The following morning we present ourselves outside the library at eight and half, keeping a lookout for a gleaming new white Dacia coming from the direction of Juan’s flat. Five minutes pass with no sign, when suddenly from the opposite direction comes an urgent honking, and there is our dear friend driving some scruffy, beat-up wreck of indeterminate make, and vintage. Maybe today is the big trade-in, and we are invited to the key handing-over ceremony. Who knows? I’ve had my scrambled eggs on toast with two mugs of coffee, my brains are switched on again, only half-power mind you, as it’s a Sunday, so all Is well in my world. Another day of discovery in this bonkers country. He rolls down the window. ‘Plees. I sorree, I ver late, hop on, like London bus! Hop on, hop off! Mind the gap! We must to go quickly!’ Blimey, whatever next? Is this supposed to be Spain, or have we been beamed back to London? Late? Quickly? I cannot ever remember hearing those words over here, and certainly not from a Spaniard.
We barely have time to fold ourselves into the back seat before he roars off down the street, we reach the edge of town in about thirty seconds and hurtle down a country lane, out into the olive groves. He is throwing the ancient jalopy around the bends like some demented rally driver, and I am in imminent danger of a close encounter with an olive tree, or a plate of scrambled egg, or maybe both, when mercifully, he screeches to a halt, almost mowing down a dozen or so people who are milling around in the main street of what appears to be a one-horse town, only smaller, with no horses. Describing this place as a hamlet would be a wild exaggeration, and there is no sign of a Dacia dealer either, so what is happening, heaven knows. Nigel Mansell turns to face us. ‘Sorree, my drivey ver bad. Hop off, plees!’ Apparently we have reached our destination, although what these other people are doing, I have no idea.
Trembling, we extract ourselves from the venerable conveyance, and breathe deeply while our heart-rates return to double figures. Surprisingly, bearing in mind a number of them were almost hospitalised, there is a great deal of good-natured banter between Juan and the group, who clearly bear him no ill-will. Just then, one of the number detaches himself from the throng, and approaches us, hand outstretched. ‘Welcome! My name Ar-hona. You Eengliss free-end of Juan. He say me of you. Plees, sign here!’ And from behind his back he produces a clip-board to which is attached a list of names, addresses, signatures, and, oh no, NIE numbers. Not the dreaded knee, on a Sunday morning? Thought I had done with knees, when we bought the car. And why exactly do we need to give our names and addresses, anyway? Don’t want to look a complete dork of course so I fill in my details, put a dash through the knee bit, sign the thing and pass it to Chrissie. That will have to do, no way am I going home from here to get a bit of paper, or heaven forbid, the deeds of the house.
Formalities dispensed with, we appear to be ready. For what, search me, but ready we are. ‘Follow me plees! Sendero!’ grins our friend, and the whole group trudge off into the olives. There is no path as such, no fences, no signposts or way-marks of any sort, just olive trees, by the million, as far as the eye can see, although clearly someone knows where they are going, Ar-hona presumably, as he appears to be in the lead, with us bringing up the rear. ‘Plees, I show you Trinny.’ Juan grins. ‘She naturista.’ Please let most of that be lost in translation. He calls out to a blonde, slim, serious-looking, middle-aged lady dressed in hiking gear, with copious pockets, who has a small bunch of grasses and plants in her hand. ‘I know in Eengliss thees word have different meaning’ he whispers, ‘but here in Espain she ees Padre, Hijo and Espiritu Santo. No laughy, plees!’ Father, Son and Holy Ghost? Trinity? This is a very strange country. Especially at this time of the morning.
‘Ello’ she beams. ‘My name ees Trinny. Plees to see you! Look! Different flowers yellow. Are you interest naturista, plees?’
Before I can blunder in with both feet, Chrissie takes over. ‘Good morning, we are Cristina and John. Yes, we are interested in nature, but in English we use the word ‘naturalist’. A ‘naturist’ is something different.’
Ahead, the whole group has stopped to listen. ‘So what mean naturist, plees?’ Juan enquires.
My wife smiles politely. ‘A naturist is someone who likes to go without clothes occasionally, in public, often with others of the same interest.’
‘NUDISTA!’ cries the horrified naturalist. ‘OH MY GAAD! I NO NUDISTA!’ And she is hopping from foot to foot, while the rest of the group are roaring with laughter.
‘Trinny, get your clothes off!’ cries a male voice. ‘Look, I will take mine off also! We can be nudistas together!’
