Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues!

by John Austin Richards

  Babs turns serious, all of a sudden. ‘We just wanted to ask you, what has happened to the British people here, do you know? When we were here last September, for a couple of days, we saw maybe half a dozen Brits, but this time we haven’t seen any. Has anything, you know, been going on?’

  I glance up at the clock. Five minutes. ‘Well, two blokes died, no sorry, three died in the last year. One was divorced, the house is closed up but we have no idea what the family are doing. The second one, his wife sold up quickly and moved back, and the third one has the house on the market but not sold it yet, although she is back in the UK also. Then another couple split up, she went back but he is still here. Another pair had a grandchild so they have moved back, but the house hasn’t sold yet, as far as we know. Then two couples were worried about their healthcare after Brexit, they were in really poor health, taking lots of medication, we were away most of August last year and by the time we got back it had all changed. To be honest, we don’t socialise like we used to. When we first came here, this house was like party central, a revolving door almost, we were still in holiday mode of course, then after a while we had to step back a bit, it was getting out of hand, all the drinking, and even though booze is cheap here it was still running away with our money! So nowadays we tend to go to the bars in the new part of town, if we fancy an evening out together as a special occasion. There is one place we really like where you can choose your tapas from a menu, as Chrissie is vegetarian, so that is really good.’

  Time is up, but predictably, Alberto is late… ‘Then you have the Brits with holiday homes, most of them are still around, one couple got too infirm to manage the hills so they sold up, otherwise the rest are still around, so we tend to meet up with them when they are over. That is better, we find, having a good old catch-up a couple of times a year, rather than trolling round the same old bars, week in, week out. Plus of course we have more Spanish friends now, so we meet up with them from time to time.’ At that moment, there is a knock on the door, which I get up to open. ‘Plus, we are really busy with our English conversation! Alberto, good evening! Come in and meet our friends, Babs and Andy.’

  ‘Hello, pleased to meet you!’ smiles the bewildered Spaniard, glancing at the souvenirs. ‘What are thees, please?’

  ‘That is your class tonight!’ I grin. ‘Two classes in fact, English conversation, and Spanish history! And by the way, I have a present for you. Does anyone in your family smoke?!’

  The following morning we are off on another hike, I assume, or maybe not, a visit to the local water supply, wherever that might be, and if our translation is correct, according to the publicity notice hanging in the library. A guided tour, no less, as organised by Historian-Anna, the town archivist. Important stuff, water, right? Can’t live without it, and we have often wondered where it comes from in this arid country, given that the locals slosh it around liberally, down the streets in the mornings, to keep the dust at bay, and in their gardens, after sunset. And in a country with three hundred days of sunshine a year, you rarely hear the words drought or hosepipe-ban, as we used to from South West Water after three dry-ish weeks.

  Bizarrely however, many of the neighbours drink bottled water, complaining that the stuff which comes out of the tap has little stones in it. Hardly surprising really, given the fact there is a huge great limestone mountain behind the town, and yes, there are occasionally calcium deposits floating round inside the kettle, but I spent my formative years in a similar hard-water area, and it didn’t do me any harm, did it……

  Dotted around the town, and surrounding villages, are stone horse-troughs, or fountains, with continuously-flowing supplies of spring-water, from ornate brass pipes, even in the height of summer, agua potable, safe to drink, where the local populace gather on a Sunday morning, to fill giant plastic containers…. so isn’t this stuff the same as what comes out of the tap? And where is the reservoir? Blowed if I know. Never seen one, on our strolls around the vicinity. And we must be walking, as the poster didn’t mention anything about a coach trip, although Chrissie has a few euros in her bag, I believe, just in case there is a minibus offering a fruit cake as a raffle prize….

  The expedition is scheduled to begin at eleven, so we duly arrive at the main square at five minutes to, punctual Brits as we are, to find a group of around a dozen elderly people already assembled, which causes momentary confusion inside my admittedly tiny brain, as being last to arrive is a difficult concept to deal with, in this country. Can be a bit hit and miss, these cultural visits, quite honestly. The one to the local prison, a few months ago, was hugely interesting, having never been incarcerated, albeit temporarily, before, and I was mightily relieved to discover that Crazy Man was no longer behind bars. Or anyone else who maybe brandished Prestige stainless-steel kitchen implements, in a threatening manner, for that matter. We were also shown the lost property office, consisting solely of a forlorn collection of half a dozen punctured footballs, each one having a parcel label sellotaped to it, showing the date of recovery, and the location. And, I swear I am not making this up, one of the sad specimens was dated 1999. So if that was you who lost their ball, brown leather, a bit scuffed, during a quick kick-about, back in the last century, just call into the nick when you are next in the area. It will still be there.

