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

  My instinct is to knock the beggar off, but don’t want to end up in a ditch, so gingerly I pull over, kill the engine, prop the bike on the stand, and swear. Loudly. I flick the offending creature away, revealing the remains of the sting sticking up proudly from my skin. About half a dozen veins in that area too, but by a miracle he appears to have missed them all. Still, aren’t you supposed to suck the poison out? Didn’t I see that in a John Wayne film once? Or was that a snake bite? Can’t remember, but what harm could it do? Rather be safe than sorry. Pursing my lips, I take a tentative lick, then decide to go all out, like Davy Crockett, and give it an almighty suck. Which reveals an angry red hole, but praise be, no sting. Result. I wasn’t a Wolf Cub for nothing, you know.

  Sadly, I have no first aid kit, or any of the other paraphernalia one is supposed to carry abroad. A red triangle, a hi-viz vest, a GB sticker, a breathalyser kit, a piece of sticky plastic to deflect the headlight beam, a green insurance card, a set of light-bulbs or one of those things for getting the stones out of horses hooves. OK so I made one of those up. I do however have a Chinese tent, sleeping bag, pegs, mallet and a pillow, all of which I intend using tonight, wild camping in the Picos de Europa, which are those huge gray things on the far horizon, I assume. Man in tune with nature. And, in the unlikely event of inclement weather, a ridiculous notion given that I am five hundred miles south of the M27, a rubber-backed pair of over-trousers and hooded jacket in a fetching shade of camouflage, £20 all-in from the Army Surplus Stores. My favourite shop. Sorted. Nothing to eat, mind you, but that is the beauty of Spain. Every filling-station has freshly-baked bread by the yard, and chorizo by the foot, all for less than the price of a minuscule bottle of water at the Little Thief, so I ain’t going hungry. I reckon the nine-quid I spent on gristly ram last night in the Bay of Biscay would last me three days out here in wild Spain. No five-a-day of course, but who cares? I’m riding a Harley, not flower-arranging.

  For the uninitiated, the left hand on a motorbike controls the clutch, so on a normal ride, once up and running, this hand is largely redundant. Apart from gripping the handlebar, of course. No, it is the right which controls the twist-grip for the accelerator, plus the front brake. And which wrist bears the imprint of my attacker? Yep. Anyway, what is the worst that could happen to me out here in the wilds? Death obviously, the poison runs up my arm and I turn into a writhing, frothing heap in the gutter. Unlikely, but haven’t I read about people dying from insect stings? Not a great option. Or what about my wrist swelling so badly that I am unable to operate the bike, and having to camp here at the roadside? Wouldn’t be the end of the world would it, there is a patch of meadow over there to pitch the tent, no yards of bread or feet of chorizo, obviously, but I’m sure my fat will sustain me through the night. On the other hand, Loli, Isabel and Fernando might drive by, I can just picture Loli rolling down her window, thrusting out her head, and hollering something like ‘what you doing, neighbour?’ Unlikely, given that they live five hundred miles away, but maybe they fancied a weekend in Gea-John. You just never know. ‘Expect the unexpected’ is my motto since moving to this country.

  But what about this scenario? Didn’t I read that insects, and wasps in particular, in their death throes give off a distress signal? Don’t elephants do the same thing, when one member of the herd is attacked, the rest gather round for protection? So what if every bumblebee this side of Madrid is, right now, zoning in on me? A mighty swarm, weapons at the ready, like the Luftwaffe crossing the channel, radar locked onto my throbbing wrist? And actually I can hear them coming, a high-pitched drone, an angry buzzing, slowly but surely, malevolently, inevitability, focused solely on my destruction. And the hideous noise is getting louder. In a panic, I cast around for some sort of refuge, but there is nothing, no building or tree, behind which I can shelter. Suddenly, around the bend, come half a dozen Saaf London Mods on puny Lambrettas, grinning widely at the stranded Harley, parkas and tiger-tails flapping in the breeze, feeble engines buzzing, straining against the gradient. And the final guy gives me the finger as he passes regally by. The bastards. The final humiliation, being overtaken by a bunch of weedy skinheads. The worst that could possibly have happened, just has. Including dying, quite frankly.

