TWO - WAR AND PEACE

A sliver of light penetrates a crack in the wooden shutter as the dawn chorus strikes up. It's a raggedy crew led by Rafael's histrionic cockerel whose mournful cry pierces the air, prompting a low clucking and crooning from his feathery female backing group. Rather like the crescendo of a grand musical opus, shrill little sounds peck the air, followed by melodious tweeting and louder trills, extravagant cawing, and the deep-throated quacking – yes they really do quack – of the frogs in our pond. The final drum call is the deep braying of the farmer's burro, his donkey, combined with the persistent buzz of a quartet of passing hornets and the feverish deep barking of the village dogs. Like a conductor, I am sensitive to every sound and puzzled that today the cat's choir has failed to take its cue. Inko, together with our German neighbour's trio, Fury, Fritz and Tiger, always strike up at the end of the symphony, a brief discordant requiem for empty stomachs. Where are the furry felines?

I lie in bed for a few more moments until I can barely hear myself think with the cacophony beyond the pane. The Scotsman is deep in slumber, his head partly enveloped by a pillow. Carefully, I release the door handle, and tiptoe down the stairs. All is dark and still. As I open the huge creaking shutters that mask the French doors and windows of the entrada, tart lemon light suffuses the room, causing me to wince under the glare.

Slipping out onto the porch barefooted in my old white T-shirt, I survey the shadowy Tramuntanas. Suspended in a hazy, powder-blue sky, coppery mists of pine pollen await a soft and urgent breeze to lure them far away to a new and fertile valley. To the east and west, long plumes of smoke rise up into the still air, the last of the early morning bonfires permitted before the summer ban begins. A car starts up on the track and Rafael's booming voice can be heard echoing across the valley. A woman is engaging in cheerful, Spanish repartee with him. This is Isabella, Rafael's new girlfriend from Barcelona, who has been single-handedly responsible for the recent spruce appearance of his finca. The outside walls have been re-pointed, the window frames coated a rich olive-green hue, and a small garden created beyond the porch where once a dull concrete yard yawned onto the horta, the orchard. A fence is being erected around the corral to stop the flighty hens and skittish rabbits from escaping, and a dog kennel has been installed in the pen now housing canine newcomer, Llamp. In six months she has turned this bachelor pad into a home and I can only imagine her next task being to tame the wild ways of her boyfriend, an interesting challenge. Rafael's departure for work has reminded me to waken the boys. The school run beckons, a traffic snarled slog in to Palma, Mallorca's capital.

Ollie is already up and sleepily throwing on his school uniform while Inko remains sprawled on his bed. Even in such blissful repose, one lazy eye monitors his every move so that when Ollie steps towards the door, she leaps to the floor, racing ahead of him to the kitchen.

'Greedy old Inko,' he says softly, picking up her food dish and carefully filling it with her favourite, foulsmelling, fishy breakfast. He potters around the cupboards, preparing his habitual breakfast of fat black olives, olive oil and salt on home-made bread and a glass of water. What else could one expect a boy named Oliver to eat? Half an hour later and Alan has set off to Ollie's international school. I run upstairs to my office and fire off some emails before Catalina arrives. The sun is now up, and below my window young frogs bask on lily pads and large rocks jutting from the pond's surface. Occasionally there's a small plop as one dives into the murky depths to cool off or nibble at some unfortunate insect. They're singing at the tops of their voices and I'm sorely tempted to join in, but whenever I've tried, they blank me. Entry to this machismo boy band is by invitation only. A car skids into the courtyard and brakes abruptly. I skip downstairs to find Catalina, my guardian angel of household chores, bustling into the house.

'What you doing, you lazy woman? In the office?'

This is a normal Catalina refrain, always delivered with a radiant smile. Unlike many of her contemporaries in the valley, Catalina speaks fluent English, having spent some years as an au pair in both England and the States. She breezes into the kitchen and fills the kettle, noisily banging cupboard doors, and examining the gaping mouth and dark empty interior of the washing machine like a disappointed dentist.

'Oh, it's in the laundry bin. I haven't had a minute.'

