Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  The first time they gave us a sack of stale bread we thanked them politely, but were puzzled.

  “A gift from my son,” said Marcia, pushing a hairpin back into her bun. “It is stale bread from the bakery.”

  Marcia and Old Sancho’s sons owned the bakery in the next village. Okay, so now we knew where the bread came from, but we still didn’t understand why it was being given to us.

  Sometimes bags of stale bread would be hung on our gate, or left on our doorstep. It was a mystery.

  I popped next door to ask Paco.

  “For the chickens!” he said. “Soak the bread in hot water and give it to the chickens. And give your eggshells to the chickens, too. Eggshells will make the next eggs strong.”

  It seemed an almost cannibalistic practice, giving back the eggshells the girls had produced, but we followed his advice. The girls liked the eggshells and enthusiastically hoovered up the soggy bread. So now we accepted our gifts of stale bread gratefully, and the mystery was solved.

  There was one gift that always made me smile, even though it wasn’t presented to us. On Little Paco’s birthday, I popped next door to give him his present and a card. Birthday cards are difficult to buy in Spain so I gave him a homemade one. He opened both card and present and thanked me politely.

  “Did you get lots of presents?” I asked.

  Little Paco nodded his head, but his eyes were downcast. He was obviously upset.

  “He has games for his Playstation, toys, footballs, all sorts of things,” said his mother, drying her hands on her apron.

  “What’s the matter, then?” I asked him. “You don’t seem very happy. Didn’t you like your presents?”

  Carmen-Bethina tossed her head impatiently. Little Paco hung his head. His bottom lip trembled and his dark eyes filled.

  “What I really want,” he quavered, “is a puppy…”

  Carmen-Bethina snorted. “A puppy?” she said. “I’ve told you over and over again, no puppy! I do not want a dog in the house, do I make myself clear? Puppies are messy, and they need looking after. And who will end up looking after it? Me! You are not having a puppy, and that’s final!”

  Paco came into the house and caught the tail end of his wife’s rant.

  “Pah! We already have two dogs,” he said, meaning the hunting dogs that were kept outside. A fat teardrop trickled down Little Paco’s cheek. “Your mother is right, we do not need any more. Now, that is enough! You are not getting a puppy and I do not want to hear another word about it.”

  “Claro,” said Carmen-Bethina firmly.

  Next weekend, Paco’s Range Rover screeched to a halt outside as usual. Out climbed Paco, Carmen-Bethina, Sofía and Little Paco. Thunderous knocking on our door. I opened up and they all came inside. Paco was looking rueful, Sofía was smiling and Carmen-Bethina shrugged with a helpless gesture. Little Paco’s head was bowed low over something he cupped in his hands, something snuggled under his chin.

  “What have you got there?” I asked, but I already knew. Little Paco lifted his head and revealed his treasure. A tiny puppy slept, oblivious to its surroundings.

  “This is Bianca,” whispered Little Paco. “She is English.”

  “Don’t know where he got that name,” grunted Paco. “What is wrong with ‘Blanca’? That is a proper name for a dog.”

  “She is beautiful, no?” said Carmen-Bethina, her previous reluctance at puppy ownership forgotten. Paco rolled his eyes heavenward but extended a few fingers to stroke the silky ears. So Bianca, the brown and white Cocker Spaniel, entered all our lives and wriggled her way into our affections.

  During the first month, Bianca was not well. Little Paco’s big sister, Sofía, appointed herself as Chief Nurse. We were told she stopped going out in the evenings, staying in to watch over the sick puppy instead. She fed Bianca by hand, tempting her with tasty nutritious morsels.

  “She even missed the big Fiesta in Almería,” said Paco wonderingly. “She is staying up with that puppy every night and still goes to work early.”

  Sofía’s devotion paid off. Bianca began to thrive and grow. We noticed the difference because we saw the family and puppy only at weekends and Bianca’s growth spurt and increase in energy were obvious. At first, she was too small to climb our doorstep. Soon, she could put her front paws on the doorstep but needed a push from behind. Later, she bounded over the doorstep with ease.

