smoke drifted across the mountainside.
“I don’t like the look of that,” said Paul, tugging at his beard. “That could spread really quickly.” As he spoke, the flames licked at a clump of bushes, turning them orange. Several olive trees burst into flame. Then the wind changed, chasing the smoke in our direction. Now we could smell it and hear the dry brush crackling. We watched in horror as it advanced.
“Has someone called the Fire Brigade, do you think?” asked Grace. Her face was white.
“I wonder where the nearest one is?” I had never seen a Spanish fire engine.
“It’s getting worse!” said Grace. “I think we should…” As she spoke, the flames reared up. “Quick! I think we should get ready to run!”
Her panic was infectious. I raced after her into the house and grabbed Great Aunt Elsa and my passport. I stood in the middle of the room looking round. Was our stay in Spain to be cut short already? I loved this house, loved this life. I didn’t want to leave, I wasn’t ready.
“Come and see this,” called Paul from outside.
Grace and I emerged and looked at the mountainside above. The fire still danced and shimmied, but silhouetted against the smoke was a crowd of villagers. We watched as they formed a chain down to the village. Geronimo shouted instructions. Buckets, saucepans and pots of water travelled along the human chain to be hurled at the flames. Other volunteers beat and stamped until the orange disappeared and only smoke rose from the ground. The fire was extinguished.
It hadn’t taken long to put out. There was no panic from the villagers. They seemed very organised and accustomed to this kind of event.
“I think you can take Great Aunt Elsa back in now,” said Paul. Then, glancing at Grace, “And our suitcase.” His words were drowned by the drone of a helicopter which appeared over the crest of the mountain. It circled, seemed satisfied that the job was done and wheeled away. It was comforting to know that Fire Department helicopters were on constant standby.
Another procession attracted our attention that weekend. It snaked its way up the almost vertical road to the little shrine above the village. Leading was a mini tractor driven by Geronimo, but it was the trailer it towed that was remarkable.
The trailer was decorated with intertwined branches and leaves. Pot plants stood on the floor of the trailer. In the centre of this leafy jungle, on a dining room chair, sat Old Sancho. Smiling benignly, he sat with his walking stick gripped between his knees.
“Come on, let’s follow it!” I said to Grace and Paul.
The winding road up to the shrine was steep and pitted. We were out of breath and panting when we reached it. Old Sancho’s knuckles were white with the effort of holding onto his stick and the side of the trailer, but his gentle smile never wavered. The procession reached the shrine, and the Smart Ladies were there to hand out hot chocolate and cakes. Then Old Sancho was lifted back onto his chair, and we all trudged back down the mountain in a giant multi-coloured alligator.
Two o’clock. Time for the Gastronomic Contest. I was nervous, not knowing what to expect, worried that we wouldn’t understand
what was going on. I didn’t worry about our entry because clever Grace had excelled herself. Her sherry trifle was topped with snowy peaks of whipped cream, the glossy strawberries glinting. How could a judge resist?
Carefully, we carried the dish to the square but there was no-one there. Unless you counted Old Sancho, his cat and Uncle Felix. But the two Smart Ladies appeared from nowhere, accepted our dish and placed it on a wall. Then they busied themselves setting up some trestle tables. We stood nearby, trying to shoo the flies off the trifle and guarding it from hopeful village dogs. White paper tablecloths were thrown over the tables, twitched this way and that until the Smart Ladies were satisfied. All this time, our trifle patiently sat and sweated in the sun. At long last, the ladies remembered our contribution and put it on the table, labelled ‘Ingles’ (English).
More contestants drifted in and added their dishes to the display. Women milled around tutting and clucking over each others’ entries and making last minute adjustments to their own. The square was now filled with people, many clutching plastic cutlery and empty paper plates provided by the Smart Ladies.
Suddenly the atmosphere changed. The crowd quietened and split apart like the Red Sea to allow the Mayor and uniformed dignitaries access to the presentations. The Smart Ladies were in their element as they herded the crowd away from the tables with outstretched arms. The judges were given silver cutlery and invited to begin.
It was a very serious business. They worked along the tables tasting every dish, pausing and looking thoughtful. Then they made notes on their clipboards. Occasionally they conferred, faces deadpan, heads close together, voices hushed. The village ladies leaned forward, ears cupped, desperately straining to catch the words. The Smart Ladies fluttered round the judges, simpering and moving plates a quarter of a centimetre left or right.
Our magnificent trifle had waited nearly two hours in the relentless Spanish sun and was not faring well. Its proud snowy crests had sunk to milky pools as the whipped cream collapsed and melted. The strawberries floated forlornly in a white scum sea. Poor Grace looked miserable, mouth drooped, shoulders sagged. It was not the best example of British cuisine and we were not hopeful.
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