  On the other hand, the hugely anticipated visit to the local ceramics factory was an absolute dead loss. There was Chrissie, slavering at the prospect of adding to her rapidly-growing collection of decorated pottery. Sadly however, or thankfully, depending on whether or not you were paying, it turned out to be a brick factory, the boss of which droned on in a monotone for over twenty minutes about the weather-resistant qualities of his products. Fascinating. We snuck off early from that one. So we just never know what to expect. A voyage of discovery, to the water-works, hopefully.

  Historian-Anna steps forward, smiling, bidding a warm welcome to everyone, and lovely to see the British couple, Cristina and Jonneee, which causes a mild scuffle from within the small crowd. ‘NEIGHBOUR! What are you doing here?’ Oh, deep joy. Why did she do that? Not as if we are famous, or Royalty. Who is this? A man’s voice…. Pirate Pete emerges from the crowd. Pepe, from our street, neighbour of Auntie Vera and Leopard-skin woman, who, despite shedding his eyepatch many months ago, retains his original nickname, at least in our house. Well into his eighties, limps like an old badger, a few of his own teeth, but only a few, a widower, we often tease Antonia that he would make a good catch for her, which always produces much hilarity, particularly in the case of Manuela. Not even if he was hanging in diamonds, was one of Antonia’s more printable denials. Sharp as a knife, yet with a permanent look of total bewilderment on his face, Pepe is a treasure, either about to crack a joke, or having just done so. Nothing, or no-one, is safe from his quips, which at his age he can get away with, a fact he plays on, I suspect.

  So never mind what we are doing, what is he up to, this far from home? ‘Are you coming with us this morning, Pepe?’ I enquire.

  ‘Certainly, neighbour!’ he hollers, indicating a van emblazoned with the Aqualia logo, the local water company as beloved of Jake the fritter, which has just that minute drawn up, ‘I want to see what those bastardo LAD-RONNIES are doing!’ Which elicits a few tuts, and giggles, in equal measure, from the small, jostling crowd. Strange mixture, actually, this lot, a completely different bunch from the sendero expedition a few days ago, much older, and not that agile, most of them, which, given that the only way out of this square involves hills, and uneven cobblestones, is somewhat strange. Maybe we are all going to cram into the back of the van….

  The front door of the ageing conveyance springs open and out steps Sean Connery. Not, I hasten to add, from his Thunderball period, but nowadays, minus toupee thankfully, trimmed white hair and beard, strong, handsome features, dark, piercing eyes, causing a certain amount of fluttering amongst the females of the group, including, disappointingly, my wife. ‘Ooohhh, looky here!’ she purrs. ‘His name is Bond. James B
ond. And I must say I am shaken, and stirred.’

  Not right is it, when we’re supposed to be visiting a water-works? ‘Hang on a minute’ I protest, ‘didn’t someone near here once say I resembled James Bond, the current one, with the blue eyes, Daniel-something, emerging from the sea in my swimming trunks?’

  ‘I think you will find I said Basildon Bond actually’ she chuckles, eyes still firmly fixed on water-man, who, dressed in a florescent bib as opposed to a tuxedo, bears absolutely no resemblance to ageing film stars, I have decided. ‘You looked like a shriveled-up writing-pad, as I recall!’

  That is it. I am with Pirate Pete on this. All these Aqualia people are nothing but bastardo Lad-Ronnies. Suddenly, Historian-Anna coughs, to gain our attention. ‘Rogelio will be our guide, this morning, and he will meet us there. Follow me, please!’ Rogelio? Roger? Roger Moore? Priceless. Besides, I preferred him as Bond…..

