Last Days of the Bus Club

by Stewart, Chris

  My heart went out first to the ill-starred boar, who had so badly misjudged his Saturday-night ramble as to be discovered on the hill on the Sunday morning, and then it occurred to me: of course, boar. There would be a deliciously appropriate irony in cooking one up on the telly. What a way to get my own back for the years of ravages that we had suffered at the hands – or, more accurately, the snouts – of the boar population. Accordingly, I set off up the hill to fetch the main ingredient in a dish that was already taking shape in my mind.

  It took about forty-five minutes to find the hunters. There were two of them, a beefy young lad and a tough wiry man, both wearing hunters’ garb and forage hats. Neither of them were friendly; this was manly business. We roped the dead beast up, and set off through the rosemary, taking up the strain to drag it behind us. It stayed exactly where it was. We took a breather and tried again but still it resisted the combined might of the three of us; boars are heavy creatures, and this was a big one. There was no way we could move it, so the thin man took out his hunting knife and set about dismembering it. With considerable skill, and a knife that was heavy as an axe and razor-sharp, he took off the head, flayed the bristly skin from the flesh, and cut the rest of it into two halves.

  These we hoisted onto our shoulders, slimy with blood and wobbling with fat, and started through the thick undergrowth down the hill.

  The lad carried the head – which was no mean feat, as it was slippery with congealing blood and must have weighed the best part of twenty kilos – while the military-looking man and me carried a side each, and the sides weighed even more. The pair of them were young and very fit and I hobbled and stumbled to keep up with them, making constant adjustments to the gruesome load that slipped and slid constantly from my grip. Eventually, casting squeamishness aside, I carried it over my head, my hair now caked in gore and grease. The viewers would not want to see this aspect of the meal, I thought to myself, as I staggered and twisted my knee a little.

  I hung that side of boar in the old kitchen, where there were fewer flies than in the stable. The hunters promised to ring me when they had the results of the trichinosis test, certifying its safety, and departed.

  You have to be cautious with eating wild boar, and a sample of meat must be examined under a microscope to establish that it is free from disease. Everyone has to do this as a matter of routine. And, of course, it wouldn’t do to kill a TV chef. Fortunately the result came through as negative, so I butchered the meat and froze it, leaving enough out for a substantial stew for Mr Stein.

  The big day came. I had prepared the stew of boar the night before. Stews, as I’m sure you know, get better and better by the day, and I figured that, with all the other stuff that would be going down on the morrow, it would be advisable to have at least a part of the job already done. This is what I did: first of all I browned those chunks of boar. I zapped them in hot, hot oil so they seared in a matter of seconds. This, the searing, is one of the important things to get right for the success of your stew. After the first batch is browned, you need to tip away the liquid that has gathered in the pan, and start again; otherwise, the next batch will be boiled rather than seared … and boiled boar is what you don’t want. If you want to use those juices later, which is no bad thing, you can add them to the onions once you have zapped them in a little oil after the meat.

  I took the meat out of the pan and added a load of sliced onions, a heap of garlic, a couple of red-hot headbanger chillies and some bay leaves, all from the garden. Then there was half a bush of rosemary from the hill and the grated peel of a few oranges and lemons. Once this lot was fizzing away nicely, I tipped in the seared meat, and a couple of tins of tomatoes, fresh from the larder … I know there were tomatoes in the garden, but it saves a lot of messing about taking the skins off and, besides, tinned tomatoes are delicious at any time of the year. And finally a tin of tomato puree, and a couple of squares of black chocolate … not for pudding, but for that nice thick black slimy Mexican texture. Hell of a stew, I thought to myself as I sucked the wooden spoon.

  Russell, our English neighbour from La Herradura, the next farm down the river, had been wheedled into bringing the crew across the river and up to the farm in his Range Rover. It was a rough old Range Rover, but I think he had been up half the night polishing it and mucking out its typical farm car interior.

  In a flurry of dust the car rolled up beneath the house and Rick Stein and the crew disembarked. We all shook hands and said how pleased we were to meet one another, and without further ado David swung into action.

