Two Old Fools in Spain Again

by Victoria Twead

  Uncle Felix’s mule was showing her age, too. I put out my hand to pat her and noticed white hairs growing amongst the grey. She ignored my gesture of friendship, but I wasn’t affronted. Uncle Felix’s mule had eyes only for her master, whom she adored. The entire village chuckled every time the mule managed to escape, which was often and watched her trot the streets in search of Uncle Felix. She usually found him in the square and her trot would quicken, her ears stood tall and, with a little whinny of delight, she clopped over to nuzzle the old man.

  “Uncle Felix and I have come to prune your vine,” bellowed Paco, waving his industrial branch-cutters.

  The mule took a last look round the room, rattled her ears and withdrew to munch on the plants in my window-box.

  “The vine?” I echoed weakly.

  “This year Uncle Felix and I have come much later than usual because the winter has been quite dry. It would be a mistake to do it earlier. Today is the perfect day to prune your vine.”

  I stared at him in dismay, aware that I’d committed a massive crime and I was about to be discovered.

  “Er, Vicky has...” Joe began.

  But Paco wasn’t listening and was already pushing past us to the kitchen and out of the back door. Joe and I exchanged worried glances and followed reluctantly.

  “¡Madre mía!” roared Paco. “What has happened here?”

  Uncle Felix sank down onto the bench in shock. He removed his flat cap and rubbed his head, his faded old eyes sweeping the already-pruned branches above.

  “What has happened here? This is a massacre! This grapevine has been butchered!” bellowed Paco. “Who is responsible for this abomination?”

  Just for a brief second I considered blaming aliens, or burglars that had broken in and savaged our vine.

  “Er, it was me...” I stammered. “I pruned the vine...”

  “¡Madre mía!” shouted Paco. “Did you hear that, Felix? Veeky pruned the vine!”

  Uncle Felix rolled his eyes and shook his head sadly for a full thirty seconds.

  “Joe, what in God’s name were you thinking, allowing her to touch the vine?”

  “Well, I...”

  “What do women know about the art of pruning a grapevine? Why did you not stop her? You should have done it yourself, or waited for me and Uncle Felix.”

  “I tried to stop her,” said my traitorous partner in life, thoroughly enjoying himself. “But you know what’s she like. I told her she was doing it all wrong.”

  I gaped at him.

  “Look at this! Can you believe she cut this branch here?” said Paco, smacking the offending branch with the flat of his hand. “And this one? ¡Madre mía!”

  “I know,” said Joe, swinging round to look at me severely. “I remember telling her not to cut that one.”

  I stared at him, mouth open.

  “It is a disaster,” pronounced Paco. Then he sighed deeply. “We will do our best to put it right, but if this vine produces decent grapes this summer, then my name is Julio Iglesias.”

  I’d heard enough. I slunk back into the kitchen, head hanging, eyes downcast. I boiled the kettle and set out the brandy, resisting the urge to take a large swig straight from the bottle. My actions were punctuated by snip-snips from outside. I peeped out of the window and saw Uncle Felix directing operations from his seat, waving his arm and pointing up at branches that required further attention. Joe stood aside, an insufferably smug expression on his face. I gritted my teeth and rummaged in the freezer for a bag of mackerel that had been lurking right at the back for several months. I caught sight of Joe’s slippers by the door and viciously kicked them behind the kitchen bin.

  By the time the job was finished, Paco was in a good mood again.

  “I’m sorry I pruned the vine,” I said as the men trooped back into the kitchen. I didn’t look at Joe.

  “Never mind,” said Paco, sitting down heavily at our kitchen table. He reached over and slopped a generous glug of brandy into his glass of coffee. “But next year, wait for me and Felix, or let Joe do it.”

  I nodded meekly.

  The grapevine sorted, conversation began to flow at the same speed as the brandy disappeared. Although Uncle Felix was frail and hunched, he hadn’t lost the ability to drink brandy. His ancient, crooked fingers curled around his glass and rarely released their hold.