She clicks her teeth and stomps up the stairs, reappearing with a mountain of crumpled clothes which she brutally sifts through. Shovelling all the whites into the machine, she slams its door shut, starts the programme and begins her assault on the ironing. I slap a cup of black tea in front of her and sit down to munch some toast. This is our twice weekly ritual.

'When you go back to London?'

'It won't go on forever.'

I fleetingly consider the business idea I've been nurturing. Should it ever see the light of day, I would no longer need to make regular trips back to London.

Catalina holds the iron aloft. 'Don't forget Moros i Cristiàs next week.'

'How could I? It's all Ollie talks about.'

The Moors and Christians event is part of Sa Fira I Es Firó, a four day fiesta which includes sa fira, a livestock market, and es firó, a mock fight. It commemorates the famed battle which raged between the moros, marauding Moorish pirates, and the cristiàs, the Sóller locals, on 11 May 1561. The cristiàs, who successfully beat off their attackers, are assured victory annually. It's a one day, non-politically-correct marathon and a lethal assault on the ear drums.

'Is Stefan a Moor this year?'

'Stefan is always a Moor. Is more fun.'

Catalina's brother, Stefan, the builder who renovated our ruin of a finca, always throws himself wholeheartedly into the local fiestas or festes as they are known locally. His sister is just as enthusiastic. She eyes me through a puff of steam. 'By the way, Stefan wants to know when to put up the front gate?'

She shrugs her shoulders and folds another shirt. 'Mes o manco.'

More or less. Well, that sounds hopeful. The local blacksmith is making us a simple black iron gate to replace the old wooden effort we currently have propped up at the front entrance. We may not be able to fund walls all round the property yet, but the courtyard is a priority, as is the installation of a decent gate to prevent phantom sheep from popping up all over the place.

'He can come whenever he wants.'

The phone rings. It's Alan asking me to collect our mail from the post office. I trace a note of anxiety in his voice as if he's expecting something important. What can that be, I wonder? Apparently he won't be back until the afternoon because he and Pep, his partner in crime, have decided to meet for lunch in Palma. That doesn't bode well. The only reason these two meet away from our local town is so that they can hatch hair-brained business schemes away from prying eyes. In fairness, when the Scotsman learns what sort of venture I am contemplating, he'll be quite entitled to incarcerate himself in his abajo with a large puro and a bottle of Lagavulin.

Catalina offers to drive me in to the town to collect the mail but I tell her I'd prefer to go on foot. This is the season when the heavy and intoxicating fragrance of jasmine hangs in the air and rich clusters of lavender fill the hedgerows. Lemons, as common a sight as oranges in our valley, fatten and turn golden with the spring rains and wild baby asparagus shoots up along the banks. It's a good time to walk.

On reaching Sóller plaça, the main square, I head off to the post office only to find a mountain of mail and a rather cumbersome box with a New York stamp awaiting me. Somehow I manage to squeeze it all in to a large carrier bag proffered by one of the staff, and walk slowly up the main street. Remembering that my photocopier's out of ink, I pop into HiBit, the local computer shop which is owned by Antonia, a fast-talking Mallorquina with fluent English, and her American husband, Albert, a computer boffin. From the moment we arrived in the valley, this duo guided us through the technical and bureaucratic labyrinth necessary to get us connected to the Internet at our old finca. Several times during severe storms, our entire computer system crashed, and it was always thanks to Albert that we found ourselves up and running again, albeit some weeks later. Behind the counter with ear to the phone, Antonia beckons to me. I set my bag down and wait patiently for her to finish the call. After much si-siing, she props the receiver back on its perch.

'Hey,' she says, 'Exciting news! We have a new postman.'

'He's from Argentina.'

She looks astonished. 'Really? How do you know?'

'My neighbour, Margalida, told me. I haven't even clapped eyes on him yet.'

She grabs a half-finished cigarette from an ash tray in front of her and inhales deeply. 'He's a bit of a Don Juan – long hair, good muscles. I could tell he wasn't from around here.'

There's a groan from the office at the back of the shop and in a trice, Albert's tall and robust frame appears in the doorway.

'She's not on about the postman again?'

