Two Old Fools - Olé!

by Victoria Twead

  Joe lifted the cage high in the air, sliding the entrance open. The magpie exploded out in a blur of black and white and landed on a branch in the nearest tree, screaming obscenities at us and the cats. Then it preened its ruffled feathers and flapped away.

  “We’ll try again tonight,” I said. “I don’t think that magpie will make the same mistake twice.”

  I could tell Joe wasn’t enthusiastic, but that evening we set out for the wasteland again, trap and ham in hand. It was a little later than the night before and the street lights cast long shadows. Being a Friday, the village had filled up for the weekend but we encountered nobody on the way. The Spanish are creatures of habit, and we knew that at eight o’clock most families would be eating their evening meal.

  We were just approaching the spot where we’d left the trap the night before, when I sensed we were not alone. I squinted into the night and identified the cause. A shadow pressed against the cemetery wall. Two shadows, to be precise, glued together. I peered into the darkness and recognised the figures.

  “Shhh!” I whispered, grabbing Joe’s arm.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We’re not alone. Leave the trap here. We don’t want to disturb them.” I jerked my head in the direction of the cemetery wall.

  Joe narrowed his eyes, peering into the dark and understood immediately. “Oh, right! Okay.” He set down the trap as quickly and quietly as he could, and we speedily retreated.

  “That was Lola Ufarte and Geronimo, wasn’t it?” said Joe when we were out of earshot.

  “Hmm... Yes, it was Lola Ufarte, but that wasn’t Geronimo with her.”

  “It wasn’t? Who was it then?”

  “Sofía’s policeman boyfriend.”

  “Oh no! Are you sure?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m positive it was him.”

  “Has Sofía broken up with her boyfriend?”

  “No. Carmen-Bethina told me today that Sofía was expecting her boyfriend to come up to the village tonight.”

  “Well, why is he with Lola Ufarte then?”

  “No idea. But I do know Sofía had a bad headache today, Carmen-Bethina told me.”

  “So, Mr. Policeman was at a loose end, and...”

  “Yep, looks like Lola Ufarte stepped in and, er, entertained him.”

  It was a great pity, but we weren’t very surprised. Lola Ufarte was a girl who liked to enjoy herself, as my lovely mother-in-law would have said.

  “Don’t say a word to anybody about this,” said Joe. “We mustn’t interfere. They’ll sort it out for themselves.”

  So we hugged the information to ourselves, not wanting to be the ones to break such unpleasant news to Sofía.

  We got up early next morning to inspect the trap before anyone else found it. The birds were singing lustily and the sky was that clear blue a brand new day brings. Our feet left trails in the dewy grass. I stole a glance at the cemetery wall and saw that the grass there was flattened.

  No cats circled the trap today so we reckoned the magpie had learned its lesson. But there was something in the trap.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t a cat. It was a hedgehog. It didn’t seem distressed at all, gently nosing the gaps between the bars with its pointed snout.

  “Oh dear,” I said. “I didn’t even know there were hedgehogs here in Spain.”

  Joe rolled his eyes but said nothing. Gently, he opened the entrance to the trap and the hedgehog trundled out. It sniffed the ground in all directions and ambled away, apparently none the worse for wear. At least it had enjoyed a free meal.

  “Can we stop this silly game now?” Joe asked. “We’re never going to catch a cat.”

  “Oh, just one more try! We’ve just been unlucky, that’s all. It’s a very good trap.”

  Back at home, I checked out Spanish hedgehogs on the Internet, just out of interest. As usual, Iberianature.com told me all I needed to know.

  Algerian hedgehog

  It informed me that there are two hedgehog species in Spain: the European and the Algerian. The European ones are darker in colour and bigger than their Algerian cousins, but not often found along the Mediterranean coast. I concluded, therefore, that ours was Algerian. Apparently, Algerian hedgehogs’ spines are softer than those of European hedgehogs and their ears are bigger. I also learned that the Spanish used to capture and eat hedgehogs, though thankfully they are now protected.