  Right, back in the saddle, fire up the beast, and back out on that road again. Show those shaven-headed louts what a real motorbike sounds like. My engine is bigger than all six of theirs. This kind of stuff matters, to us blokes undergoing mid-life crises. Wrong! The first few spots of rain cause me no concern, although the sky ahead has gone an ominous shade of black, and the Picos have disappeared in the gathering gloom. I am not troubled by the first flash of lightning, either. Aren’t I supposed to be protected from electrocution by the rubber tyres? Didn’t I learn about the Faraday Cage principle in school? Or was that a car? Forget now. Anyway, I am still standing on the roadside, so the first fork of lightning in my direction and I am toast. Suddenly, the heavens open, and I am scrabbling about trying to locate my Army Surplus Stores wet weather gear. Too late, I am already soaked to the skin, but at least my rubberized PVC will prevent me getting any wetter, if that were possible. There is so much water running down the hill that it wouldn’t surprise me to find a grey-haired old bloke, a queue of animals lined up two-by-two, and a large home-made boat, around the next bend. THIS IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPENING. THIS IS SPAIN, NOT THE M27. I am unsure what to do next, although if I stand here much longer I will be swept away. Hee-HHON is twenty miles behind me, so do I head back there, or do I press on? And without a map, one of the other things I omitted to bring, I really have no idea what lies ahead. A village with a small hotel would be good, given that laughably, camping is going to be out of the question. The rain might conceivably go off, but the ground is going to be like a quagmire, for about the next year.

  Right, onwards. Into the unknown. My twelve-hundred CC’s (are you listening, Lambretta riders?) cough reluctantly into life, and gingerly I guide my way through the surf, ten miles per hour, headlight on full, crouched over the tank in a vain attempt to prevent seepage. Not working, is it? My Army Surplus boots are rapidly filling up, and I feel as if I am sitting in a stone-cold bath. This is dangerous, quite honestly, hypothermia will be setting in any time now, but mile after mile pass without any habitation whatsoever, not even a bridge, a bus shelter, a ruined barn, to get out of this cursed deluge. Not a light, a house or any form of human habitation, apart from a few maniac lorry drivers coming in the opposite direction, kicking up a huge wave-wash every time they pass. Shivering with cold, I am beginning to think I will never make landfall, when mercifully, up ahead is a light. Two lights. A building. A large building in fact. An illuminated sign. Not a mirage, surely? Not a cruel trick of the mind. No. A few scattered houses, a village, and a hotel, a big, beautiful hotel. A big, beautiful French hotel, in fact, one of those chains, which momentarily causes me to wrestle with my conscience. Having spent the last twenty-six hours entombed and being royally ripped-off on a French ferry, I swore I would never patronize another Gallic business, for at least a few years. Teach them a lesson, eh? But quite honestly in my present predicament I would share a bed with the Devil. To hell with principles. And I don’t care how much it costs, either, I am going in. And if the beer is twenty quid a pint, I am having one.

  Parking outside the entrance, I ease my stiffened bones out of the saddle, and slosh my way into reception. Beaming my finest smile at the girl behind the desk, it is time to dust off my best schoolboy French. ‘Avez-vous un chambre, si vous plais?’

  The young Spaniard giggles. ‘Are you English? This is Spain, not France. Are you lost?’ Hiding my face in embarrassment, I nod my head vigorously. Yes I am lost, I am shivering with cold, I need half an hour under a scolding shower, I need some beer, and some food, any food, twelve hours sleep, and I don’t care if I have to share a bed with a little red fellow with a pronged fork and a pointy tail. I don’t tell her that, obviously. I think she can guess. But do you know what? I did ac
tually get all of the above. A King-sized bed, too, although whether there was a little red fellow under the sheets I have no idea, as I was asleep before my head hit the pillow…..