'It's a hot topic, Albert.' I give him a wink.

'I guess,' he drawls, 'Just that I've heard it about ten times already.'

Antonia wafts her cigarette at him. 'Don't exaggerate.'

'What is it about this guy?' Albert quizzes me. 'Even your chum, Juana, came by yesterday waxing lyrical about him.'

That's intriguing. I could never imagine Pep's inscrutable wife betraying a soft spot for anyone publicly. I buy a new ink cartridge and head for the door. 'Are you joining in the battle this year?'

'No way! It's too crazy. I'll be watching from the side, but Albert and the boys will take part,' Antonia gestures at her husband.

Albert holds up his hands in protest. 'Not this boy. I'll be safely in a bar discussing Argentinean barbers with the new postman.'

By the time I reach Cafè Paris for my habitual espresso, it's nigh on midday. The square is awash with German hikers in sturdy boots, and groups of cyclists clad in gaudy Lycra all-in-ones. They sprawl lazily on wicker chairs in the sunshine, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice and studying route maps. Waiters weave in and out of the tables, refilling glasses and occasionally stopping to share a joke with a passing local. In the raised bandstand opposite the lofty, ornate church, toddlers on tricycles career around the flagstones while their young mothers huddle around the old fountain chatting and smoking. There's the familiar toot toot and creaking of the vintage Sóller tramvia as it rumbles along the iron rails that carve an uneven, meandering path through the centre of the square to the station. I wait till the wheezing veteran with its wood-panelled carriages slowly passes by, and skip over the road to Cafè Paris. Within its cool, marbled interior I spy the usual suspects scattered at various small, round tables. A few heads bob out from behind Ultima Hora or Diario de Mallorca newspapers as I enter, clocking that I too am a regular. José, the young owner, greets me with a wave from behind the bar and plonks a small cup of steaming coffee and a bottle of mineral water down on my table. I wonder what would happen if I changed my order one day, just for the hell of it.

Across the room, I receive a furtive smile from Gaspar, the paper delivery man. He's looking rather hot and bothered and is in deep discussion with Senyor Bisbal, a tall and distinguished Mallorcan in his late seventies who has recently taken to greeting me. Rumour has it that he is one of the wealthiest and shrewdest businessmen in the valley, and I wouldn't doubt it. If there's one thing I've learned since living here, it's that well-heeled Mallorcans abhor outward signs of wealth and showiness of any kind. They would rather spend their money on acquiring land or property, or failing that, squirreling it away for a rainy day. The hallmarks of serious Mallorcan wealth in the rural areas include:

1. Scruffy, and at times dishevelled, personal appearance

2. Grubby, battered and dented jalopy, preferably lacking wing mirrors

3. Spindly, quivering Mallorcan ca rater hunting dog in tow

4. Faithful elderly retainer close at hand

5. Undying loyalty to a couple of simple restaurants serving wholesome local fare

6. Assiduous checking of bar and restaurant bills and leaving of small tips

7. Expensive Havana puros smoked by the men folk

8. Enormous property and land portfolio

9. A stake in several local businesses

10. Purchase of expensive fincas for all the offspring

Senyor Bisbal fits the bill perfectly. Rising from his chair, he makes his way over to my table, his fretful hound following at a discreet distance. With sleeves rolled back to the elbow and shabby old trousers buckled with a worn and archaic leather belt, he gives a slight bow and asks me if everything is in order. I tell him it is. Then, in elegantly phrased Spanish, he informs me that he has paid for my coffee. I remonstrate, but he holds up his hand, declaring that it is his pleasure. Que fer? What do you do? Give in gracefully, that's what.

It's late evening. Alan and I sit reading on the patio, the last dregs of a ruby Rioja playing at the bottom of our glasses. A candle glows between us, attracting a small white halo of midges that hover tirelessly above the saffron flame. I lean forward and blow into their midst, marvelling at how the tiny white forms disperse like the seeds of a dandelion clock, spiralling upwards into velvety infinity. As night casts a charcoal mantle over the valley, the tawny Tramuntanas, like pyrites, retain a golden afterglow cast by the dying sun. The relentless rasping of the frogs permeates the night, louder than the shrill cry of the ghost-like screech owls overhead, and more rhythmic than the clicking cicadas rustling in the trees. A dog's howl punctures the still air, and is soon echoed by a chorus of invisible hounds across the ebony fields of the valley. Alan drains his glass and with exasperation looks about him.