  ‘Benga arriba!’ cries Pete. Arriba? Up where? Up this narrow, cobbled street, it appears, the same one we traversed on that pre-election evening, when one of us was searching in vain for a public convenience. And curiously, old Rog has driven off in the opposite direction…. The group has spread out now, following slowly behind our intrepid historian, and for the first time I am able to take a good look at the make-up of the gang. Pensioners, mostly, so where in the devil’s name are we going? Many of them are lucky to have made it this far, quite honestly, and the two old women bringing up the rear, dressed in tweed two-pieces, surgical stockings and patent court-shoes, resemble ladies who lunch as opposed to those who might ramble. Not a trace of Gore-Tex, for sure. The larger of the two reminds me of Hyacinth Bucket, with her strong, manly features, and bosom, while her smaller compatriot wouldn’t be out of place on the set of Monarch of the Glen, poised regally in front of a roaring fire, stags heads and other hunting trophies fixed proudly to the wall, tartan curtains closed against the chilly winter air.

  It is their hairstyles which fascinate me the most, however, lacquered to within an inch of their lives, stiff and unyielding, one honey-blonde, the other chestnut, just like our front door, only more durable, clearly dyed, as my mother would undoubtedly have remarked, unkindly, and I am chuckling to myself, imagining a howling gale sweeping down the street, people shielding their eyes from the debris, bent double, buttoning coats, and yet these coiffures remaining perfectly in place, not a hair disturbed. Pirate Pete, lagging behind, catches me grinning, digs me in the ribs, points openly at the retreating backsides and, laughing, hollers ‘Elephante, and Rinoceronte!’

  Hyacinth turns, her face twisted into a mask of hatred. ‘Who are you calling a Rinoceronte, you disgusting old TONTO! Go away, you stink of orina!’ And she swipes at him with the back of her hand, which, displaying remarkable reflexes for an octogenarian, and proving his cataract operation was a complete success, he expertly avoids.

  Chrissie is leaning on a cottage wall, doubled over, fingers stuffed into her mouth, trying desperately not to laugh, while Pete grips my arm and whispers, not quite under his breath, ‘she was the Elephante, actually!’ And we haven’t even gone a hundred yards, yet. Oh my GAAD, as Amador might have said. But Hyacinth was correct. I am able to detect the faint aroma of old men, emanating from our neighbour….

  We are of course entirely familiar with the street we are climbing, leading as it does to the abode of my some-time business partner. ‘Maybe you could give Del a quick call, ask him to get the kettle on, organise a refreshment stop, for, ooh, about an hour’s time?’ Chrissie ponders.

  ‘Well he’d have to serve the tea individually, bearing in mind he only possesses one tin mug!’ I observe. ‘We would be there all morning. Besides, can you see Monarch of the Glen here wanting to stop at chez-Del? Hardly the Dorchester, is it? A window seat madam? Certainly, just let me shift this sack of yesso and give it a quick brush down.’

  ‘I thought he was in the money, now that his state pension has arrived?’ she grins. ‘You helped him with the online application, and he said it had quadrupled his weekly income, didn’t he? Enable him to claw his way out of abject squalor, you said?’

  ‘Yes but I don’t think an Old English Roses bone china tea-service was going to be his number one priority, somehow. Upgrading from a mop-bucket to a functioning bathroom was slightly higher up his to-do list, I gather!’

  The main problem with this particular stretch of uneven cobbles is the uniformity of the gradient. Steep, the entire way, with no little flat sections to take a breather. We are puffing, and the rest of the crew have fifteen years on us, at least. Whether Historian-Anna anticipated a bunch of pensioners turning up for her tour is questionable, but we ain’t getting there any time soon, wherever there might be. Hyacinth is clinging breathlessly to the wrought iron outside one particular cottage, and Monarch is bent almost double, hands on her meaty knees. Mind you, I have to ask, tweed? Were they expecting it to go off a bit chilly, in Spain, in early July? Although, judging by the speed we are going, we might still be here come Christmas.

  Pirate Pete meanwhile is doing well, all things considered, and thankfully a light breeze is wafting down the hill, enabling us to keep up-wind, and the severity of the terrain means that his supply of pithy one-liners has dried up, for now at least. Certainly there have been no further sporadic outbreaks of violence, in the last hundred yards. Give it time.