  The Internet also taught me that the ancient Egyptians believed hedgehog fat cured baldness. I stored that nugget of useless information in my head in case it ever came in useful. You never know, it could be the winning question on some silly TV quiz show.

  We waited until Sunday night when the village was quiet before setting the trap again.

  “This is the last time,” Joe said. “If we don’t catch a cat tonight, we’re giving up. This is getting ridiculous.”

  I put a nice big piece of ham in the trap, and we walked away. I prayed it would be third time lucky and crossed my fingers.

  25 Jumping over Babies

  Sherried Chorizo

  There was no doubt about it, we had caught a cat. As Joe and I made our way to the wasteland next morning, the howls of a trapped cat rent the air. Success!

  “At last!” I said. “Wow, it’s a noisy one! I told you so! I knew we’d catch a cat in the end!”

  But my victory dance was short-lived, because there in the trap was MumCat.

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” I said, exasperated. “Of all the cats in the village, she’s probably the best fed. And still she goes and gets herself caught in the trap...”

  “Enough,” said Joe. “We are not putting that trap out again, I mean it. First a magpie, then a hedgehog and now our own cat. Knowing our luck, we’ll catch Fifi next and then there’ll be hell to pay.” He stomped off leaving me alone with the furious MumCat.

  “That was a stupid thing to do,” I said to MumCat. “Surely we feed you enough already? This trap is supposed to be for the other village cats, not you. When your kitties are weaned, we’ll be taking you to visit the vet anyway.”

  I opened the trap and MumCat walked out and wound herself round my legs, not one to bear a grudge. I carried the wretched trap back to our garage and hung it back on its nail to gather dust for a few more years.

  Each day the kittens grew fluffier, cuter and more comical. As they ventured further from their cupboard, MumCat tried to keep them in order, but Smut in particular was determined to explore. Like small children, every day they learned something new. At first they couldn’t climb the step to the higher part of the garden, then Smut, after a few tumbles, mastered it. Beauty quickly followed her sister’s example. Poor Chox had to wait a couple of days - he was just too small to pull himself up.

  Smut

  But climbing the steps wasn’t enough. They soon discovered that climbing up the flyscreen on our kitchen door was huge fun. Up Smut would go, higher and higher, with Beauty and Choccy-Paws just behind, both trying to catch their sister’s tail as it swished just out of reach. Once at the top, they would need rescuing, only to repeat the process a minute later.

  Of course climbing the garden steps and gaining access to the upper part of the garden meant more things to explore and discover, including the chickens. Outside the chicken coop, all three kittens sat in a row, like spectators at Wimbledon, their heads swivelling from left to right watching the chickens parade along the fence.

  Smut was the first to squeeze through the fence into the chicken coop. Once inside, she stood still, poised to escape if necessary. Atilla the Hen, the leader of the flock, stopped scratching in the dirt and marched purposefully over to inspect the furry feline intruder. Smut crouched, eyes huge, but didn’t retreat. Atilla towered over her, but Smut the Intrepid Explorer held her ground. Atilla glared down at her, her head on one side. Then she rattled her comb, decided Smut was not worthy of her attention, and turned away. Smut watched her, waited, then slowly, inch by inch, crept deeper into the coop. The other chickens i
gnored her and Smut gained confidence. She sniffed their food, investigated the walls and water feature, and climbed the fence.

  Beauty and Chox watched from the outside, enthralled. Before long, they followed suit and the three of them claimed the chicken coop as a new playground. They romped in the straw, played hide-and-seek in the laying boxes and scrambled up to the roosting perch. The chickens paid them no attention and the kittens were free to come and go as they pleased.

  The kittens made certain chores, like sweeping the patio, impossible. I tried to do it when they were asleep, but as soon as they heard the brushing, they were instantly awake and ready to play. As I swept, they pounced and hung on the broom, while MumCat lay on her side and watched her wayward children, her tail swishing. Eventually the little hooligans grew tired of that game, and pounced on her switching tail instead.