'I'll have to get out the didgeridoo.'

'Not yet,' I say, closing my book and yawning. 'They'll be quiet soon.'

He gets up, and with the candle, wanders over to one of the vine-clad pillars to study a plump gecko. Caught in the sudden glare it recoils with heart pumping, its tiny legs and arms splayed out against the stone like a captured fugitive in an American cop drama. I have an urge to shout out, 'Freeze!' A second later it vanishes without a trace into the night.

Alan turns to me. 'Did you manage to get to the post office today?'

I call softly to Ollie who shuffles out of the candle-lit kitchen with book in hand.

'Have you by any chance seen a large bag of letters lying around?'

He nods dreamily and disappears into the house only to re-emerge a few minutes later with the post. Alan tips the bag onto the table and begins sifting slowly through the various envelopes. He hands me a large parcel.

'This one's for you. It's from New York.'

Ollie scrutinises the package. 'I'll have those stamps when you've finished with them.'

'OK, as long as you get ready for bed now.'

He sighs heavily. 'Can I read for a bit?'

I watch him scamper up the unlit stairs to his room. Inko appears from the gloom of the garden and like an undercover spy follows him at a distance, furtively hugging the shadows of the stairwell, to his room.

I begin ripping at the brown tape binding the parcel until the flaps are free and a sea of foam chips burst from the opening.

'This must be from Greedy George. He's probably sent some new leather products sample for me to see before we meet in London.'

Alan gives a small distracted grunt, scanning the other items until he alights on a neat rectangular package. He stands up to study the label in the light of the kitchen doorway before quickly shunting it to the back of the pile. A flicker of a smile plays on his lips as he whisks the bundle under his arm and heads for the kitchen.

'I'll go and sort all this lot out and leave you to examine George's delights.'

Alone under the vast shadow of the mountains I dip my hand in the box and draw out a large felt drawstring pouch. Pulling undone its strings, I shake out the contents and contemplate the strange assortment of objects that clatter onto the table. I select a bold, red leather collar studded with luminous white stones and what look like diamonds. Surely they can't be the real thing? It appears to be for a cat because it's certainly too small for a dog unless of some obscure pygmy breed. Beneath it, wrapped in rustling carmine-tinged silk is a miniature tartan waistcoat trimmed with tan leather. I unearth a more daring creation in soft black leather. It looks a bit like a tiny diving suit with a zippable front and arms and legs which are fastened along the seams with Velcro. Attached to it is a hood sporting two small cavities, I presume, for little ears. It slumps forward when I hold it aloft. On the soft leather back, all is revealed. Emblazoned in diamante letters are the words, CAT GIRL. George has created a miniature cat suit, but why is anybody's guess. Somewhat warily I unwrap the final item. Cocooned in dusky blue felt is a black leather cape of diminutive size. It has a velvet collar and on its back, spelt out in dazzling, turquoise gems are the words, 'BAT CAT!'

Holding the cape in my hands, I breathe in the rich pungent smell of new leather. Its texture is silky and smooth, unlike the hide of our resident toad, Johnny. I remember once daring myself to touch his gnarled skin and being amazed that it was as tough and dry as parchment. Inko pads across the patio and rubs her soft cream fur against my leg. I lift her onto my lap and with sly moves manage to fasten the cape around her neck. With a look of alarm, she leaps to the floor and swirls around, the cape billowing up behind her like a tempestuous sea. I pounce on her and undo the Velcro clasp, setting her free. With a filthy look in my direction she stalks off up the stairs, presumably to find solace in the company of my less treacherous son.

I delve into the box of white chips hoping to find some written clue that might help unravel the mystery of the bizarre items within. Triumphantly, as though plucking a prize from a lucky dip, I pull out a slim piece of paper. A jumble of spidery letters, written in ox-blood red ink runs across the page. The message is sparse:

A warning bell sounds in my head. It wasn't that long ago that Greedy George dreamt up a range of leather lizard air fresheners which took London by storm, earning him the double accolade of design genius and eccentric oddball.