Juan is looking aghast, but eventually the group settles down, and we move off again, us bringing up the rear. ‘There are no Russian cars around here’, I complain, through gritted teeth, after a few more minutes. ‘This is more like a bloody route march. What the hell is going….’ I turn to see my dearest propped against an olive tree, tittering helplessly. It takes a few more seconds for the penny to drop. ‘You swine! You absolute rotten….’
‘What thees swine, plees?’ our friend enquires.
‘Her, look!’ I splutter, indicating the woman who is still clinging to a leafy branch. ‘She told me a sendero was a car! A Dacia Sendero! I thought we were going to look at a car this morning. Juan, what am I going to do with her?!’
The rest of the gang, meanwhile, have paused to ridicule the Brit who thought a hiking trip was an Eastern European vehicle. Total uproar. ‘Hey English, my feet are aching!’ ‘Can I get a ride please?’ ‘Take me home, I am tired!’ ‘Careful not to hit any olive trees!’ ‘Can we go to the beach? Malaga?’
I spread my arms out wide, in a ‘I feel like a right lemon, but who cares’ kind of way. ‘No hablo mucho Espanol’ I grin, which is my standard ‘get out of jail’ card in these circumstances. No speaky Spanish. Which usually does the trick, as it does on this occasion. Breaks the ice, too. Off we march, again, heading heaven knows where, but at least I am no longer keeping a weather-eye out for traffic. Chrissie still is wiping her eyes. ‘So, just as well I didn’t wear my flip-flops, this morning, wasn’t it? Would have looked an even bigger idiot, wouldn’t I, thank you very much.’
She is still finding the whole thing hugely funny. ‘That is why I strategically placed your trainers in the hall, wasn’t it, so that you would put them on automatically, what with it still being the middle of the night, in your world!’
I glance down at my trainer-shod feet. Been done up like a kipper, haven’t I, as Del-Boy might have said. ‘So how long have you known about this hiking trip then?’
‘Since last week’ she cheerfully confirms. ‘Juan asked if we wanted to go, but he wasn’t sure he could make it. No idea where you were at the time, away with the fairies probably, but he promised to message us last night. Anyway, I thought it would be a nice surprise for you, so here we are.’
Suddenly, from up in front, comes the sound of muted shushing, and Trinny appears, holding up her hands in a plea for silence. ‘Weeld dohhs, in the trees, up ahead! Look!’
In the trees? I must have mis-translated? Dogs in the trees? Who do they think they are, these dogs? Leopards? Craning our heads for a better view we can see a small group of maybe half a dozen canines, fawn-grey in colour, flecked with black, like small Alsatians, fifty yards ahead, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. They are jumping, from a standing start, up the trunk, into the branches. In my life, I have never seen anything like this. And are they actually dogs? To me, they look just like… no, surely not? Here, in Andalucia? I saw a wolf once in the zoo and these creatures look suspiciously similar, pointed noses, sticky-up ears, the same general size and colouration…
We are edging gradually closer, Chrissie keeping herself tucked in behind me, although the creatures seem entirely unconcerned by our presence, glancing in our direction occasionally but continuing their frolicking. What can they be after, in an olive tree? Certainly not the famous Mediterranean diet as all the fruit was picked several months ago, by Fernando, maybe, and all that re
mains are tiny white flowers, the beginnings of next years crop. Grubs, possibly? Small insects? Juan squeezes my arm. ‘Incredible, no? Weeld dohhs. Thees ver especial. I never see they, so closely, like thees.’
‘But are they really dogs?’ I whisper. ‘They look like a different species, to me.’
He blows out his cheeks. ‘I know, you think maybe lobo, how you say, wooooolf? There ees wooooolfs een Sierra Morena, north of Cordoba , maybe forty kilometres from here, border weeth Castilla, but honesty we not know. Exist no fence in Sierra Morena, so ees possible they travel here, are no towns to prevent they.’ And he beckons to Trinny.
‘Canis lupus?’ she murmurs softly, smiling. ‘We must to take care, people frighty of they, so we say dohhs weeld, maybe they living here, we are study at university of Granada, now…..’
Suddenly from the crowd comes the frantic sound of multiple sneezing, and as one, the dohhs weeld prick up their ears, and go galloping off across the countryside, disappearing into the distance. A bloke in the group is blowing his nose, eyes streaming. ‘Sorry, I have allergy!’ Trinny is dumbfounded, staring, open-mouthed, in disbelief, in a height of the hay-fever season, olive trees and spring flowers in full bloom, and he comes out on a nature walk, scaring away the wildlife kind of way. Not happy, is our nudista.