  ‘Russell, take Rick back down the hill and drive up again. Rick, you get out of the car and come up to the steps where you shake hands with Chris and Ana. Got it? Off you go.’

  Russell and Rick backed down the drive while David pushed us into position.

  ‘Right. When Rick comes up, you go down the steps and act like this is the first time you’ve ever met. OK?’

  The sun shone; Russell drove up again; Rick got out; the dogs barked; Ana and I sashayed down the steps; we all oozed inane enthusiasm and bonhomie; Rick said again that he was really pleased to meet us and handed us an enormous string of garlic in a purple fishnet bag; Ana and I reached out together to grab it …

  ‘CUT! Hold it there. Only one of you wants to go for the garlic. You look like you’ve never seen a string of garlic in your lives. We’ll do it again. Russell, back down the hill. Ana, Chris, back up the steps.’

  Rick clambered back into the car clutching the garlic and Russell backed off down the hill again. Ana and I and Bumble and Bao bounced back up the steps. Once again, Russell drove up; the dogs barked; the door opened and out rolled the string of garlic. ‘CUT! One more time, please. Hang on to that garlic will you, Rick.’

  I muttered to Ana that I thought the string of garlic was a bit of a crap present. After all, we grew our own garlic; we had heaps of it. ‘Yes, but he doesn’t know us, does he? And don’t be ungracious; it’s very nice of him.’

  ‘QUIET! Back down the hill, Russell, Rick. Ana, Chris, back up the steps … Go!’

  We went back up the steps, followed by the dogs, who were starting to get confused. Rick got in the car again; Russell rolled backwards.

  ‘Let’s see if we can’t get it right this time,’ said David.

  Up came Russell in the car; Rick got out, clutching the garlic; the dogs looked on in silence; Rick said yet again that he was really pleased to meet us; we all looked at one another for a bit. ‘The garlic, Rick. Hand over the garlic,’ admonished David. ‘Hallo, Rick,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ I held out my hand to shake, but Rick was still proffering the garlic. I shook the garlic … ‘CUT!’

  Down the hill went Russell and Rick. Ana and I went back up the steps with the dogs, me holding the garlic. ‘Chris, give the garlic back to Rick, will you?’

  Followed by the dogs, I walked down the track to where Russell and Rick were waiting for the signal, and handed over the garlic. Rick grinned at me wanly.

  ‘One more time. Everybody ready? Roll.’

  Finally we got it nearly right. It went something like this: Russell and Rick arrived; the dogs barked; Ana and I walked down the steps; Rick got out of the car with the garlic, and said goodbye to Russell; Rick said for the fifth or sixth time how pleased he was to meet us and handed the garlic to Ana, who received it graciously; we all shook hands and I said, ‘Rick Steen, good to meet you; I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘It’s Stein, Chris. Rick Stein, not Rick Steen,’ said David. ‘We’ll do it one last time.’

  And so we did and this time we got it, as I think one says in the film world, in the can.

  As you may imagine, we were all feeling a little tired after completing this scene, and we had hardly started the session yet. There was considerable scope for more cock-ups, I thought, when we got onto the real business. But for now what was needed was a little alcohol. We served some beers and wines and offered around some roasted almonds and capers and pots o
f home-grown olives, Arbequinas and Acebuches, which we reckoned Rick would not have come across before – they’re tiny with very little flesh, and most people would think that they’re not worth the trouble, but take it from me, they are.

  The load lightened and we all had a giggle about what had just happened, and started to get to know one another a little. I had boned up enough on Rick’s work to know he was a man after my own heart when it came to sustainable fishing and the rustling up of food, but he was an easy guest too, unassuming and with a ready charm. The cameraman and sound recordist wandered about the place getting what they called ‘atmospheric stuff’, while the rest of us got into the mood for cookery. I slipped on a clean apron and with a whetstone whipped up an edge on some knives. Ana went down to the vegetable garden with Rick and the camera to get some home-grown vegetable shots.

