SEVEN - RULING THE ROOST

Under a penetrating blue sky the ancient town of Sineu rises before us, clinging doggedly to a small hill like a grizzled limpet on a rock. We are flanked on either side by orchards abundant with olive trees and flat, pastoral land that rolls monotonously like green baize to the foot of the crouching Serres de Llevant mountain range in the east and the Tramuntanas in the west. Choked with dust, the road stretches like a parched tongue across the Central Pla, the agricultural heartland of the island, willing itself to reach the cool, salty kiss of the coast beyond.

In the back of the car, Ollie, Ramon and I play cards and swig from small battered bottles of warm mineral water, our damp clothes sticking to our skin. In the front, Alan and Pep puff on puros, exhaling smoke into the stifling, still air beyond their open windows while a wild Arabic song bursts from the CD player. Pep jiggles about and slaps his thigh as he attempts to warble along with the music.

'Where on earth did you get this CD?' bellows Alan.

'From Sineu market. As you will see, they sell everything, not just animals.'

'Are we there yet?' says Ollie with fatigue.

Ramon tickles him and points out of his window at the swell of people swarming around the streets.

'We're here,' he shouts in Mallorcan. 'Now we'll find us some chickens.'

Jutting his head forward he begins making mad rooster cries and soon Ollie joins in, crowing and flapping his arms about. As we slow down, passers-by turn to look at our car and I can't blame them. It's resembling a mobile asylum and the din is dreadful.

'Can you lot be quiet,' I yell above the hysterical Arabic voice.

'Turn the music down!'

He bobs his head round the seat. 'Senyora can I remind you that this was supposed to be a machos trip? You are, what do you say in English, a passatger clandestí?'

'I can hardly be a stowaway in my own car.'

Ramon claps me on the back, laughing. 'Si, estàs un passatger clandesti!'

Alan turns down the music and follows a lean, cobbled road up past the main plaça where crowds of shoppers are picking over goods in the sprawling market. After a fraught fifteen minutes, we find a parking place in a sundappled street, a stone's throw from the market place.

'That was really lucky,' clucks Pep as we head off towards the livestock pens in the plaça. Above the square, the enormous church with its sombre stone facade glowers down at the bustling scene below while its haughty bell tower shoots up into the sky, a defiant rural landmark on the hazy horizon.

'You know this market was created in 1306 by King Jaume II?'

'Oh no, not another of your history lessons,' I moan.

'You live here, so I give you no choice.'

He puts his arm round my shoulder and pulls me towards a massive cage containing a none too chirpy young bull.

'Can we do an exchange?' he says in Mallorcan to the elderly vendor, pointing towards me. The farmer grins and nods vigorously. Other crusty accomplices sitting on a nearby wall join in the joke while I give them a watery smile.

'Right,' says Ramon, rubbing his hands together. 'The man I buy my chickens from is over there. Come.'

We traipse behind him, battling our way through the throng of shoppers browsing the tightly packed stalls. On all sides, fruit and vegetables are piled high on cartons, their skins baking in the sun. Bizarrely, in amongst the food are tables loaded with terracotta crockery, junk, CDs, clothes, handcrafts and even tractor and machinery parts. Ollie gravitates towards a stall selling lethally sharp kitchen knives and instruments of torture which Ramon assures me are for everyday use on a farm. Hanging from rusty metal hooks, red, meaty sausages and salted jamones swing above the heads of a queue of busty matrons waiting patiently for cheese and cold meats. Huge rounds of Manchego cheese and terracotta vats of green and black olives and pickles swimming in brine crowd the counter. I peer through the forest of heads to catch a whiff of the aromatic fare, but am whisked back by Pep.

'Chickens first, food later,' he growls.

Ollie and Alan have reached the far side of the square where rows of old metal cages house exotically feathered songbirds, parrots and finches. Ollie walks solemnly up and down, peering inside the crowded cages and talking sympathetically to the diminutive prisoners. Their song is melancholy, and I feel a sudden sadness at their captivity. It seems so wrong that on this beautiful day they should be sweltering in ugly enclosures, forbidden the freedom to spread their wings and soar up into the sky. Sitting on the floor beside a low wire pen full of tawny chicks is Ramon's contact, a ruddy faced, cheery fellow chewing on a chorizo sausage. He gets up slowly and shakes our hands one by one before smiling down at Ollie and ruffling his hair. He listens attentively to Ramon and Pep as they talk rapidly in Mallorcan and, nodding his head, beckons us over to where he has a van. As soon as the back door creaks open, a tremendous clucking and rustling of feathers can be heard. Stacked in metal cages, hens and cockerels peer out from between the bars, their heads making miniscule staccato movements as they survey the faces clustering before them.