  I’ve never owned a dog so I have no personal experience of dog behaviour. However, whether it was the breed, or Bianca’s unique nature, I found her to be utterly charming. Such enthusiasm, such joyfulness! Every time we saw her she treated us to huge welcomes. Her laughing face and excitement was infectious. Not just her stumpy little tail, but her whole body wagged in delight. The wag started at her wet black nose, travelled down her neck and body, over her back and round tummy, past the hind quarters and finished with the delirious twitching of her tail.

  There were down sides, of course, but aren’t there always? She would charge into our house, hurl herself ecstatically at us and pee on the floor, or on our feet, in excitement. I took to leaving a mop and bucket of water with disinfectant handy in anticipation of Bianca’s flying visits.

  Bianca grew so quickly that even she did not realise how big she’d become. She still thought she was small enough to sleep on the back of Carmen-Bethina’s sofa. This was fine until she started dreaming and twitching. Inevitably, she would fall off, landing on her back, wedged between sofa and wall. There she would lie, panting, tongue lolling, until someone rescued her.

  We couldn’t walk past Paco’s house to collect our bread from Marcia without Bianca. Even if we tiptoed, she would torpedo out, ears streaming behind her, bouncing around us with excitement like a giant furry rubber ball.

  “Bianca! Bianca!” came the shout from inside Paco’s house. “Bianca? Come back here!”

  “Bianca, go home,” Joe and I chorused, but to no avail.

  So all three of us would go to the shop, two walking, one dancing. Geronimo, sitting outside, would tighten his grip on his beer bottle in anticipation of Bianca’s exuberant greeting. His three dogs rolled their eyes at the youngster’s undisciplined behaviour. Old Sancho smiled at her cavorting. His black cat narrowed her eyes and arched her back, ready to spit if Bianca came too close. But Bianca was oblivious to hostility - everyone was her very best friend. Despite receiving a scratch on her nose from the cat’s lightning paw, Bianca still greeted the cat like a long-lost friend.

  I wondered if Bianca’s diary might read something like this:

  Extract from Bianca’s Diary

  Saturday

  07.00 - Wake up. Hooray! My favourite thing!

  08.00 - Breakfast. Hooray! My favourite thing!

  10.00 - Get under Carmen-Bethina’s feet. Hooray! My favourite thing!

  12.00 - Help the English fetch their bread. Hooray! My favourite thing!

  13.00 - Chew Sofía’s best shoes. Hooray! My favourite thing!

  14.00 - Play with Little Paco. Hooray! My favourite thing!

  17.00 - Get scolded by Paco. Hooray! My favourite thing!

  18.00 - Dinner time. Hooray! My favourite thing!

  22.00 - Bed time. Hooray! My favourite thing!

  We collected the bread and mail from Marcia, delivered Bianca back home and squeezed our front door closed before she could follow. Until next time.

  Perhaps the most unusual gift we ever received came from the sky. Well, not exactly, but it was thrown over the twelve-foot high wall to land in our garden.

  27 And more gifts

  Chicken with Tomato

  We were inside the house drinking coffee, when we heard a strange noise coming from the garden. It was a flapping, scrabbling, metallic noise. Joe stepped out to see what had caused it. I watched him, framed in the doorway. He stood looking around, turned on his heel, then bent over, obviously peering intently at something on the ground beyond my line of vision.

  “Hello…” he said, using the voice he reserves
for small children. “Where did you come from?”

  My curiosity got the better of me. I went out to join him.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  There, looking up at us, not flustered in the least, was a chicken. A rather ugly chicken, if I’m perfectly honest. She was very dark brown and tattered, with ragged tail and feathers that stuck out at all angles. She was very young as her comb was barely visible. Her beak was short and blunt where it had been singed off over-zealously by somebody. (Singeing chicks’ beaks is a nasty practice still carried out by some who believe it will stop chickens pecking at their own eggs.)

  But perhaps the most remarkable thing about this chicken was her boldness. She was not frightened in the least. On the contrary, she took several steps forward and looked up at us quizzically with her head on one side.