  The meal plan was as follows: we would start with some lightly fried lambs’ balls, dusted with beaten egg and breadcrumbs, and fried in oil and butter with a hint of chilli and thyme. You don’t often get lambs’ balls in Britain, so I figured that this would be a rare treat for the visitors. A tabouleh would be next, a mountain of mint and parsley chopped up with tomatoes, chilli and ginger and bulghur wheat, lemon juice, and perhaps a small red onion finely chopped and soaked for half an hour in icy water to take the worst of the kick out of it. If anybody fancied it, there would be some yoghurt with garlic, chilli (I put chilli in everything, as a consequence of having once visited Mexico), ginger and fresh coriander, to slop on the tabouleh.

  Then would come the pièce de résistance, the thick red meaty stew accompanied by the lightest creamiest aligote – mashed potato with cheese and garlic – and finally, to dazzle the senses, Ana’s floral salad, one of the most beautiful dishes that ever graced a table. It would certainly look good on the telly, we thought.

  We all repaired to the kitchen to get this stuff on the move. Amid the clashing of knives and the bubbling and steaming of pots, I liberally bestowed cookery hints upon the patient Rick, who did his level best to assume an amused interest. I told him for example, that I thought people were far too fussy about food hygiene and, as a species, it was not doing us any good. ‘You’ve got to eat a peck of dirt before you die,’ I ranted. ‘What possible harm can come from a handful of bluebottles on your meat? If meat is dangerously off, the smell is so bad you can’t get near it …’ and other singular and questionable pronouncements. ‘Lemon squeezers are for pussycats,’ I told him, squeezing a lemon through my hand and filtering the pips with my fingers. I think he took note of this particular hint for future use.

  By this time, what with all the dithering about that is the inevitable concomitant of filming, we were all starting to feel just a little bit hungry. All the talk of food and the kitchen badinage did nothing to allay this. Ana and Rick sat down at the table and I burst through the fly curtain with a pan full of hot balls. There were just the three of us eating and it was hardly the most relaxed meal I have had in my life, as there was a big fluffy sock of a microphone dangling over the table and the long snout of a camera sticking into my left ear. The hunger getting a grip now, I sat up in my chair and raised a glass of wine to my wife and the guests, and then, fairly quivering with anticipation, I speared a hot ball with my fork and raised it to my lips.

  ‘CUT!’ cried David.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE GREEN, GREEN ROOVES OF HOME

  FEW PEOPLE GET TO SEE their homes from above. We have that pleasure from not just one but two vantage points: one on the mountain path that leads up to what used to be a threshing floor, the other from the opposite side of the valley where a lone almond tree marks a bend in the track. The latter is the spot that I ask visitors to look out for, because if you honk your horn as you pass this tree the acoustics carry the sound all the way across the valley to the ears of the dogs. The dogs start barking, which wakes me from whatever reverie I am indulging, and leaves me just enough time to hare down the hill and meet the approaching vehicle at our bridge (as I had with David before that first fish lunch).

  From either of these points you can make out the peculiar agglomeration that we call home: a muddle of more or less rectangular stone boxes emerging from a rocky hillside, half hidden by a riot of jacaranda, morning glory, wisteria and jasmine. Below, you can make out a path winding down through terraces of oranges and lemons to the sheep stable and a hillock known as La Haza de la Cruz – ‘the meadow of the cross’ – which presides over the confluence of two rivers, the Cádiar and the Trevélez.

  There’s something deeply gratifying about looking down on a house that you yourself have built, but what makes it even better is the innovation we’ve recently added to our otherwise traditional home and outhouses – the ‘green rooves’ of El Valero. These give the pleasing impression of tiny terraces of grass, hovering beside the outhouses, and after the spring rains have done their best the foliage on the roof becomes so thick that parts of the house seem to disappear entirely.