'Are you sure you want cockerels?' asks Ramon.

'Well, we might as well try breeding,' says Pep.

'Molt bé. So we need to select a few cockerels and some gallines joves.'

'What are gallines joves? Young birds?' Alan asks Pep as he scrutinises the different types of fowl in the cages.

'It's what you call a pullet. This man says he has a batch of April chicks which could start laying in about another four weeks.'

'In August?' Ollie looks hopeful.

'Maybe, if you're lucky,' says Ramon.

Ramon and his chum disappear into the van and begin examining various birds. After some time they emerge, having agreed the selection. Alan and Pep are already in deep discussion about the merits of corn and oat feeds and how to protect their corrals from rats.

'He suggests six pullets for each of you and one cockerel. He's offering a good price and says he can drop them off later today.'

'Hang on, Ramon. We've only just got the corrals up. I wonder if we need more time to organise the runs?' says Alan.

Pep gives a snort. 'It's now or never, mon amic. We can sort out the details tomorrow.'

Ollie is ecstatic. 'Come on,' he grabs Alan's shirt sleeve. 'I can look after them tonight.'

I decide not to get involved in this discussion. Pep and Alan have spent some weeks building corrals around the hen huts in their respective orchards and I am none too sure that they are secure enough to withstand assaults from local predators despite the reinforced wire surrounding the enclosures. I haven't seen them purchasing grain either, so our new arrivals may well go hungry.

'Have we got food for them?' Ollie pipes up.

Alan frowns. 'No, we haven't.'

'Easily remedied,' says Pep. 'There's a man selling all sorts of grain over there by the sheep pen.'

We pay for the pullets and cockerels and pop back into the van to view our purchases. The scrawny little grey faces stare plaintively up at us as they utter weak little cheep cheeps. One of the cockerels throws me a mean scowl.

'He's cool,' says Ollie. 'I'm going to call him Salvador.'

The vendor finds this very funny and he gives a hoot of laughter. Rooting about in the back of the van he unearths a box full of assorted feathers and offers them to Ollie.

'Have the peacock one too. It'll bring you luck.'

Overcome with delight, Ollie gathers them up and thanking the man gratefully accepts his additional gift of a small plastic carrier bag for his spoils.

We set off through the plaça to one of Ramon's favourite cafes where an outside table has just been vacated.

'A little coffee and repose and then we continue shopping,' says Pep, flopping into a chair.

A waitress approaches the table and, recognising Ramon, gives him a smile and nod of the head.

'Where's Catalina today?'

Ramon shrugs. 'Looking after the niñas at home.'

She slaps his shoulder and tuts. 'You men have all the luck. So what would you like?'

'Ensaïmadas and coffees all round,' he replies with a complicit smile.

'And chocolate milk for me,' Ollie blurts out before she takes her leave.

Ramon is pleased with our purchases. 'Did you know that some pullets can lay more than three hundred eggs each year?'

'What?' Pep's eyes bulge. 'But surely that's exceptional?'

Ramon shrugs. 'It depends on the feed and the quality of the pullets, but it's possible.'

'Do all the eggs become chicks?' asks Ollie.

'Only if they're fertilised and then they take about twenty-one days to hatch.'

'I hope we have lots of chicks.'

'The object is to have lots of eggs, Ollie,' Pep tuts.

Ramon raps on the table. 'Buying the hens is the easy part. Now I need to teach you how to rear them.'

The waitress arrives with a tray of steaming hot coffees, Mallorcan ensaïmada pastries and a chocolate milkshake for Ollie. We tuck in with gusto.

'Vale,' says Ramon, when he has our attention. 'Get out your notebooks because your first lesson in poultry care is about to begin.'

