Dont Forget the Chainsaw
An Easter Weekend in Spain
It's Holy Friday. We've spent the previous day in the mountains up behind Relleu visiting friends. Now we are returning to the grounds of the old ruined mansion overlooking the sea that for the past couple of months we've called home.
Driving down the highway I get the shock of my life. I brake, move onto the hard shoulder, and just sit there staring at what had been the previous day an empty olive grove next to two large spaces containing maybe half a dozen camper vans. Now the place is packed bumper to bumper like it's eight in the morning on the Paris Périférique. Cars, tents, thousands of people: it's an invasion. There is no way one could even drive in through the gate.
Wood fires are burning everywhere, each with a paella pan balanced above it on stone blocks. Groups of about twenty people; fathers, grandmothers, children, are playing complicated skipping games. Kids are climbing trees. A group of old aged pensioners are dancing, clapping their hands and clicking their fingers to make the sound of castanets. An entire Spanish town has apparently moved in and turned the place into a holiday camp.
It is no good denying it, we are suddenly homeless. We'll have to move on.
We drive inland to a deserted valley I know. We turn off a tiny winding side road, bump down a rutted, stony track, ford a dry river bed, and climb the other side. Then we bump two kilometres along an abysmal camino that hasn't been repaired for decades. Then even that peters out, and we drive over stony wasteland, squeeze past a water deposito, and across a level area of grass bounded by trees.
The engine dies, and the silence grows all around us. On each side are ruined fincas, gorse and abandoned bancals, with the occasional pine tree growing sturdily out of the scrub.
The sun is high, the silence is overpowering, and nothing moves. At the end of the track is a restored finca that has been bought by a German who is gradually reclaiming the valley bottom. There is a well, and a large empty deposito with a massive pump sitting in the middle of it. Vegetables are growing in lush, healthy bunches across a freshly tilled field. Fat oranges weigh down the branches of trees in an orange grove encircled by concrete water channels.
It is the perfect place to stay. We will be safe here from the milling holiday hordes.
We spread the blanket, I uncork a bottle of wine. Out comes the bread, cheese, slices of dried fish, the freshly picked watercress, and the tomatoes and peppers. In this blissful midday silence we prepare lunch.
Suddenly the unmistakable sound of a car comes through the trees. I can hear it jolting and crashing over bumps and pot-holes. Cheery Spanish faces smile at us, every hand waves as they drive past us and beyond a clump of bushes. About six people tumble out, giggling and shouting.
I look for some plates, trying not to be such a miserable, private Englishman.
We cut oranges, putting slices in a bowl, then decant a couple of glasses of brandy over them.
There are squeals and shouts from the other side of the orange grove as the roar of a truck grows louder.
I stare with open mouth as the laughing driver aims his truck at a crazy speed towards the deposito. The track is too marrow, he will never get past. Bowl of oranges in one hand, pot of cream in the other, I stare as he drives faster and faster, his face a massive grin, as the truck fairly flies over the boulders, one wheel slipping down the side, almost into the water, only to catch on the next outcrop of rock.
The truck bounces past us and lurches to a halt. In the back are half a dozen adults and three or four kids. Suddenly the back of the truck rises up in the air as the driver pulls the handle to tip his load. An old man, fat peasant ladies, and giggling adolescents tumble and roll out of the back of the truck onto the grass, followed by chairs, bags, baskets, coils of rope, and what looks like the contents of a garden shed.
Picking themselves up they immediately wave at us and start collecting their scattered goods. How could I possibly be cross at such a good humoured invasion?
We sit down to eat our lunch. Two motorbikes roar up, depositing two lads and two girls. Another car grinds very slowly past the deposito, and goes past us into the scrub, finally coming to a halt in the bed of a small stream.
I finish the bottle of wine as a whole convoy of cars with Valencian plates pulls into the by now somewhat cluttered camping site.
On all sides activity is very business-like. The driver of the truck and his mate find a bag of cement from amongst the debris of goods that have been ejected from the back of their truck, carry it to the edge of the deposito, and start mixing up a sludge. This sludge they chuck on the edge of the track, and set stones in it, pouring more sludge on top.
Packing away the remains of lunch I make a mental note to pack the cement next time I go on a picnic.
Two families have combined forces down in the river bed and are hacking a pathway up through the gorse with hooks and shears. They gradually make their way up to a ruined finca which they then proceed to clear of vegetation.
On one of the terraces two young lads are having an urgent discussion with the farmer. On the terrace are about twenty almond trees, the fruit green and fattening in the spring warmth.
"This is just the place to pitch our tent, but we need to cut off these two branches, they hang down too low." The lad pulls at a branch, bending it in his fingers.
"But I've done all this year's pruning. There's fruit on these boughs."
"But it's only two boughs."
"Why can't you pitch your tent somewhere else?"
"But this spot's just right."
A hundred metres away two men are looking down at the pump in the German's newly dug deposito, and discussing its merits. One gets down in the mud and fiddles with the mechanism.
In the next field grandma and her two daughters are pinching oranges from the orchard. Just half a dozen, they only want a few to eat after their meal. The German who owns the orange grove has hidden indoors. This year he isn't going to argue.
A shot rings out up the valley. Someone is potting quail. Meanwhile, the two families have finished clearing the saplings and the scrub from the finca. They are now carrying food, tents, sheets, cooking utensils, in fact what appears to be their whole house contents, up the path they've just cleared. For the next three days the ruin will be their home.
Every square yard of the valley is closely examined, discussed, and analysed. Objections are raised, faults found, and laughter greets many a comment.
As the sun slides slowly towards the western ridge of the valley, boys go by dragging logs. The sound of a chainsaw echoes off the rocks. A thin plume of white smoke rises straight up, reaches a certain height and then, as if reaching some invisible ceiling, spreads out like clouds. The smell of pine wafts along the valley.
The light drains away towards the sea, leaving shadows to grow from rocks and bushes. Flames eat the pine logs whose sharp tang is heavy on the air.
A pan fully three feet across is placed on a roaring fire. Rabbit is thrown in to brown in the olive oil. Onions and several cloves of garlic are tossed in after. Peppers are added; and then handfuls of rice are poured in and smoothed down. Next a bowl of water is tipped over everything, spilling over the side of the pan, hissing in the flames which stroke the pan; and soon the paella is bubbling.
Dark comes. The mountain ridge is sharply outlined against the sky's midnight blue. Oranges glow in the trees. The scent of orange blossom is strong. Faces flicker in the firelight.
Opposite, granddad is sleeping in a hammock stretched between two trees. He farts mightily in his sleep. Below the trees a long table is set out, and a dozen noisily chattering people are seated at it, chewing on chicken bones, and scraping up rice as the paella goes down.
Stars sparkle and dance in the now black sky. I climb to the big ruin amongst the pines near the ridge and look down at the little community, out past the farmsteads, over the orange groves, back down to the rocky track, past the town seven miles away, but clearly visible, and down to the sea, nearly fourteen miles away. The world has suddenly changed. Or has it? As I look out towards the horizon I am aware that all that has happened is that my world has turned slightly to show a different facet of the same culture, and I feel very comfortable and safe. It is as if I have always known the folks in this temporary village.
Two days later the place is almost deserted. The track has been repaired, there are footpaths cut through the gorse in all directions. Down in the river bed one last family is collecting their things together. Bedding, food, the whole contents of the kitchen, are all being carefully stowed away. The gardening tools are neatly packed in the boot.
"Come along Conchita, come along José," calls mother. "And Paco, don't forget the chainsaw."