Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  We had been advised by a dog-breeder friend of ours to put all the dogs in together, shut the door, and not to return for 15 minutes - however bad it sounds, they will sort it out. So, knowing no other option, that is what we did. We really had no alternative. After 15 minutes, of what sounded like hell on earth, quiet suddenly descended and everything went silent. We looked out and order had been established – ish. All the dogs had retreated to different shady corners, and the puppy was busy going from corner to corner, trying to be friends with all the others. To be honest he had done us a favour, he had brought our band of individuals together. We now had our pack!

  The little fella, it turns out, may be a distant relative of a cat as he seems to have nine lives. We named him Miliko, after a misunderstanding involving the name of a famous Spanish clown Miliki, but we liked Miliko, and it seems to suit him.

  A few days later we woke to find him severely unwell. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink and wouldn’t come out from under a chair. We were really worried about him, so whipped him back up to the vets. Manuel said that he was vulnerable as he was not yet ready for his injections and of course he was mixing with the other dogs now. He had caught an infection, and if we hadn’t brought him in it could have been fatal. For a week, we had to syringe feed him baby penicillin, and he became our baby.

  He recovered well, and as he got stronger we began to notice he was using the problem back leg even less. He could climb steps, but he would use his front legs to pull himself up so his front leg muscles became super strong. We now needed to get the operation sorted or later on it might become an issue for him.

  The operation was to be done in Cordoba – they even drafted in an extra English-speaking vet to be there to translate for us. We took Miliko in and, after running in and out of every room in the surgery, he was lifted onto the scales and his blood was checked. Then, we expected to leave him with them, possibly overnight, while the operation and recovery took place. Not at all, we were ushered into the operating theatre where we discovered we were expected to be present right until he was asleep, and had to return before he was brought round so he felt as though we’d always been there.

  On our return, the vet was very serious. When they had tried to put a tube down his mouth, to help him breathe during the operation, they found that he was unable to open his mouth properly. They had to break his jaw to get the tube in, therefore he was going to be sore for a few days. Where he had been hit by the car, his jaw had been broken and reset itself in the wrong place.

  Once he came around, we carried him out to the car and wrapped him in a blanket for the journey. We carried him in to the house and let him sleep on the sofa for a couple of hours. That evening he was very sorry for himself, and he wouldn’t eat. We put him back to bed, with his big mate Arthur, and went off to bed. First thing in the morning I got up, thinking I might need to carry him out for a wee, but the blanket was on the floor and Miliko was doing an excited tour of the living room, jumping on both sofas and at me, obviously wanting to go out. All of this on three legs! He wasn’t even trying to use the leg that had been operated on.

  I thought then, “It’s going to be tough to keep him still for a few days.” Even today he still bears his battle scars: his one bad leg is significantly shorter than the other and he cannot open his mouth more than 18 millimetres. He eats very slowly and gets frustrated, and in the summer we only take him for short walks because he cannot put his tongue out and open his mouth to pant like a normal dog. However, he is a very happy dog, even having been described as the happiest dog in the world.

  When they put me under that fence, I knew I was meant to be here. I could see a friendly face immediately. There was a big boy calling to me, saying he wanted to be friends.

  Eventually a person came outside, I think the other dog told him I was here, and he looked at me and tried to tell me to go away. He put me under the fence, but I just came back in anyway. I liked this place and I wanted to stay.

  Then a lady came out too, and they gave me some water and a little food, and they let me sleep in their stable for a few days. They took me to the doctor, and looked at my legs, I think they are going to let me stay. I was so desperate to meet the other dog and one day they let him out to meet me. He is very big but I’m not scared of him, he’s a big softy. His sister came out too, and she seems scary; she keeps trying to play with me, but she bashes me and I just go flying. She is so much bigger than me. Anyway, I managed to get in one day and meet the other two as well, one of them is really grumpy, but I think she likes me in a way.

  It’s all very exciting and I can’t wait to see them all every day to play with them all over again.

  Miliko

  28 Galaxy

  Animal count: Five dogs (Geri, Carlos, Blue, Arthur and Miliko), one feral cat and one feral kitten. (I had always worried that the cats would just multiply into hundreds of cats around the farm, but this year the two older cats, and two of the kittens, Twiggy and Baby David,vanished together. We never knew if they had been taken by an eagle or if they had been sent on their way by their Mum. She was left with just one kitten, and she was able to manage far better.) One pot-bellied pig, two chickens, four alpacas.

  “I think I’d better go and check on Cassandra,” I said to Lorna. “I’ve just looked out the window and she looks a little agitated.” We had been watching closely for weeks now, anxiously awaiting the birth of the first cria on our own farm. “I don’t think it’s going to be long now.”

  As I walked around to the paddock, I mentally checked off what we would need, “Clean towel, iodine spray, scissors, alpaca book, phone!” When I arrived at the gate, I could immediately see Cassandra’s ‘area’ swollen, and she was visibly straining.

  “It’s happening now!” I shouted through the window, running off to get the birthing equipment.

  “But it’s only supposed to happen in the mornings!” was Lorna’s first reaction.