  “Uncle Felix is 84 years old now, you know,” said Paco.

  Uncle Felix beamed proudly.

  “Or are you 85, Felix?”

  Uncle Felix thought hard, then shook his head. He was never a man of many words. Being a shepherd, he’d never learnt to read or write and I doubted if anybody knew his real age, including himself.

  “Never had a day’s illness, have you, Felix?”

  Felix shook his head proudly and I knew what was coming next.

  “Never seen a dentist, have you, Felix?”

  The old man beamed, exposing pink gums. I waited for the next comment and mouthed the words silently. I wasn’t disappointed.

  “And he has never been with a woman!” Paco’s fist slammed down on the table in triumph.

  Uncle Felix shook his head again, still grinning from ear to gnarled ear as though he had achieved something extraordinary.

  “Tell the English about your new TV,” commanded Paco. Uncle Felix just beamed, so Paco took over. “He has a brand-new widescreen plasma TV!” roared Paco. “The whole family clubbed together and bought it for him.”

  “In his cottage?” I asked.

  “Yes!”

  I blinked at the thought. I hadn’t been inside Uncle Felix’s cottage, but Joe had. It was very primitive, with thick, crumbling walls and a corrugated asbestos roof. It consisted of just two rooms with earth floors flattened by age. Uncle Felix lived, cooked and slept in one room, while his mule and two chickens occupied the other. I tried to imagine a wide-screen TV in that cottage and failed.

  “He loves that matchmaking show on the TV in the afternoons. Never misses it. You know the one where couples come together? You love that show, don’t you, Felix?”

  I thought I knew the one he meant, a little like a Spanish Blind Date for the elderly.

  Uncle Felix grinned and released his glass long enough to tap his two forefingers together, side by side, signifying a couple getting together.

  So Uncle Felix’s decrepit exterior hid a romantic and sentimental heart? Who’d have thought it? If only he had met a lonely shepherdess in the mountains in his younger days...

  The conversation switched to Mother and Alejandro Senior whose torrid affair was the talk of the village.

  “Good luck to them,” said Joe. “I hope I’m that lively when I get to their age.”

  If I let you reach that age, I thought.

  “Has anyone seen Maribel Ufarte and the children?” I asked.

  “Bad business, bad business,” growled Paco. “Juan Ufarte made a big mistake there. Lola will be off soon, you mark my words, chasing some other man. Then Juan will have nobody. A bad business.”

  The conversation turned to other village matters, like the new bar and the council’s decision to cut down on the number of dumpsters in the village to save money.

  “I was talking to the mayor only last week,” said Paco. “He said the council has to save as much money as possible. The coffers are empty. Oh and Veeky, he mentioned you.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, he said you promised to give him private English lessons.”

  I stared at Paco, horrified. I thought that had all been forgotten.

  “The mayor is thinking that he should speak good English and maybe attract more English people to the village. English people have lots of money.”

  We’d come across this misconception many times before. Spanish people always thought the British were a hugely rich nation. We tried to explain that although salaries were higher in Britain, so was the cost of everything, including property, food, transport, utilities and taxes. In fact, we knew very few people in Britain
who owned two houses, whereas in Spain it is common for families to have a house or apartment in the city and a house in the countryside.

  We went on to discuss Spain’s floundering economy and the latest Spanish football triumphs. Eventually, Paco and Uncle Felix stood up to leave and we walked them to the front door. The mule gave a little snicker of delight when she saw her beloved master.

  Paco leaned in to Joe and delivered his parting shot. He lowered his voice but I still heard the words clearly.

  “Listen, Joe, never, never let a woman loose on grapevines. That is a man’s job.”

  “Well, that was a nice visit, wasn’t it?” said Joe brightly, closing the front door and following me back into the kitchen. “Always good to hear the village gossip.”

  I said nothing, still seething.

  “Have you seen my slippers? I’m sure I left them here by the door.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, how strange... Never mind, perhaps I put them somewhere else. What are we having for dinner tonight?”