  Two days later I emerge from a long road tunnel into the province of Andalucia, and the Despenarperros national park. No idea what that means, something to do with dogs presumably, although hopefully the ‘despen’ bit doesn’t mean ‘desperate’, or ‘wild’. Less than fifty miles to go, now, after a momentous journey, not a single cloud in the sky following that first night, leaving me suntanned, wind-blown and poached. Could probably do with a change of diet too, crusty bread and chorizo by the yard gets a bit samey, I have found. Looking forward to seeing Chrissie of course, what day is it, Sunday I think, so she should be home by now. Just the one concern really, will the bike fit inside the house? Is the street wide enough to manoeuvre it inside? Will the double front doors actually open far enough? I think so, I hope so, as if not, I have absolutely no idea what I will do. You step down into the hall, so before we left Spain in August I made a ramp from some old planks of wood I found in the street. Will the ramp work? Again, not a clue.

  Our town, in common with many others in this part of Spain, is built on the side of a mountain, and the narrow, cobbled streets in the historic part are a maze of zig-zags. Streets which are now echoing to the rolling, rumbling, throaty sound of the Harley. Music to the ears. (Are you listening, Lambretta riders!?) As I traverse the final few hundred yards, heads pop out of doors, people are waving, and shouting, not that I can hear them of course. Blimey, a Harley is louder than a Spaniard shouting. Who knew? As I pull up outside our place, a reception committee forms. Loli, naturally, Isabel, Fernando, Juan the dustman, Mercedes waddles down, Leopard-Skin woman, Auntie Vera. And Chrissie, of course. Everyone seems to be shouting at once, in typical Spanish fashion, so I reel off a list of the places I have been. Hee-HHON, Ley-on, Salamanca and Toledo. Plus a ferry, sadly. Pulling off my helmet and sunglasses, Loli is consumed with laughter. ‘Neighbour, you look like a panda!’ Well you should have seen me a few days ago, Mrs. More like a big wet fish.

  Chrissie opens both doors, and places the ramp over the step. Now I could really do without an audience for this delicate operation, but we both know there is less than a zero chance of that happening. I daresay this is the first time anyone has tried to reverse a Harley into a cottage in this dusty old street, and competition for a ringside view is fierce, I can tell you. The Englishman could end up looking a complete fool, and I suspect they realise this, and none of them are going to miss it for the world. Right, here goes. Sitting astride the bike, with my back to the front doors, pushing with both feet, backwards and forwards half a dozen times, until gradually, gradually I disappear regally down the ramp, and into the hall. Loud cheers erupt from the street, and to a man, and woman, every single neighbour pokes their head inside, just to make sure. Phew! More luck than judgement, somewhat ungainly the first time, but I will get better with practice. What matters is that I am home, back in the land of Sunsets, and Olives!

  CHAPTER 2. BACK IN SPAIN-THE MADNESS CONTINUES…

  Monday morning, early September, my first complete day back, breakfast on the patio, enjoying my second mug of black coffee, feet up, glancing through my morning paper on the Kindle. My favourite time of day, apart from evenings on the patio with a glass of wine, watching the sunset, obviously. Following our break in the UK, featuring full and frank discussions, we are ready to pick up again on our lives here in Spain, with several small adjustments required. Nothing major, just tweaks here and there mainly. Besides, England was not that great, to be honest. After a year of eating full-flavoured Spanish food, the menu in Wetherspoon’s seemed strangely bland. Clearly our palates have changed. My all-time favourites, pork pies, scotch eggs and pasties, had lost their appeal. Fish and chips left us bloated. The second walnut inside the Walnut Whip had disappeared. Wagon Wheels had shrunk even further. And don’t even get me started on the weather. Got my pint in the Rose & Crown, mind you, which was excellent, as always, so there were some plus points, but on the whole, weighing it all up, Sunny Spain won out, for the time being, at least.

  So what changes in particular? Well, more time for ourselves, basically. The last few months before our holiday had been completely manic, me working with Del-Boy, and Chrissie with her English students. Del always insisted on putting-in full days, so much so that I was not getting home until late afternoons, not what I signed up for. And with him not owning a car, it fell to me to collect him in the mornings, from his cottage at the top of the town, up numerous hairpin bends, and deliver him home in the evenings. Meanwhile, my car was being used as a builders van, with Chrissie constantly giving me grief about the whiff of sweaty builders she felt she could discern, when we went out for a drive at the weekend. And barely a week went by without a phone call from a Spaniard seeking English lessons. We didn’t advertise, it was simply word of mouth. ‘You speak Eengliss with my cow-seen Maria, plees I take classes Eengliss with you?’ Of course, with the trusty Volvo now taking a well-earned retirement in our daughter’s barn, the issue of the builders transport has gone away. There is zero chance of me lugging sacks of cement on the back of a motorbike. So Del will have to accept jobs within walking distance, together with the fact that his trusty oppo will be knocking off at lunchtime. I still need to have this conversation with him, but that is how it’s going to be in future. And no more new pupils, at least until the numbers thin out a bit.