  The ‘no-entry-into-the-house-on-any-account’ rule that Joe had insisted upon was broken very early on. The kittens entered the house whenever they pleased and wreaked havoc. We’d be trying to watch television, and they’d pounce on our toes, or run up and down the couch, or climb the floor-length curtains. Usually their antics were far more entertaining than the TV.

  Poor Chox always came last. If it was a rough and tumble game, he’d be at the bottom of the pile. If it was hide-and-seek, he’d still be hiding when his big sisters had tired of the game and were playing somewhere else. His sisters learned to lap milk, Chox just stuck his nose in and sneezed.

  Every morning as I woke, the first thought on my mind was the kittens. Except for one morning, when, CRASH, an almighty explosion woke us up at 7 a.m. Our bedroom was a cave room with no windows, and the noise and vibrations that followed were terrifying.

  We knew we lived in an earthquake zone and that, historically, earth tremors were regular occurrences, although our area had suffered no big earthquakes for centuries. Joe worried about it, but I never gave it much thought. During our first summer in El Hoyo, we’d been awoken from our siesta by urgent loudspeaker announcements. Convinced it was an earthquake warning, Joe sprang out of bed in fright and sprinted to the square, only to discover that it was a van selling peaches.

  This morning, we leaped out of bed and ran into the garden, shaken. Everything looked the same. Swallows wheeled overhead, the kittens pounced on our feet and each other, the birds sang. I remember thinking, don’t birds stop singing during an earthquake?

  Still in our night-wear, we clambered up the metal staircase from the garden to the roof terrace. The Boys in the house opposite stood side by side on their balcony in their matching monogrammed bathrobes, each clutching his own little dog.

  “¿Qué pasa?” called Joe. “What’s happening?”

  “Allí,” said Roberto, pointing over our shoulders. “There!”

  We swung round. A cloud of dust hung in the air and a massive earth-moving machine loomed over the pile of rubble that used to be a house. Yesterday there had been a house on Paco’s far side, but today it was gone.

  Neighbour’s house demolished

  “Honestly!” said Joe, giving himself a scratch. “What with The Monstrosity being built on one side of us, the Ufartes and The Boys always doing stuff to their houses, the Mayor’s new house on the other side of the valley, and now this! It’s like living on a building site.”

  “Don’t forget we were always working on our house up until recently. It won’t take them long to rebuild that house.”

  And it didn’t. Soon a spanky new house had arisen from the rubble of the old one. The owners only occupied it during the summer, so our lives were affected not at all.

  I know England has some very strange customs and traditions. I remember the annual cheese-rolling event where runners chase a rolling cheese down a steep hill. Another favourite of mine is the worm-charming contest, where contestants are allocated a staked-out area and are encouraged to charm as many worms from the ground as they can in 30 minutes. Some play music, others tap-dance, bounce balls or sing. But for me, the Spanish baby-jumping event is surely the most outrageous.

  I’d never heard of it until I saw the Ufarte twins in the street one late May day. As usual, they were they dressed indentically. Both wore party dresses with matching shoes, and ribbons in their hair.

  “Well! You two look lovely! Are you going to a party?”

  “No, we are going on a holiday. We are going right to the top of Spain!”

  “Mama says we can try our holiday clothes on.”

  “But we must not get dirty.” Twin #2 smoothed down her dress and checked her shoes. Twin #1 did the same.

  “Are you all going?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mama and Papa and...”

  “Jorge and Carlos...”

  “But not our abuela.”

  “Because she gets tired...”

  “Tía Lola will stay with abuela.”

  “And our baby brother is coming with us, of course.”

  “That’s why we are going. We are going to stay with Papa’s cousin and we are taking our baby brother to El Colacho.”

  “Mama and Papa took us to El Salto de Colacho when we were babies.”

  “¿El Salto del Colacho? What’s that?” The Devil’s Leap? I’d never heard of it before.

  “It’s when the devil jumps over babies, silly!” said Twin #1. “Everybody knows that!”

  Both twins giggled behind their hands and ran back into their house leaving me to ponder over this information. Later I asked Carmen-Bethina about it, and she explained.