The show over, we resume our sendero, with us still bringing up the rear. Just then I become aware of an engine, a vehicle approaching from behind. A rattly diesel, getting louder, and I turn to see what looks like an old farmer in a beaten-up four-wheel-drive, about twenty feet behind us, making no attempt to overtake. For pity’s sake, we are in the middle of the back of beyond, and here is this annoying motorist, acres of space in which to pass. And I really dislike people behind me, whether I am walking, or driving. I stop, smiling politely, and wave him through, but no, he resolutely refuses, pointing at something ahead. What, he cannot pass twelve people? With all these millions of acres? First someone frightening the wooooolfs, and now Reginald Molehusband. Grrrr. Just then, Ar-hona comes striding back. Excellent, he can shoo this motorist away, and leave us in peace. Wrong! ‘Brax-fass!’ he grins. ‘Who is ready for brax-fass?’ Well me obviously, even though I have already had one already this morning, but all this walking makes you peckish, right? Only one slight problem, however. Where are we partaking of this repast, in this wilderness? Suddenly, old Reggie switches off his engine, wrenches up the handbrake, squeezes his gut from behind the wheel, stumbles out of the vehicle, and adjusts his groin in a manner not fit for publication in respectable circles. Charming. He then lifts the hatchback, and drops the tail-gate, to reveal two huge rubber buckets, filled with ice and stuffed with cans of beer, lemon and orangeade, and Coke. Another fellow opens the side doors and extracts two folding tables, which are hastily erected, a large sack of crusty rolls is dragged from the car, followed by cool-boxes crammed with slices of cheese, chorizo, Spanish ham and various em-boo-tea-toes. A bowl of ripe, beefy tomatoes, a stack of paper plates, knives for slicing and a pile of serviettes completes the ensemble. Brax-fass is served, and I have to say what a bloody nice bloke that Reggie is, driving all the way out here to keep us fed.
The Spaniards need no encouragement, diving on the largesse like a pack of, well, dohhs weeld, really, whereas I do have reservations. Only slight ones, you understand, but reservations nevertheless. I turn to my wife. ‘Did you actually remember to bring any money today, amid all the deception? You remember, Dacia dealers, and all that? I mean, had I known about all this I would have brought my camera, got some shots of the lobos, instead of some distant, grainy images on my phone, which could be of half a dozen mice, quite honestly.’
She regards me without affection, opening her mouth to speak, and then closing it again. She rubs her hand across her face. ‘Look, Juan didn’t say anything about food, all right, so I have a couple of small bottles of water in my bag, and two cereal bars.’
Ooohhh! Might be one-nil up here, for a change. ‘Yes, but do we have any money, perchance, to pay for the brax-fass? It would be embarrassing, you must admit, if they come round for contributions, and you don’t have any. I, of course, have a perfect excuse. So what flavour are your power bars? Not those horrible apple ones which taste like chemicals, I hope!’
‘About five euros, all right?’ she hisses. ‘Now get out of the way and let me get to the cheese, before all these ruddy meat-eaters grab…..’
‘Plees, you take beer? Chorizo? Come on, diggy in, as you say!’ Our good friend seems concerned lest we become faint, and with good reason, in my case. Anyway, five euros should be more than sufficient for a Spanish breakfast, so without further ado, I diggy in. Not beer, you understand, as my name is not Del, but a ham and tomato roll goes down a treat. And glancing around, it’s probably a good job that old sneezy frightened away the wooooolfs, as doing battle with six sets of snarling fangs would not go down too well when we are having our brax-fass, would it?
It appears we have not eaten enough, however. Maybe we still have forty miles to go, before nightfall, as Ar-hona is keen for us to take on further nourishment. ‘Benga! Eaty! Bocca-dee-yo! How you say, sand-wee! Coca-cola! Yees!’ Oh go on then, twist my arm. Saw some Spanish black pudding in the box earlier, and a crusty roll stuffed full of that, washed down with a lemonade, will set me up nicely, for whatever awaits.
Bidding farewell to old Reggie, we are on our way again, and fully fueled, and now fully awake, I am able to discern a definite pathway through the olives, having hitherto felt we were simply following our noses in some vague direction. All right, so I am lost, OK? Difficult to spot, amongst all these olive trees, but we are on some kind of a trail. ‘So where are we heading, Trinny?’ I enquire of our naturist.
