19 The Rain in Spain and a Donkey
Our part of Andalucía was already blessed with numerous underground springs that permanently poured from cracks and fissures in the mountains and valleys. Every village boasted of having at least one natural mountain spring and El Hoyo was no exception.
At the top of the valley was a spring that trickled into a rectangular cement catching-tank about the size of a small swimming pool. The mountain water was clear and sweet and the locals took their empty water bottles there to refill for drinking water. We had never seen the tank even half full until this January. Not only was it filled to capacity, but it overflowed like a giant’s bathtub might if the tap were left running. Sheets of water poured over the rim and onto the road where it lay in great ponds.
Brand new watercourses now burst from the mountainside, a result of the prolonged torrential rain. Pretty waterfalls splashed where none had previously existed, all heading toward our village set in the lowest part of the valley.
At the entrance to El Hoyo was a little stone bridge spanning a deep dry gully. Previously, if one leaned over and looked down, one would see grass and weeds clinging to the sides, and trees growing at the bottom. During the past six years, we’d never seen a single drop of water flowing in that gully.
But following the deluge, water flowed. A stream was born that quickly developed into a small river. The river swelled and gathered strength, the level rising daily. Trees fought with the current to remain standing, their roots clinging desperately to the fast-disappearing soil. Water swirled around them and the weaker trees tilted, lost their foothold, and were swept downstream.
All around the valley, the slopes were being reshaped. Water worked into cracks in the ground and turned them into gaping fractures. Saturated, the soil broke away in massive wedges and slid downhill. Boulders, some the size of garden sheds, hung precariously, ready to let go their fragile hold and career down, gathering momentum and crushing all in their path. Landslides were becoming a common occurrence.
Driving anywhere was hazardous. Once over the little bridge with its newborn river gushing beneath, the road became a slalom course. Mud and rocks slid from above, piling up and obstructing the road. The soggy ground beneath the tarmac grew saturated, and in many places the road had entirely fallen away.
Around the countryside, many ancient and abandoned cottages flattened overnight, the dry, powdery mud and cement holding them together washed away. Walls that had withstood hundreds of years of blistering summers and freezing winters gave up their fight and were reduced to a pile of rubble. One day, the derelict house next to old Marcia’s shop surrendered and collapsed into a mound of debris.
We were not alone. Everyone was suffering, most far more than we were. All over the region, homes were flooded as rivers burst their banks. In Jerez alone, 2,000 houses lost their battle with river water. In the village of Valderubbio, 600 of its 800 homes were flooded.
Homes were devastated, agricultural land decimated, crops ruined, roads and bridges swept away and buildings collapsed on a scale that no Spaniard could remember. The TV newcasters told us that during three weeks of torrential rainfall, the Andalucían emergency services received 37,000 calls for help.
But it was the personal, heartrending tragedies that shocked us to the core and even stopped Joe complaining about our own situation. We heard countless agonising stories.
A pensioner perished in her own home as a flash flood swept her into the basement.
When the Guadalhorce river burst its banks, 26 horses drowned, their corpses floating onto nearby roads and fields.
We heard the tragic story of a British couple. They were visiting close friends who lived in a house in the country, near Granada. As they sat watching television, a landslide swept through the house, crushing the visitors but leaving host and hostess unhurt. The funeral was attended by hundreds, both Spanish and expats, and as the coffins were carried outside, the congregation clapped, a Spanish gesture to pay their final respects.
And then at last, after nearly ten weeks of continuous rain, the skies cleared and the sun came out - and stayed! We knew it would take a very long time for Andalucía to repair itself, but the future looked bright once more.
The council did its best, clearing and rebuilding the roads as fast as they were able. Work began again on the new apartment block, The Monstrosity, as the builders returned, took up their tools and switched on their cement mixers.
Old Marcia’s grown-up sons and grandsons arrived and donned space-suits. Marcia’s roof leaked even more seriously than ours had. Water had poured in, and yet she never complained. The sons sprayed the whole of Marcia’s roof with foam, insulating it and making it rain-proof.
I cannot describe the joy in my heart as I resumed simple tasks again, like hanging the laundry outside. The mud in the chicken enclosure turned back to powdery soil. Joe repaired the leaky roof, our rooms dried out, and we applied fresh white paint. It was still midwinter and the days were short, but the sun warmed our skin and lifted our spirits.
Granny Ufarte’s chair reappeared in the street, the old lady’s head nodding as she dozed, a pile of sewing or knitting heaped on her lap, Fifi at her feet. Sometimes the new baby’s stroller would be parked beside her and the twins would be chattering and playing not far away. Of course the good weather allowed Jorge to take up his street soccer practice again, but we didn’t mind.