  Apparently, this festival takes place in Castrillo de Murcia, and probably dates back to about 1620. To celebrate Corpus Christi, men dress in yellow and red costumes to signify the devil. Families from all over Spain arrive with babies born during the previous 12 months. The babies are dressed in their best clothes and laid out side by side on mattresses in the street.

  Then, wait for it, the devil, known as El Colacho, leaps over the babies. This is supposed to cleanse the babies’ of sin and guard against evil and illness, thus ensuring them a safe passage through life.

  Jumping over babies

  As an added bonus, the organisers of the festival, the shadowy brotherhood of Santísimo Sacramento de Minerva, cloaked in black, give chase and terrorise townsfolk and spectators throughout the day.

  Fascinated, I researched a little more. I discovered, unsurprisingly, that the festival has been rated one of the most dangerous in the world. It was also alleged that the last Pope asked priests in Spain to distance themselves from El Salto del Colacho.

  So, the devil was going to jump over the Ufarte baby? Only in Spain...

  To begin with, Smut and Beauty were real little scaredy cats. Trying to pick them up was extremely challenging. They scooted away and made it very clear they didn’t want to be handled. We persisted because we wanted to prepare them for their future homes. So we put time aside every evening to hold and stroke the girls whether they liked it or not. It was like trying to stroke a twisting, squirming pincushion, but we persevered.

  Chox was very different. He loved to be picked up, and his rumble was the first purr I heard from the kittens. He knew that if I was working in the kitchen, he only needed to stand on his hind legs, tap me with his soft front paws, look up and say, “Purrrp?” a few times before I’d stop everything and give him a cuddle.

  Smut had a way of completely vanishing, worrying us half to death. She could hide in the smallest of spaces, and often did. Behind the dustbin, in my plant pots, in Joe’s pack of beers, anywhere. If we left a drawer open, she’d squirm in and often wriggle over the back of the drawer into the space behind. Or sometimes I’d pull a drawer open, and there she was, curled up fast asleep amongst my underwear.

  The day arrived when we lost her completely. For two hours we searched the house and garden: no Smut.

  “What if she’s got out, and somebody picked her up?”

  “No, she wouldn’t let anyone pick her up,” said Joe, but we widened the search to the street and surrounding neigh
bourhood. No Smut. We returned, anxious and Smutless.

  “Where could she be?”

  The answer came from Beauty, who was sitting, fixated by something over our heads. I looked up, and there, high, high above us was Smut peeping down through the leaves of the grapevine.

  “So, you’re big enough to climb trees now, are you?” I said to her. “And the grapevine gives you access to all the roofs, and the rest of the village. Not a good idea, young lady, we don’t want to lose you.”

  How do you stop kittens climbing trees? I had a good think about it, then came up with an invention that I may patent. I took a plastic bucket, cut out the base, and wrapped the bucket, upside down round the trunk of the vine, about four feet up. It did the trick. Smut’s needle-sharp claws couldn’t find a purchase on the bucket’s slippery sides. She was successfully grounded.

  The time came when we had to take the kittens to the vet for their first inoculations and worming tablets. It was the 16th of June 2010, a date I remember well for two good reasons.

  26 Soccer and San Juan

  White Bean and Sherry Garlic Dip

  The faster and louder a sport is, the more the Spanish adore it, and the inhabitants of El Hoyo were no exception. Small boys on miniature motor bikes careered around the village, imitating their Moto GP heroes, Jorge Lorenzo and Dani Pedrosa. Likewise, most men in the village were avid followers of Formula 1, rooting for their idol, Fernando Alonso. But these exciting sports paled into insignificance compared with every red-blooded Spaniard’s first love, FOOTBALL!

  Subtle changes were happening in the village. The men talked about one thing only, and discussed it passionately, in the finest detail, often nearly coming to blows when their opinions conflicted. The women rolled their eyes but slowly became more involved as the TV showed little else. Geronimo stopped stalking Lola Ufarte and could be found in a huddle with other men, his knuckles white with passion as he clutched his Real Madrid scarf. The little boys played soccer with more urgency in the square, each sporting red football shirts with ‘David Villa’ printed on the back.