  “I’ve defrosted some mackerel.”

  “Mackerel? I hate mackerel!”

  “Yes. I know.”

  The Almería area has often been described as the vegetable basket of Europe. Ugly plastic greenhouses stretch for acres in some areas, the perfect growing environment for tomatoes, peppers and aubergines, all year round. They are a terrible eyesore, ruining glorious views, but they are a necessary evil. Spain was in the grip of a financial crisis and unemployment was rocketing, so this greenhouse industry was now more important than ever.

  Almería is also a big supplier of citrus fruit. Joe and I never wearied of driving alongside the orange and lemon orchards. In the depth of the Spanish winter, the trees hung with luscious fruit.

  Thanks to the generosity of the Spanish, we were never short of oranges. If we ever stopped our car near an orchard, a farmer would beckon us and fill our arms with oranges.

  And although our garden may have been too small to grow orange trees, we didn’t even need to leave home in order to be supplied with oranges.

  14. Oranges and the Law

  Oranges and Cinnamon

  ‘Your baby is now the size of a prune. Bones and cartilage are forming and fingernails and hair are starting to appear.’

  At the bottom of our mountain was a roundabout, one of many. We were accustomed to seeing an elderly farmer sitting on an upturned crate beside his ancient car at the side of the road. In winter, although the Spanish sun is always warm, the air can be cold and the wind often has a biting edge.

  The old man wore woollen gloves and a scarf, his shoulders hunched in a heavy coat. Under his flat cap, he watched the traffic pass, waiting for people like us who couldn’t resist his wares.

  I turned to Joe. “Stop the car,” I said. “I want to buy some oranges.”

  He rolled his eyes, but applied the brakes. I knew what he was thinking. We had more than enough oranges given to us by villagers in the bowl at home. But I also knew he agreed with me. Spain was going through tough times and most people were struggling financially. We could easily afford 5 euros for a bag of oranges.

  The crates stood in a row on the verge, tilted slightly, so that passing motorists could see the gorgeous display. A few had rolled into the road and been crushed by tyres.

  “Very fresh,” the old man assured me and I knew he was telling the truth. The glossy, green leaves still attached to some of the golden fruit hadn’t even begun to wilt.

  I held the carrier bag open and the old man poured an entire crate in, muttering with annoyance as some big oranges threatened to escape. I paid him and carried the bag back to the car. It was so heavy that it cut into my fingers.

  A local orange seller

  When we arrived home, we found a bulging bag had been left on our doorstep. Oranges and lemons. Some kind villager had left them for us, as they often did. I sighed and took them through to the kitchen. It had been been a long day and a gin and tonic with a few fresh lemon slices wouldn’t go amiss. Joe put the car away, but didn’t come back empty-handed.

  “Somebody left these for us,” he said. “They were hanging on the garage door handle.”

  “What are they?” Silly, unnecessary question.

  I became very inventive with oranges. We ate them all through the day and a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice was a permanent fixture in our fridge. I made chicken à l’orange, orange curd, orange sponge cake, orange upside-down pudding and orange mousse with caramelised oranges (thank you, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall).

  It’s a pity the body is unable to store vitamin C because I’m sure Joe and I had enough in our systems to last until we were at least 300 years old. We never caught colds and perhaps we could thank the oranges for that.

  Of course all those oranges generated yards and yards of peel. It occurred to me to do a spot of research to find out whether orange peel can be recycled in any way.

  Oh yes, apparently there are many colourful uses for discarded orange peel.

  1) Orange peel firelighters

  I was keen to try this one as we always needed firelighters to start the stove in winter. I followed the instructions by placing our peel on a tray in the sun to dry. A couple of days later, I went to see how my firelighters were coming along. They were swarming with ants, so many that the peel appeared black, not orange and organised lines of ants were marching in from all directions. Failure. I threw the peel, ants and all, into the bin.