  I sometimes wonder about our house and the building of it and our offbeat ideas. After all, what initially attracted me to the Alpujarra was the simplicity and honesty of the architecture, the attempts by the rural poor to create a little beauty with whatever lay to hand. The perfect proportions of a handsome hen house; an oil-drum set on a plinth of stone, painted white and planted with yellow and white flowers; a stone wall moulded to fit the leaning trunk of an olive tree: these were the delights that won my heart. From the point of view of authenticity I fear we may be running the risk of killing the thing we love.

  On the other hand, one has to move forward, take advantage of new developments. Had we not done so we might still be living in architecturally honest turf huts, smoked half to death by peat fires. And the changes we were making, while they gladdened our hearts with their beauty, were fairly unostentatious and, of course, sustainable. Our home is powered entirely by solar panels, which, arrayed upon the rooves, glint royal blue in the sunshine; we keep warm in winter by burning wood that we grow on the farm or gather from the river; kitchen and bathroom water is used for irrigation, and all the leftovers are either composted or made into edible eggs by the hens. All in all, it makes us feel pretty good about our impact on the earth in general and on the Alpujarra in particular.

  The desire to add beauty to building is not universal in the Alpujarra, where function and cost is king. Witness my neighbour, Domingo, a sheep farmer and nurseryman. For the last fifteen years he has been living with Antonia, a Dutch sculptor who moved to the valley in search of inspiration and then found it in … well, him. By some sort of osmosis he developed his own hitherto latent artistic talents to the point that he, too, has become a sculptor of some renown. Yet Domingo thinks nothing of artlessly incorporating rusty old bulldozer parts into his studio, an old car seat for those rare moments of repose, a cracked wing mirror for shaving. And then there’s Bernardo, who seems blissfully unaware of any aesthetic paradox in hanging a dead goat in the shower to keep off the flies.

  However, by odd chance, we happened upon two like-minded souls, a handsome young couple called Simon and Victoria, who not only shared our aesthetic vision of optimising the simple beauty of the landscape but carried it several steps further. They had just married when they arrived in our lives, and were on honeymoon, having chosen rather unaccountably to spend it camping in the desert of Almería. On one night and one night only in the last thousand years has it snowed in the desert of Almería, and it happened to be the very night that Simon and Vicky pitched their tent. The snow flurried in, driven by a howling gale through the flaps of their flimsy tent, nearly freezing them to death. The next night they put up at a little hotel in the High Alpujarra, in Bérchules. In their room was a guidebook with an advertisement for our holiday cottage. It was the only advertisement in the book and, curiously enough, in about five years Simon and Victoria were the only people who ever replied to it.

  So they came to stay for a few days to thaw out and, in the inevitable way of the
se things, ended up living with us for eighteen months. They were the perfect guests: we adored them and they seemed to like us too, and we all became part of each other’s family. They had an unconventional way of making a living: they were designers and constructors of aquariums – not little fish tanks but colossal municipal affairs full of sharks and rays and barracuda and sunfish. The business of building aquariums is somewhat unpredictable and you are often left hanging on for months while the promoters in various parts of the world get the finance together. Which accounted for them having the time to live with us.

  Simon is a brilliant draughtsman, designer and constructor, and always has to have some project to amuse him. One day, about a month into their stay, he sidled up to me when Ana was out of hearing. ‘Have you ever given any thought to the idea of green rooves for El Valero?’ he asked.

  ‘Scarcely a day passes, Simon, scarcely a day. Tell me more.’ I was all ears, and for an hour or more we retired into deep confabulation. Occasionally Ana would appear, and we would fall into an unnatural silence, or pretend to be talking about something that we were not really talking about at all.

  A recent plan I had devised for building a new bathroom out of straw bales had come adrift after Ana discovered it meant knocking a great hole in our existing bathroom wall. She and Chloé had taken exception to the idea that passing strangers might take advantage and wander in. I feared that the grass roof idea might fall on similarly stony ground, so to speak, but in fact I needn’t have worried. What Ana likes best, apart from animals – and perhaps Chloé and me – is plants, and so she found the idea of a carpet of plants providing insulation for the house pretty appealing.