  With these happy thoughts, I pour my third mug, and contemplate the first day of the rest of our lives. Today is the first Spanish/English conversation group at the library following the summer break, and I am planning to go early and peruse the small but impressive rock CD collection there. Just about the most upsetting aspect of moving here was having to get rid of my extensive collection of original sixties and seventies singles and LP’s. The Beatles, Stones, Kinks, Manfred’s, Hollies, later graduating to Cream, Jethro Tull, Yes, Zeppelin, Purple, Sabbath and the like. All sold, on eBay, and at car-boots. Broke my heart, but having taken the decision to only bring what would fit in the back of the Volvo, there was no other option. I managed to digitalise most of the collection of course, where it now resides happily on four inches of plastic known as an I-Pod, although I noted that our library has several Hendrix and Janis Joplin CD’s, among others, which I can record, and transfer, apparently, having been shown which buttons to press by my trusty former-secretary, Amy. Just not the same though, is it? The delights of the gate-fold Sergeant Pepper album, with those inserts, compared to an image on a little screen. Truly, I could weep.

  Suddenly, my reverie is shattered by a loud knocking on the front door. Chrissie jumps to her feet, knowing how much I hate being interrupted at the crack of dawn. It’s barely nine o’ clock, for heaven’s sake. She raises her hands in a placating gesture. ‘Stay there, stay there! I will go.’

  Then, almost immediately, comes a burst of Spanish shouting, from the back of the house. Loli. The crazy neighbour. The rottweiler. The all-seeing-eye. ‘Neighbour! There are English people, at your front door!’ How is this possible? The knock on our door was less that five seconds ago. How can she have got from hearing the knock, thrusting her head out the front, spotting our ‘English’ visitors, although they could conceivably be from Outer Mongolia, shutting her door, sprinting through to the back, and hollering across our patio. Seriously, Linford Christie would have struggled in that amount of time. And Loli limps like a three-legged badger. Just not possible, but it’s just happened. Not for the first time, or the twentieth, I marvel at the enigma that is our vecina.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Loli, Cristina is going.’ There. That should shut her up. Or not.

  ‘But neighbour, there are English people! At your front door!’

  Well so what? It doesn’t take two of us to answer a door. Unless the Queen of Sheba has decided to pop over for a few days of sunshine. Which I am unable to translate into Spanish. ‘Yes thank you Loli, Cristin
a is coming now.’ Now please go away. I can hear British voices in our hallway, and Chrissie emerges onto the patio with a couple, whom she introduces. Babs and Andy, from Oxfordshire. A few years younger than us, her petite, brunette and bubbly, he taller and stick-thin, both dressed for a day on the beach, in shorts, tee-shirts, and flip-flops. No wonder Loli knew they were English. I rise, smiling, and offer my hand. ‘The coffee is freshly made, if you would like to join us.’ And I gesture to the patio chairs.

  Babs takes up the narrative. ‘Well thank you, but, er, we don’t have much time. We are meeting an estate agent-woman at ten, looking at some houses, and last night we stayed here at the hotel in town. We were looking round after dinner, stumbled upon your street, and saw a house for sale sign. Number forty-one. Se vende. That’s right, isn’t it? Se vende? For sale? We didn’t want to knock on the door that time of night, gone nine it was, so we came back this morning, and a grey-haired old woman came out, babbling away in Spanish she was, couldn’t understand a damn word of course, we were pointing to her house, she was still rattling on, then she was saying ‘Eengliss’ and pointing up the street, in this direction, she must have known we were English, God knows how she knew that, then she took my hand and traced a five and a five, pointed this way, so here we are.’