The dogs begin partying. Barks of all kinds fill the bowl of the valley, echoing around the hills and startling the feral cats that perch like sphinxes on the high terraces under the silvery moon. Alan strides from the kitchen into the shadowy garden with his brightly painted didgeridoo, a random purchase from Ibiza, and begins blowing deeply. It emits a low pulsating drone and before long, each and every bark melts into silence. The air is still and warm and for a while the valley holds its breath, a brief truce of peace.

It's Monday, the day of the Moros i Cristiàs battle re-enactment and a perfect excuse for us all to get as pickled as herrings. On this day alone, every adult in the valley is encouraged to storm the streets clutching swords, sabres and blunderbusses while masquerading as swarthy, turban-clad Moors or Christian peasants in breeches and sack cloth shirts. The emphasis is on community spirit and if dressing up, imbibing to excess and playing out mock battles is your game, so much the better.

Today, when Rafael's demented cockerel blasts us at five o'clock, I roll onto my stomach, pillow clasped to my head, fantasising about roast chicken. Unable to sleep, I shower, dress and slip downstairs to the kitchen. Inko is already scratching at the back door, her furry pot belly flattening against one of the glass panes. Greedy Inko indeed. I grab a trug and set off to pick lemons in the orchard, my morning ritual. The luxury of having a ready supply of lemons on our land has meant that we use them for all sorts of dishes and drinks throughout the day, a great excuse for picking them fresh off the trees every morning. The air is heavy with the rich, sweet fragrance of honeysuckle, and drops of dew spill from the petals of roses. With a pair of secateurs I set about clipping a lemon free of its branch, inhaling the delicious citrus aroma of its skin before tossing it into the trug. Yawning and rubbing my eyes, I yank branches and remove dead leaves as I move from tree to tree. At times I am showered by a flurry of ants and stop to shake them off my arms and hands. The amber sun rises higher behind the mountains and soon, soft light filters through the leaves. With a groaning trug, I stroll back to the house and find Ollie sitting crossed-legged on a kitchen chair, barely clothed and eating hummus with his fingers from a bowl.

He nods. 'I know, but I need to organise my costume for the battle.'

'It's not until tonight.'

He shrugs, making patterns in the purée with his fingers. 'Yes, but I won't have time after school and football.'

I put the kettle on and draw up a chair beside him.

He gives me a small frown. 'You look tired.'

'Well, I'm feeling pretty washed out after the weekend's madness.'

Ollie says nothing, but shakes his head disapprovingly.

The weekend's festivities have already left me bleary-eyed. On Saturday I strolled into the plaça with Catalina and her twin daughters, Sofia and Carolina, to watch the investiture of the Valentes Dones, at which two young girls are elected to represent the brave women of Sóller who, four centuries ago, helped fight off the invading Moors. Ollie balked at the idea of a girl-powered event so slipped off with Pep's son, Angel, for a game of football. We snapped up an unoccupied table outside Cafè Paris and spent the rest of the afternoon drinking iced coffees in the sunshine and watching the annual procession of La Mare de Déu de la Victoria, pass by. This slow, undulating line of local families and children wearing traditional costume snakes its way from Calle sa Lluna, the main shopping street, to the church in the square, and is always a jolly affair. Later, Alan and I spent a raucous evening with Mallorcan friends, and on Sunday the tempo got hotter as we slipped into Palma for a wild, celebratory dinner with newly weds until the early hours.

'What time does the battle start tonight in the plaça?'

'About eight o'clock.'

He gives a big sigh. 'If I didn't have to go to school I could see the Moors arriving in the port.'

Preceding the evening event, a series of explosive sea battles take place in the local port between the Moors and the Christians. I intend to go for a quick run to the port this afternoon to witness the spectacle.

Ollie puts his empty bowl by the sink and stretches.

'I fed Inko,' he says. 'She was starving.'

'She was born starving.'

With difficulty he gathers up the rotund feline, a ball of beige and cream fur, and drapes her over his shoulder.