Booming voices greet me as I stagger into Cafè Paris following an early morning run. I've managed more than an hour on my feet but the pain in my right leg has been worsening all the time. Stubbornly, I've refused to seek medical advice but now I'm beginning to think self-imposed martyrdom isn't necessarily the way forward. It is Saturday and Alan and Ollie have agreed to join me for a leisurely breakfast. Through the haze of cigar smoke I head for a vacant table at the far end of the room and scan my watch. We agreed to meet at ten o'clock so they should be here any minute. José gives me a nod while continuing to talk animatedly to an elderly man seated at the bar. I notice the old chap is drinking a glass of red wine which isn't an unusual sight at this time of the morning. A woman at a nearby table suddenly rises to her feet, hands on hips, and shouts something at José. Several regulars begin joining in, calling out to one another in fast flowing local dialect. Senyor Bisbal walks in and is barely seated before he too is sounding off. He gives me a courteous little wave while he's mid flow.

I find myself smiling, remembering the first time I entered this rowdy cafe in some awe believing that a fierce argument had broken out between the local patrons. In time I learned that this was normal morning banter up here in the mountains and that shouting loudly and thumping your glass down on the table was part and parcel of a lively discussion about anything from the price of petrol to the dates of the next fiesta. José shrugs his shoulders and begins laughing. Others join in. My Catalan isn't good enough to catch the joke but I'm working on it. Give me time. José comes over with a double espresso and a croissant and sets them down in front of me.

'Where are the men folk?' he asks.

'Probably still in bed.'

He clicks his teeth and raises his eyebrows as Alan and Ollie walk briskly into the cafe.

'The usual? Americano? Chocolate?'

They nod enthusiastically.

'How was the run?' Ollie asks, pulling off his jumper and sprawling in a chair next to me.

'What about the leg problem?' quizzes Alan.

'Nothing amputation won't cure.'

He taps my arm. 'We picked up the post. There's a letter for you from Sri Lanka.'

He pulls a crumpled grey envelope from his trouser pocket. The dog-eared stamps run in a colourful row along the top.

'Can I have those?' Ollie asks.

He waits until I've drawn the flimsy sheet of paper from within and then pounces on the empty envelope. While I'm reading the letter José brings over a plate of croissants and hot drinks. Alan and Ollie dive for the plate like a pair of gannets.

'Who's it from?' Ollie asks impatiently, wiping crumbs from his lips.

I fold the sheet and place it in front of me.

'Well, it's from Teresa, the nun who runs the Sri Lankan orphanage. She says she and the children are very grateful that I'm running the marathon for them and that they are looking forward to our visit.'

'Eh?' says Alan, mid mouthful. 'We're not going to Sri Lanka, are we?'

'Of course not, but she says that Noel at my club says we shall be.'

'There must be some mistake,' he says casually.

'Let's go!' says Ollie excitedly. 'They've got monkeys and one of the most poisonous snakes in the world.'

'Oh, what joy!' says Alan.

'Actually, I read an article about Sri Lanka's tea plantations and a wonderful elephant orphanage up in the hills,' I add.

Alan slaps his coffee cup down in some exasperation. 'Look, we're not going so don't start…'

'I love elephants,' says Ollie.

'Don't we all, but that doesn't mean jumping on a plane to visit them,' retorts his father.

'I think I'll give Noel a call tonight and find out what's going on,' I say.

Ollie slurps the last of his hot chocolate and licks his lips. 'When I get home I'll dig out my book on venomous snakes,' he says, and then with a shrug.

It's late on Monday evening when I finally get round to calling Noel in London. I know he'll be doing the night shift at my club so wait until I'm sure he'll be on duty. The phone purrs and then Noel's soft voice fills the void. He seems delighted to hear from me.

'Is everything well with you?'

'Fine, Noel, but I've just had a letter from the Colombo orphanage…'

'As I expected,' he says cheerfully. 'Sister Teresa said she would be in touch directly. I hope you don't mind my having given her your details.'

'Not at all, but she seems to think I'll be visiting her in Sri Lanka.'

'Ah, yes, that would be best.'

There's a pause while I try to think of a fitting response. I look at the moon for inspiration but it stares blankly back at me through my office window. There's a chill in the air and I pull my dressing gown closely around me.

'Noel, why would I go to Sri Lanka when I can just send them a cheque?'

He gives a little giggle, probably at my naivety.

'It's not that easy. Many things get lost in the post and it really would be the only safe way of ensuring the money reaches the orphanage.'

'Your son would like it. My country is beautiful and we have a wonderful elephant orphanage…'

'Yes, I know all that. It's just a big commitment.'

'Why not make it your next holiday? Easter time is lovely. Think of the good you would do.' Noel's enthusiasm is dangerously catching.

'It would certainly be nice to meet the children and nuns in person.'