Joe and I felt fat and unfit following the Christmas festivities and the rain-enforced house arrest. Now that the skies were clear, we set ourselves the target of walking up the winding path to the village shrine every day. The path was so steep as to be almost vertical, and the walk made the backs of my legs cramp and my chest heave with the effort. But it was worth it. The view around the valley and back down to the village was glorious. The rain had made the vegetation lush and the white-blossomed almond trees were a stunning contrast. I am aware that many writers, far more talented than I, have successfully described the winter almond blossom, and I understand what inspires them. Those perfect pinky-white waxy flowers against an achingly blue sky is, for me, one of the most beautiful sights in the world.
If the Ufarte twins were about, they sometimes joined us on our hikes, putting us to shame as they skipped ahead with the energy of youth while we heaved and gasped behind. More often, we set off alone, beginning with a brisk walk that faded to a laborious trudge as the slope steepened. We stopped frequently, not just to rest and catch our breaths, but to look and listen.
There was a new sound in the village at this time of year. It was an urgent clicking noise, repeated many times and filling the hills. The source was the lady quail, advertising herself to attract a mate. As we passed through the village, we passed rows of domed cages pegged to house walls, each poor occupant clicking insistently. Paco and the villagers would leave at sunrise, find a likely spot to set their cages down, then hide and wait. The lady quail, with only romance on her mind, would click loudly, unaware that she was luring her suitors to an untimely death. The hapless male quails appeared, and BANG! their destiny was sealed. Instead of roaming the hills, they would be served up on plates. At weekends we frequently saw the village men triumphantly returning, rifles slung over their shoulders, cage in one hand, several lifeless quails swinging from the other.
Then, as we laboured up the hill and left the village behind, the clicking continued, but this time, it echoed from the mountains. Luckier, unconfined birds were calling, and we hoped their ardent admirers would remain safe from the village guns.
One cloudless February day, we puffed up the hill, glad of the excuse to stop and chat with Burro, Geronimo’s donkey, who was often tethered at the side of the path. Burro was looking sleek and fat, stuffed full of lush grass. But his appetite was only his second priority because Burro was in love: he had a girlfriend. Each daybreak he sang to his lady-love in the next village, adding more verses at regular intervals during the day. His eyes would mist over, he’d lift his handsome head skyward, stretch his neck, pull his lips back to display long yellow teeth, and bray long and loud to the mountains. Then he’d whicker, give his head a violent shake that made his ears rattle, and resume grazing. We never heard his lady-love reply but assumed she enjoyed his serenade.
On this particular day, we noticed that Burro’s tether was wound tightly round the tree he was tied to. He must have walked round the tree numerous times, the rope shortening with each circuit.
“Poor old boy,” said Joe, and seized Burro’s halter. “I’ll untangle you. All you have to do is walk back round this tree a few times. Come on...”
Would Burro walk? He would not. Apart from a rattle of his ears, he ignored Joe and studiously carried on chomping the grass and wildflowers.
“Now, come on, Burro,” Joe urged. “It’s for your own sake.” He tugged and coaxed and pulled on Burro’s harness. Burro stopped grazing but moved not an inch, his four hooves planted firmly in the soil.
“Oh well, please yourself,” said Joe. “I was only trying to help you out.” He shrugged, let go of the halter, turned and walked away. Instantly, Burro lifted his head and walked behind him.
“Don’t look round,” I said. “He’s following you now.”
Geronimo’s donkey
Joe walked round and round the tree until the rope was unwound. Success! Pleased with himself, Joe stopped, and that was his mistake. Burro nudged him, then gave him a friendly but meaningful nip on the backside.
“OW!” yelped Joe, rubbing his rump. And that was the moment Joe acquired a second bruise on his delicate derriere. Readers of Chickens may remember how the Rainbow Man, or Indalo, inflicted damage to Joe’s tender posterior, and now Geronimo’s donkey had succeeded in doing the same.
It was on the walk up the mountain that we encountered other creatures, potentially far more deadly than Geronimo’s donkey. In fact, these creatures are probably the most dangerous in Spain and have been known to take lives.
Huffing and puffing, we reached the bench at the shrine. As always, as soon as we regained our breath, we admired the view. Being February, the mountainsides were dotted with almond trees in full blossom and although the breeze had a sharp edge to it, the sky was clear blue and the sun warm.
Before the walk, I’d made up my mind to ask Joe outright what was worrying him, and I planned to wait until we were rested. We sat side by side on the bench, Joe with his arm around my shoulders. I looked at him sideways. Most of the time he seemed happy enough, but sometimes his eyes would glaze over and he would disappear into his own head. What was eating away at him? What was the matter? Why wouldn’t he tell me?
Having gained sufficient breath to form words again, I opened my mouth to question him. My planned words were never uttered because I happened to look down at the ground a few feet in front of us and the moment was lost.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing.
Joe stood up and walked over, crouching down to examine the curious spectacle I’d spotted.
“Oh my gracious aunt!” said Joe. “What on earth...”