'We'll be in my room if you need us.'

And with that, he disappears up the stairs.

I am approaching the port, sun in my eyes, and wondering whether this was such a good decision. As I pound along the main esplanade, I am aware of blunderbusses and muskets booming from the beach. Groups of tipsy youths in costume loll around the bars and block the pavements, guns dangling by their sides. One of them topples onto the road, flagging me down with a vodka bottle. I grind to a halt and peer at him. It is one of the tilers who worked on our house and a friend of Catalina's brother. He offers me a slurp and for a mad moment I nearly take him up on his offer. Young women clad in headscarves and wearing long, black cotton dresses stand in clusters, laughing loudly and swigging on bottles of warm beer. Catalina is amongst them and hurtles towards me with a huge grin on her face.

'What are you doing running along here, you mad woman?' she screams.

I pat her arm as I run by. 'You know I like to live dangerously.'

The air is laced with the peppery tang of cordite and a veil of smoke like pale muslin hovers over the port. It's hot enough to singe skin and spectators are splashing bottles of mineral water over their heads to stave off the rays of the sun. The smell of brine wriggles through the hot musty air as I weave a path along the esplanade. Finally, I reach the car park and am about to head back when there is a massive explosion from the sea and several small boats burst into flames. I peer across the water just in time to see the defiant chin of a large black pirate vessel jutting out from behind steep cliffs in the distance. The ship hovers on the far rim of the bay, its frame resplendent in the glowing rays of the sun. Slowly and steadily it forges a menacing path towards Platja d'en Repic, the beach on the south side of the port. I stop to gulp some water and am aware of a woman calling hysterically in English from her open car window. I jog over to the vehicle as firecrackers snap and guns blaze. Inside, a pale-faced, elderly couple sit strapped in their seats, a tartan flask resting between them. Can they seriously be drinking tea in this heat? She's wearing a head scarf while her partner's diminutive frame is buried inside a beige quilted jacket.

'What's going on?' the woman shrieks at me. 'Is it some kind of riot? We've locked ourselves in the car, but it seems to be getting worse.'

'It's just a fiesta,' I yell as cheerfully as possible with rockets whizzing and whirring overhead. I crouch by her window as I wait for the ensuing BOOM and flash of white light as they explode.

She gapes at me in disbelief. 'Fiesta? It's more like Iraq! Our rep in Magaluf told us Sóller would make a nice day trip. I'll have words with her when we get back.'

I'm about to reply when there's a sudden whoosh and thunderous thud as a nearby blunderbuss unleashes its charge. We hold our ears and scrunch our eyes shut as the scorched air is filled with dust and grey acrid smoke.

'The road will be clear in about an hour. Why not just enjoy yourselves until then,' I hear myself shouting above the din.

'We're not leaving the car,' she quivers and hurriedly winds up the window.

As I beat a retreat I see, appearing out of the haze, the towering hull of the pirate ship approaching the beach. With a united war cry, swarthy, sabre-rattling Moors leap into the shallow water and up onto the sandy shore. Guns blaze and swords whip the air as they join battle with the awaiting Christians. I leave the scene, relieved that this lively pageant distracted me from the gnawing pain in my leg. As I reach our track the only sound to be heard is the distant braying of a donkey. Peace at last.

It is ten o'clock and the sky is ablaze with stars. Tightly packed in the leafy plaça, singing and swaying forms raise a cheer as El Capità Angelats, Captain of the Christians, wrestles victory from El Rei Moro, the King of the Moors. He stands aloft on the first floor verandah of the town hall and thrusting his sword in the air leads the town in song. Around the square, defeated Moors link arms with their vanquishers to sing the Mallorcan national song, 'La Balanguera'. Firecrackers thrown into the throng by mischievous boys sizzle and splutter, their bright flares briefly illuminating the dark earth.

We sit at a quiet cafe just off the plaça with our friends, Pep and Juana. Ollie and their son, Angel, have commandeered another small table and sit playing cards and sipping cola. The waiter bustles over and places glasses of cold cava in front of us. In characteristic mode, Pep is smoking a puro and wearing a wide-brimmed panama which obscures his grey wavy locks.