  “Well, tell that to Cassandra!” I yelled, my stomach turning somersaults, and adrenalin flowing.

  We grabbed everything we could, luckily all to hand, as we had been told to prepare, and on our return to the paddock, we opened our alpaca book, hoping it would be, as they say, a textbook delivery.

  “The book says, ‘Mother will show signs of distress, frequent visits to the poo pile without going, and separating herself from the others.’”

  “She’s doing all of that,” Lorna replied. “I think this is really it! What do we do now?”

  “Wait, I guess. The book says, if all goes correctly, she will do it on her own, and the head should emerge first, quickly followed by the two front legs. Please God, it comes out the right way.”

  Sure enough, on the next visit to the pile, there was more pushing, a noticeable widening of the vagina and something popped out.

  “What is it?” Lorna asked. “Is it the head?” The birthing sack was yet to burst.

  “Oh my God, should we split it?” I panicked.

  “Wait a minute,” Lorna replied calmly.

  With a loud gush, the bag split, and a little head and mouth could be seen gasping its first little breaths, followed quickly by two little feet.

  “Thank God for that, at least it’s the right way round!” I breathed a little sigh of relief, but we were not home and dry yet.

  “The book says, ‘A normal delivery should take between five and 20 minutes, and she may stand, walk, sit down or lie down during this time.’”

  Cassandra was obviously uncomfortable and she was wandering around, eating a little, lying down, standing up and all this time the poor little baby was swinging about, brushing up against the wall and gradually slipping out, closer and closer to the ground. With a final push, the tiny little alpaca thumped to the earth. A solid, dark, chocolatey brown-coloured cria. Beautiful.

  “Oh wow, how amazing was that?” Lorna exclaimed with tears in her eyes.

  “Look at the others, they’re going to say hello.”

  One by one, the
other girls and Rafa all had a good sniff of the new arrival. Almost in celebration, Rafa jumped excitedly about.

  We rushed in, dried the cria off with the towel, and sprayed the umbilical cord to prevent infection. We checked the sex, and it was a boy. Then we stood back and watched. The next part is often the most frustrating for alpaca breeders, as it is very important the new baby receives the first milk from its mother within a short amount of hours. This time is often spent watching closely and holding your breath every time the baby gets near to the mother’s milk.

  Such was the paranoia and nervousness brought on by our bad experiences in our short time as alpaca owners, there are photographs of the new cria with me in the background studying the alpaca book, making sure every last detail was okay.

  Within a few minutes, the cria had found his feet, stumbling around and falling on his face numerous times. Cassandra is a very independent mother, and her first thought after the birth was to get herself a feed. So the poor little cria was stumbling along behind her, looking dazed and confused, then sat down for a while to rest. We sighed. More waiting.

  “Here he goes again,” Lorna said. “Good luck, little fella.”

  This time there was a more concerted effort. The feet were a little steadier, and he was heading in roughly the right direction. With a little nudge from Cassandra he eventually found the milk and we could relax, at least for a while. We came away from the paddock to allow the new little family to bond. Our first alpaca birth was indeed textbook, and exhilarating, and hopefully the little man would grow up to be big and strong.

  “We need a name now,” I said to Lorna.

  “Well, he is that gorgeous colour, why don’t we call him Galaxy?”

  “Not very Spanish, is it?” I replied.

  “Nope, but I like it.”

  “Okay, Galaxy it is!”

  Over the next few days and weeks, we monitored Galaxy’s weight; he was putting on more and more and was feeding well, so we were happy. Now we could begin to get excited about the next babies. Lily and Bermuda were due to have their cria around Christmas, and we were hoping for more of the same from our girls.

  29 Feria Time

  Animal count: Five dogs, one feral cat, one feral kitten, one pot-bellied pig, two chickens, five alpacas (Cassandra, Lily, Bermuda, Rafa and now Galaxy).

  Initially we would shy away from situations where we might run into difficulty with our truly inept Spanish, but in the run up to the local Feria in Montoro in October, we had promised both Miguel and Ramon that we would attend the fair. Although we were nervous, knowing that they would be there, helped a little.

  So one night we headed off into Montoro, leaving home at about 10 pm. There was no moon in the sky; everything was pitch black. As we reached the top of our track, our headlights picked up something moving ahead of us. Both of our first instincts were ‘stray dog’ but we were wrong. In fact there was a family of wild boar crossing the road, two adults and a few youngsters. We were really pleased as they were the first we had ever seen since we had moved here.

  We drove on to Montoro and had to park the car a few hundred metres away from the Feria ground, as of course the town was heaving and in full party mode. The Feria is the second biggest event of the year in most Spanish villages, only beaten by the Easter celebrations in this still staunchly Catholic country. Montoreños from all over Andalucía and beyond come home for the party.

  The roads were decked out with illuminated decorations stretching from one side to the other, along with suspect-looking wiring hanging from the sides of houses.

  As we walked up the road, we could hear loud music playing and lots of frivolity. We entered the fairground, and the place was heaving: hundreds of people standing shoulder to shoulder, inching their way from place to place. At one end of the ground was a large fair, complete with rides and sideshows.