  “Who are you?” I asked her. “And what are you doing in our garden?”

  Chickens can fly quite well, but reluctantly. They only take to the air as a last resort if chased or in a rush to get somewhere, like at feeding time. They never fly high. Therefore we concluded that she did not soar over our twelve-foot wall; she must have been thrown. The noise we had heard was her flapping and her claws trying to grasp the metal staircase that ran up the inside of the wall. Anyway, she landed unharmed and quite unfazed by the experience.

  Joe opened the garden gate and looked up and down the street. Nobody there.

  “I’ll get her something to eat and drink,” I said, “while we decide what to do with her.”

  I walked back into the house, and to my astonishment, she followed me. Usually, chickens head straight for the flower beds, intent on horticultural demolition. But this chicken stayed glued to my heels like an obedient sheepdog. I tested her by changing direction. Still she shadowed me. Wherever I went, she was one chicken step behind.

  “Well, you’re an odd chicken,” I told her. “We’ll call you Regalo because you were a present, a gift.”

  We only had one chicken coop so there was no other option; we were forced to put her in with The Mafia and the others. They were clearly not impressed with Regalo. Attila the Hen led a ferocious attack which sent poor Regalo scuttling up the ramps to the top level.

  Meanwhile, Joe and I walked to the shop to collect our bread. Geronimo and Old Sancho sat outside, Geronimo’s three dogs slumped at his feet like piles of old carpet.

  “¿Qué tal?” we asked.

  “Mal,” Geronimo said, shaking his head grimly.

  We entered the shop and Marcia handed us our loaf of bread.

  “Marcia, somebody threw a chicken over our garden wall this morning,” I said.

  “¿Sí? I have your post here. To me it looks like a lot of bills. Another loaf of bread tomorrow as usual?”

  “Yes, please. Do you know who it belongs to? The chicken, I mean,” I persisted.

  Marcia shook her head, and the inevitable hairpin flew out. “I saw a chicken walking past the shop this morning,” she said. “Wait, I will ask Sancho.” She went outside.

  “Sancho, the English say today someone threw a chicken over their wall.”

  Old Sancho listened carefully, a grave expression on his face. He pondered, forehead screwed in concentration. Then he smiled and spoke. Marcia bent low to catch his reply, ear close to his lips, then straightened.

  “He says today he saw a chicken walking up the street,” she said.

  Geronimo then looked up and set his beer bottle down on the bench thoughtfully.

  “Was it a brown one?” he asked. “I saw a brown chicken today. It was going in that direction.” He waved his Real Madrid scarf in the general direction of our house.

  Clearly we were getting nowhere. Everyone had noticed Regalo walking the village streets, but nobody seemed to have lost her. And nobody had seen who threw her over our wall. We thanked them all for their help and returned home to see how Regalo was faring. Not very well, as it turned out. Attila the Hen was determined not to allow her down from the top level. Whenever Regalo ventured back down the ramps, Attila and her hench-hens launched at her, sending her in a flurry back to the top mezzanine.

  And there Regalo stayed for six weeks. She became a familiar figure, claws gripping the edge of the platform, head craned down to watch the activity below, body rocking slightly in an effort not to fall over the edge. I put food and water for her on her solitary platform or she may have starved. Even at night she slept up there, whatever the weather. When I went to feed the chickens in the evening, she would wait for the coop gate to open, then hurl herself through the gap. I got used to opening the door and standing back as she flapped into the garden.

  Regalo was the only chicken allowed to walk free in the garden, simply because she did not behave like a chicken. She never gobbled my carefully tended flowers and she was never difficult to catch. Instead, she just wanted to be wherever we were. If I was watering the garden, she was at my feet every step of the way. If we sat at the table, she sat beside us, either under the table or on a chair, as though she wanted to join our conversation.

  Back in the 19th century, an amateur biologist named Douglas Spalding reported that domestic chickens would ‘imprint on’ the first suitable moving stimuli they saw thirty-six hours after hatching. The chicks would follow the stimuli (usually a human) imagining it to be their mother. We were convinced that explained Regalo’s behaviour. She was imprinted on and considered herself human. Part chicken, part human, she entertained us hugely.