She gathers her thoughts, and breathes deeply. ‘OK, we follow can-yadda. How you say can-yadda, een Eengliss?’ I think my face gives it away. Not the foggiest. ‘Juan! Come here plees! How you say can-yadda, een Eengliss?’ Well if I don’t know, I doubt he does, but then again…
He whips out his smart-phone, and types ‘Canada’ into his translator app. ‘Canada!?’ I splutter, ‘are you serious? We are walking to Canada? Is that the country to the north of the United States, or is there one in Andalucia?’ No wonder Ar-hona wanted us fueled up…..
Our friend wags his finger. ‘No, I not typy Canada, I typy can-yadda. Look!’
Now then. Hands up all those of you who knew there was an additional letter in the Spanish alphabet? Go to the top of the class if you did, cos we sure as hell didn’t, when we moved over here. But it is true, there are two letter ‘N’s. The ordinary one, pronounced ‘en-ny’ and a second one, with a squiggly line above, like a little snake, pronounced ‘en-ya’. I cannot prove it to you, as I’m typing this on a British keyboard, but trust me on this, next time you look at the Spanish version, there it will be. And they use this letter for words like ‘Espana’, Espan-ya, ‘senor’, sen-yor, and most famous of all, ‘manana’, man-yanna. So twenty-seven letters, but confusingly, to fit them all in, there is no ‘@’ key. Who knew? And best of luck typing an email in the local library.
I glance again at his screen to see that he has indeed typed ‘canada’, but using the en-ya letter. The little blue wheel is spinning, and there seems more likelihood of picking up a signal in the Bay of Biscay if your name is Elton ‘Bobby’ John, but eventually the Spanish Wi-Fi creaks painfully to life and some wording appears. Our friend frowns. ‘Drow-berrs row-ad.’ he smiles. ‘Can-yadda is drow-berrs row-ad.’
Of course it is! Oh silly me! ‘Let me see that, please’ I grin, peering over his shoulder. ‘Drovers road! So this can-yadda is a drovers road?’ I cannot help chuckling to myself. Drow-berrs row-ad indeed. See what we are up against, over here? It ain’t easy, I can tell you. Especially on a Sunday.
Trinny is keen to elaborate. ‘Yees, is ancient direcho, how you say, right? From medieval epoch, I think, for person take they anny-mally to different part of countree. Coos, sheeps, like thees.’ Which is all well and good of c
ourse, but I have one burning question. What anny-mally? There is a complete absence of coos, sheeps or indeed farms, in this area. A few goats of course, scrabbling around on rocky mountainsides, tended by gnarly old goatherds, ably assisted by a couple of mangy curs, but I am unable to conjure pastoral images of wide, sweeping plains, luxurious grasslands stretching majestically to the horizon. And these olive trees didn’t just spring up overnight, did they? We have already encountered one allegedly from a previous millennium. Maybe it was different hundreds of years ago, dusty gauchos driving herds of wild steers down to, I don’t know, the Costa del Sol for their holidays? A conversation for another time.
The morning passes quickly and Trinny is performing sterling service, bringing the local flora and fauna to life. Insects, lizards, bugs, butterflies and caterpillars are drawn expertly to our attention, and as the gardener of the household, Chrissie is particularly interested in clumps of wild iris, buttercups, ox-eye daisies and some straggly lemon-coloured weeds growing in profusion around the bases of the trees. But of human habitation, nothing. We might as well be on the moon. Suddenly, there comes the sound of excited murmuring from the group, and a building appears on the near horizon. Civilization! Two buildings, a cluster in fact, with a few pine trees, which make a pleasant change after a morning of nothing but olives. ‘Cor-tea-HHo!’ Juan exclaims. ‘We visit cor-tea-HHo now!’
Ah yes, we know this word, having originally intended buying one. Cortijo, with the phlegmy third syllable. A Spanish farmhouse. An extremely well manicured farmhouse in this case, with wrought iron gates, a paved driveway featuring an ornamental fountain, stone and whitewashed buildings forming three sides of a square, a massive arched doorway with a bell-tower above, flowers and shrubs sprouting artfully from ancient stone pots, palm trees providing dappled shade, and bizarrely, a complete absence of old bed-frames and rusty chicken-wire. What is this place, a five-star hotel? It certainly looks that way, and suddenly I feel shockingly under-dressed, in my Primark polo shirt, grubby shorts, and trainers. My appearance could be best described as ‘scruffy-casual’, and that would be talking it up, quite frankly. None of the others are in black tie of course, but embarrassingly, I have the Waterloo Station tramp look down to a fine art. Still, not my fault, is it? I was told we were calling in on a car-dealer, not visiting the Ritz. We all know who to blame, don’t we Mrs Richards?
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 33