  2) Orange peel cleaning product

  This one looked easy. All you had to do was place the peel in a jar, cover with vinegar, screw the lid on tight and wait two weeks. After a fortnight, I needed to strain the vinegar, throw the peel away and my cleaning product was ready to use.

  All went according to plan, although the liquid smelled more of vinegar than oranges. Unperturbed, I set to work. I dampened a cloth with the mixture and began wiping the furniture. It worked beautifully. I looked at my cloth with satisfaction. It was now grey with the dirt that my new cleaning product had lifted. I scrubbed some more. It was then that I realised I was not only removing dirt, but also the varnish. The remainder of my homemade orange peel cleaning product was poured down the sink.

  3) Orange peel rose table centre-piece

  Oh, please! Life was too short to start sculpting orange peel into little roses. Joe would never have noticed anyway as he’d be far more interested in what was on his plate.

  4) Orange peel insect repellent

  Hmmm... That could prove useful. “If you mix orange peel and water, then spray the solution outside your home, you will prevent ants from coming in,” began the article. Rubbish! I’d already seen my orange peel firelighters swarming with ants. I believed the orange water would attract ants, not chase them away. I certainly wasn’t going to waste my time with that one.

  5) Orange peel bird feeder

  With three or more hungry cats in the garden? Probably not a good idea.

  6)“Why not fashion yourself some orange peel Halloween teeth?” asked another article.

  “Because it’s March,” I grumbled.

  5) Adorable orange peel boats

  No. Enough.

  So I carried on throwing away all our orange peel, satisfied that at least I’d tried.

  I’m not good at breaking the law; it makes me nervous and twitchy. I don’t believe I ever did before we moved to Spain, but circumstances changed.

  The problem was our car. It was brand new the year we came and although we used it for carrying heavy stuff and firewood up the mountain, it still ran beautifully and the mileage was ridiculously low. It was a four-wheel drive, a Suzuki and we loved folding back the soft roof in the summer as the sun beat down, allowing the wind to blow through our hair. (Well, mine, anyway, as Joe was rather lacking in that department.)

  The jeep was a right-hand drive and had British number plates and we knew we should get Spanish registration for it. We tried. We hired a lady to do the paperwork. She hired an official to ch
eck over the car and make notes about its specifications. Back came the report. Our car didn’t exist. It could not be found on any of the Spanish files.

  “Never mind,” said the lady, tapping her clipboard with a polished fingernail. “We can find a way round that. It’ll cost a bit more, of course.”

  Of course.

  Several months down the line, we had imported new headlights from Japan at huge expense, removed the tow bar and paid to have all sorts of other modifications made.

  All cars must be put through the ITV (Inspecciòn Tècnica de Vehiculos) and we were confident that our car would pass with flying colours, considering all the modifications that we’d made. In the UK, the MOT, or Ministry of Transport test, is carried out at appointed garages. In Spain, the procedure is different. There are designated ITV stations dotted all over the country. We made an appointment and drove there.

  In Britain, you just leave your car and pick it up later, but in Spain you actually stay in the car as the mechanics swarm all over it like insects over a carcass. They crawled underneath, spun the wheels and fired instructions at us to switch things on and off. At the end, we were informed that the car had failed because of a headlight technicality.

  “Do you realise we’ve thrown a couple of thousand euros at this car and it still isn’t right?” said Joe. “I think we should just sell it and buy an ordinary Spanish car instead. Otherwise we’ll have to go through all this paperwork again and I bet it won’t ever pass, whatever the garage does.”

  “But who is going to buy a right-hand drive Brit-registered car, without an ITV certificate?”

  We both loved that car. It was reliable, functional, lovely to drive and easy to park in our garage. Neither of us wanted to get rid of it. The weeks slid by and we continued to use it, illegally. I was a nervous wreck every time we went out, jumping at the sight of police cars, convinced we would be pulled over, questioned and fined.

  It’s rare to see any police presence on our mountain roads so when Joe drove to the seed merchant to buy more grain for the chickens, he wasn’t expecting any problems. It was a lovely sunny day and the roads were empty.