  After about six weeks, Attila, Ginger and the others became bored with bullying her. They allowed her down into the coop for short intervals, then for longer periods until she finally integrated into the flock. She still wanted to join us in the garden but she had settled in at last.

  To understand how we fell foul of another gift, I must provide a snippet of background history.

  In 1868, the archeologist Antonio Gongorra Martinez made an important discovery. In the north of the province of Almería, he came upon some ancient caves. Remarkable bronze and stone age artefacts were unearthed.

  One cave was decorated with archaic symbols, figures of archers, mountain goats and deer. But the most common and recurring theme was that of a man holding a rainbow. It is thought that the ‘Indalo’ or ‘Rainbow Man’ most likely represented a Shaman or God figure.

  In the 1870’s, local villagers took to daubing the symbol on their houses as a good luck charm, hoping to ward off evil.

  After an earthquake had destroyed the villages of Mojácar and Vera, the surviving inhabitants were understandably nervous. They took to imitating their northern Almerían neighbours whose villages had escaped lightly, believing the Indalo must have protected them. They copied the practice and made sure the remaining and rebuilt houses of Mojácar and Vera displayed Rainbow Men, too.

  And so the Rainbow Men marched across Almería. The prehistoric symbol was adopted as the logo for Almería, and a bringer of good luck. Today you will see the Indalo on car bumpers, statues, T-shirts, key-rings, shop fronts, everywhere.

  However, the good luck is conditional. The superstition decrees that the charm will only work if you are given the Indalo as a gift. It’s simple - if you are presented with an Indalo, you will enjoy good luck. But beware - an Indalo purchased and carried by yourself will only bring bad luck.

  The Rainbow Man figure is curiously attractive. We had several around the house and garden, presented to us at various times.

  We were shopping one day when a little Indalo caught my eye. It was about the size of the palm of my hand and cast in some heavy kind of metal. It had sharp, angular lines apart from the lovely sweep of the rainbow. We were leaving the shop but I was strangely drawn back to the little figure.

  “Buy it, if you want,” said Joe. “You don’t believe that superstitious rubbish, do you?”

  “Of course not,” I said, and purchased the little Indalo. I slipped it into my jacket pocket with my purse. The weight of it was comforting as it bumped against me as I walked.

 
; We were in the Post Office when I unzipped my pocket and felt for my purse.

  “My purse! It’s gone!” I said, desperately checking and rechecking the pocket. The Indalo was still there, but the purse had vanished. Close scrutiny revealed that the sharp angles of the Indalo had torn the pocket lining as I walked, allowing the purse to fall out. The Indalo had caught on the frayed fabric and was safe.

  “What a bloody nuisance,” said Joe, as we retraced our steps looking for the purse.

  “Not a nuisance,” I said. “That was the curse of the Indalo! It’s because we bought it for ourselves. I don’t want it any more. I’m going to throw it away.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Joe. “Here, give it to me.”

  I handed it over and he put it in the back pocket of his shorts. We didn’t find the purse but it hadn’t contained much, so its loss wasn’t disastrous, just annoying.

  We walked back to the car park, heavily laden with shopping. Suddenly, without warning, a car reversed out of its parking space causing Joe to jump back. He stumbled and landed heavily on his backside. The Spanish driver didn’t even notice and drove away without a backward glance.

  Joe’s face was a grimace of pain as I helped him back on his feet. “Did you hurt your back again?” I asked, concerned.

  “No, I sat on that bloody Indalo! It really hurt!”

  It had to go. We gave the little Indalo to a puzzled passing shopper who thought it was part of a promotion.

  “Regalo, regalo (a gift),” we insisted, pressing it into her hand. She was bemused, but quite pleased with the present.

  Back at home, Joe was still rubbing his backside ruefully. He pulled his shorts aside and we both jumped at the sight. Emblazoned on his left buttock was the perfect imprint of a Rainbow Man, branded in fiery red.