  Eventually, after what seems like about fifty years, we emerge at the top of the street to be confronted by a wall of rock, hundreds of feet high. Our mountain. Not the Matterhorn, admittedly, but a vicious, grey, rugged, limestone pinnacle towering above us. There is a walking-route to the summit around the other side, but from here you would need serious mountaineering gear to get any higher. Or you could try the hairpin bend, where a ropey old Aqualia van is parked, containing a white-haired, bearded, balding old man who to my mind bears absolutely no resemblance to anyone called James, or Bond, slumped in the passenger seat. My wife appears energized, for some reason. ‘Ooh, do you think we will be abseiling to the water-works? Will Mister Connery here have to, you know, show me the ropes? Strap me into his harness? Get out of the way, please, I am first in the queue!’

  Not nice, is it, when there are people in need of medical assistance, oxygen even? A complete disregard for her fellow travellers, who admittedly will only require strapping into an ambulance, as opposed to a film-star? Hyacinth and Monarch have gone a disturbing shade of puce, and Pete has taken advantage of the break in proceedings to vacate his lungs, the sound and evidence of which is happily being carried away on the wind. Most of it, anyway.

  Big problem, however, as far as I can see. Anna claimed that old Rog would meet us there. And, unfortunately, here he is. But where is there? Trust me on this one. A few straggly, tumbledown cottages. An Alpine meadow, beneath the cliff-face. And what looks suspiciously like a brick out-house, from when bricks were first invented. But a water-works? Nah. More chance of finding the wet-stuff in the Sahara desert.

  Suddenly, over the ridge comes a herd of maybe fifty goats, sniffing, nibbling, rubbing shoulders as they jostle for the best positions and the tastiest morsels, mothers with kids, and a few old rams with curled horns bringing up the rear, followed by two straggly, matted hounds of dubious pedigree, and a wiry old man in a stained, collarless shirt, which might actually have featured a collar in a previous century, whiffy trousers held up with baler-twine which even Pirate Pete would surely have forsaken, and tramp’s boots. A bachelor, certainly. Hardly the wholesome image from the Sound of Music, but nevertheless I start to croon, softly. ‘High on a hill was a lonely goat-herd, lay ee odl, lay ee odl, ley ee oo.’

  And my wife joins in. ‘One little girl in a pale pink coat heard, lay ee odl, lay ee odl, ooooo!’ Julie Andrews eat your heart out.

  Slowly, Connery eases his girth from behind the steering wheel and hauls his way unsteadily up the grassy slope. ‘Welcome to the system of water’ he smiles. ‘Follow me, please.’ And he trudges off up the field, the Von Trapp menagerie havi
ng departed for pastures new. Must have been the florescent bib scared them away. Or the size of his gut.

  I’m not going up there!’ hollers Pete, grinning widely. ‘That grass is covered in goat shit. I’m not walking in goat shit, it’s slippery, gets all over your shoes. It was bad enough when we had goats running up and down the street, that Jose Ocana Pastor, in your house, neighbour, those animal sheds you knocked down to build your swimming pool. You could have had goats, neighbour! What did you want a swimming pool for?’

  Just then, there comes a muffled cry from behind us, and we turn to see Hyacinth sprawled on the grass in an ungainly fashion, legs akimbo, although whether from cardiac arrest, or merely having lost her footing whilst treading on a fugitive lump of ruminant faeces, is impossible to say, as half a dozen of the group are crowding around, fussing. ‘Told you, didn’t I?’ Pete chuckles, unsympathetically. ‘Get up, Ann-Hella, you will get goat shit on your coat!’

  A number of thoughts cross my mind simultaneously. Shouldn’t around five of those people move away, right now, and give the stricken woman room to breathe? Does someone need to call the emergency services? Does anyone have a pack of wet-wipes in their bag, as that does look suspiciously like a brown stain on Hyacinth’s knees? Is that her name, Ann-Hella? How on earth did Pete know about our pool, given that he lives at the other end of the street? Has Loli been blabbing again? And where on God’s green earth is this cursed water-works?

  Sometimes, these little problems have a way of working themselves out, don’t they? Historian-Anna takes charge. ‘Ann-Hella is fine, she is not hurt, she just slipped, but she will rest here a few minutes. Please, the rest of us, can we follow Rogelio? Oh, and does anyone have a wet-wipe?’

  Pete snorts derisively. ‘A wet wipe? Why the hell would I carry a wet wipe?’ Why indeed? What a ridiculous notion. Chrissie meanwhile springs to the rescue, delving into her bag whilst picking her way precariously across the grass, brings forth a pack of Poundland’s finest and hands it to Monarch, who is remaining behind with her friend, apparently, while the rest of use resume our expedition.