'Did you know,' he says, fixing his bright blue eyes on me, 'that "La Balanguera" only became the national anthem in 1996.'

'Who exactly is la balanguera?' I ask.

'Who indeed?' sighs Pep, inhaling deeply.

'It's just a bit of Mallorcan folklore,' says Juana.

Pep gives her a frown. With some impatience he taps his cigar against the table, grinding the ash under his foot. 'The words were written by Joan Alcover I Maspons, a friend of my grandfather. He had a tragic life.'

He slips me a smile. 'Probably because la balanguera decreed he should.'

'Oh well, at least he'll be remembered,' says Juana, taking a gulp of cava and fidgeting in her chair.

'Cold comfort,' Pep replies.

'Let's raise a toast to la balanguera, whoever she is,' Alan says.

We are clinking glasses when a confident young woman strides towards us. She smiles indulgently at Alan.

'Great! I wonder if you'd mind doing a brief piece to camera? I'm filming with Channel Four. Be good to get a resident Brit's perspective on the fiesta.'

A gaunt man trails behind her in the gloom, gripping a large furry object to his chest, indicating that he's either a sound engineer or a rodent fetishist.

Alan rises from his seat.

'How much are you paying him?' quips Pep.

'Nothing, I'm afraid, but he'll be on TV.'

'Ha! Your brief moment of fame,' he cries, patting Alan on the back.

'I must see this,' says Juana, with a certain irony in her voice.

They walk off in the direction of the floodlit town hall, leaving Pep and me slouching lazily in our wicker chairs.

'I'm back to London soon.'

He yawns softly. 'So much for all your talk about starting a business over here.'

'I'm working on something.'

He takes a sip of cava. 'I'm listening.'

'It's a bit complicated.'

'The best things in life are.'

I call over the waiter and ask for some olives and crisps.

'I'll tell you when I'm ready.'

He shrugs. 'By the way, I've completed the deal on that holiday flat in the port. Now that it's mine, I can start renting it next month.'

He taps my arm. 'Actually, I've asked Alan to manage the rentals. We discussed it over lunch the other day.'

'He hasn't mentioned it yet.'

Pep fans the air with his hand. 'It could be a lucrative little business for him. I'm too busy working on other things.'

'What markets will you go for?'

'Brits, Germans and Swedes, mostly.'

I'm not sure how Alan will cope with juggling bookings for a holiday flat, but he'll no doubt enjoy greeting clients, especially Swedish hen parties. I munch on the olives brought to the table by our waiter while the boys snaffle the plate of crisps for themselves. A few minutes later Alan and Juana return, talking animatedly.

'That producer thought Alan was a natural for TV. She's taken his details.' Juana sounds breathless.

Pep and I share a smirk.

'She was probably just being nice,' says the Scotsman modestly. 'Mind you, stranger things have happened.'

We drain our glasses and Pep settles the bill before we can remonstrate.

Pulling back his chair, he slots his old leather wallet back into his trouser pocket. 'Come on, let's leave before the stampede. Juana will prepare a light supper.'

'Who says?' she simmers.

'I can cook something,' I say quickly, desperate to avoid one of their bickering sessions.

'I'm only joking,' says Juana throwing Pep a cautionary glance. 'This time.' We set off as the plaça begins to clear and overhead a stray firework crackles and splutters, unleashing a thin plume of bright fuchsia smoke into the raven black sky.

Ollie is shaking me awake. I peer, bleary eyed, at my alarm clock. Thankfully, I haven't overslept. Light is streaming in from the window.

'He says he's the new postman. He knocked at the front door.'

I belly flip out of bed, grab a bathrobe and hop over to the mirror. Late-night celebrations at Juana and Pep's house have taken their toll. Alan is laid out on the bed like a corpse, although his lungs still appear to have life. I tiptoe downstairs to the front door and there, like a heavenly seraph bathed in primrose light, is the Argentinean Adonis. He smiles shyly, his long mane of chestnut hair fastened loosely behind him, his eyes as blue and mesmeric as the Indian Ocean. I extend a hand.