  To our distress, also there was a live animal merry-go-round with miniature donkeys and horses. Although the animals looked in good condition it was not nice for us to see, as they should be out in a field somewhere grazing on lush grass. The other end of the ground was dedicated to the casetas, tents run by various companies and bars which host people for drinks, music and food. As we walked around, we were astonished to see churros stalls (a kind of Spanish donut), cooking the local delicacy in vats of boiling hot fat, only three feet off of the ground and easily within reach of any of the hundreds of children in attendance. In the UK, the health and safety people would have had it shut down in seconds.

  There were crazy big rides, like the large disc where people take seats around the edge, with no restraints, and then proceed to get thrown around, eventually falling into a heap of bodies on the floor. This particular ride seems to be used by teenage boys and girls as an excuse to end up on the floor together.

  Of course one of the highlights of any Feria, in any town, is to see the locals in their traditional gypsy clothes, often dancing the night away, or with children in their best clothes on the dodgems.

  “So where do we go now?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, maybe we could have a look in a few of the bars, see if we can find Miguel or Ramon?” Lorna suggested.

  Suddenly, we could hear shouting and booming laughter, and we didn’t need to look very far, as we could recognise Miguel’s voice from a hundred yards.

  We followed the voice into one of the tents and found Miguel holding court, surrounded by a clutch of familiar looking older gentlemen, probably farmers, and a few ‘handsome’ women.

  A space was made for us and we were welcomed into the crowd, drinks were ordered, and I was, as usual, laughed at. A fiesta like this also calls for food, and lots of it, and Miguel was doing the honours. At times like this the Spanish like to order big plates of food to go into the middle and be shared out tapas style. I could make out a few words, ‘Cerdo’ is pork, ‘Pollo’ is chicken and ‘Cabritos’ is baby goat. There was also Spanish omelette, Pinchitos (Chicken skewers), Flamenquin (Spanish pork and ham rolled in batter), cured ham and cheese, calamari, baby squid and of course plates of chips and stale bread.

  There was food everywhere and the farmers dove in wholeheartedly, while Lorna and I were a little more reserved, picking at a few morsels here and there. The drink flowed continuously, and of course much of the conversation passed us by completely. Occasionally we would pick up a word or phrase we might recognise or be able to contribute, but most of the time we nodded and laughed when it seemed most appropriate.

  After numerous drinks and lots of laughter, one of the wives got up all of a sudden, as though she had been possessed by the music, and began to dance. Her eyes were closed, hands in the air, fingers clicking, heels clacking and twirling for all she was worth. Miguel and his friends were soon dancing too (Miguel was keen to drag Lorna up, and although she made a show of fighting it, secretly I think she was dying to join in).

  After a few minutes and drink or two more Lorna was stamping, clicking and twirling with the rest of them. After a couple of songs, there was a kerfuffle, a discussion and the group shuffled out en masse, and headed towards the fairground rides. We didn’t know where we were going, or indeed why everyone seemed to be having such a laugh.

  We ended up standing in front of two plastic bulls, attached to two long rubber logs, and the idea was to sit on the log while it rolled from side to side, and the people on board try in vain to stay on. There was no way Miguel was going to let me off this one, so I had to sit on the log, between Miguel and a couple of ageing farmers that we see drive past our farm once in a while. Some of the farmers were so drunk their eyes were crossed, and to be perfectly frank, half of them didn’t even put out their cigarettes.

  The ride started moving, slowly at first, and one old boy, slowly, so slowly, just slid to the padded floor with his cigarette still in his mouth and never got back up. I’m sure he fell asleep there. Then as the ride got faster people were thrown into heaps on the floor, hilarity ensued, a few injuries were received, and then you
had to climb back on. I think that ride is much more for the entertainment of the people watching than for the people on the ride. My main target was not to land on any frail old men and hurt them. Lorna’s main target was trying not to wet herself.

  At the end of the ride Miguel was laughing, as per usual, but the rest of the farmers walked off as though they had just left work, straight-faced and non-smiling. Very strange. Then of course it was back to a different tent for more drinking, more food and more music. All this continued until about six in the morning. Then they expect you to go and have churros and chocolate with them; it never ends. We were exhausted, but they wanted us back again that night for more of the same. We politely declined. The Montoro Feria lasts for six days and most of the people attend every day, and then again at night. I’m not really sure how they survive.

  30 Kaci’s Birth, Lily’s Loss

  As you might expect, Lorna wanted to be in the UK for the birth of her first grandchild, and Frankie wanted her there too, possibly during the birth. We booked some flights, aiming for a couple of days before the due date, hoping Frankie could keep her legs crossed until then. Lorna wanted to be there for at least a couple of weeks to help Frankie through those tough first days.

  As normally happens when Lorna is away, all hell let loose on the farm. Although we have never felt scared or nervous living this far from civilisation, sometimes the isolation can be eerie, particularly at night when there is no one around for miles. You find yourself scrutinising every little sound, just in case it might be an intruder. Thank goodness for giant guard dogs!