'Apart from the money, I suppose we could bring out toys and books.'

'Precisely,' says Noel, ever the gracious salesman.

Five minutes later I hang up the phone. Alan walks into the office with Inko in his arms.

'She's just killed a rat.'

'That's what cats do. They kill vermin. Good old Inko, I say.'

I find rats rather repellent but still can't bear it when our cats play catch ball with them. I lighten the tone.

'I've just spoken to Noel.'

'Ah, good,' says the Scotsman. 'You sorted out the misunderstanding?'

'Absolutely. We are going to Sri Lanka.'

He narrows his eyes. 'You are joking?'

'No. Apparently we have little choice if we want the money to reach the orphanage safely. Noel suggests next Easter.'

'We've got bags of time to sort everything out.'

The door opens a fraction and Ollie stumbles half asleep into the room.

'I had a nightmare.'

'Poor old chap,' says Alan dropping Inko to the floor and whisking him up for a hug instead.

A devious thought hits me. 'I'll tell you something that'll cheer you up, Ollie. Your father's agreed that we can go to Sri Lanka next Easter.'

His eyes widen and with gusto he gives Alan a chummy punch on the arm.

'Really? You're the best!'

Alan exhales deeply. 'Now why didn't I see that coming?'

With a shake of the head he plods out of the room, one arm slung over Ollie's shoulder and with Inko, ever the faithful shadow, at his heels.

I am at the counter of Can Matarino, my favourite butcher's in the town. Like many of the shopkeepers in Sóller, the three Graces standing before me bearing hatchets and bloody knives spend considerable time patiently trying to make head or tail of my embryonic Catalan. Ordering cuts of meat in Castilian Spanish can be tricky enough, but in Catalan, it's a meaty minefield. Chicken, pollo becomes pollastre, cutlet, chuleta, transforms into costella, and a drumstick, muslo, is the more challenging cuixa. If that isn't confusing enough, Mallorcans put their own special twist on Catalan words which do not appear in any dictionary so for example, lamb, be in Catalan, becomes xot in Mallorcan. The wonderful thing about Can Matarino is that it exists at all. In London our local butcher wearily packed up his stripy apron and hung up his meat cleaver, unable to cope with the soaring shop rent. In his place came a huge, shiny supermarket with cellophane wrapped meat and vegetables suffocating in tightly packaged polystyrene. By contrast, regulars at Can Matarino can handpick bones and off-cuts for making stock or even to feed their dogs, and choose the organic fresh lamb, pork or beef that they wish to be minced. Handmade sausages, chicken croquetes and stuffed pork rolls are house specialities and there isn't the flash of a clingwrap package in sight.

Antonia, one of the feisty women, hands me a bag of meat.

'The sooner you start those Catalan lessons the better,' she says with mock sobriety.

'Then we'll teach you our own Mallorcan version,' adds Catalina, one of her accomplices, wiping her hands on her gore-smeared white apron.

Across the street at the grocer's, Colmado Sa Lluna, Xavier is mopping his brow.

'It's a scorcher today.'

His girlfriend, Teresa, is now working with him in the shop and nervously studies him as he finely carves a hulk of Serrano ham on the slicing machine.

'There's nothing to it. Come on, you try.'

She takes my order and, with an anxious expression, begins slicing some chorizo. The meat disintegrates into minute slivers.

'Non! Here, hold it like this.'

She stands back and shakes her head. 'This is going to take forever.'

He looks at me. 'What do you think of my new apprentice?'

Teresa jerks her finger at her grinning boyfriend. 'Can you imagine having to take lessons from him?'

'No, it's bad enough having him correct my Catalan all the time.'

'Talking of which, why are we chatting in Castiliano?

'Can't I have a break?'

He hunches his shoulders. 'Just today. By the way, Ramon tells me you've bought some chickens. That'll keep Alan busy.'

'He's out there every day with Ollie, fussing around the corral.'

'Watch the genets and rats. They've carried off some of my hens.'

I can cope with the concept of running into a spotted, furry genet in the corral, after all, these cat-like creatures with their bushy tails are rather beautiful, but I'm not sure about a rat. While eating supper al fresco the night before, we watched as a rat scuttled across the garden in front of us, its long grey tail slithering over the cobbles, and began scampering up the facade of the house, a feat I never imagined possible. When I quizzed Rafael on the matter, he shrugged dismissively, telling me that it was quite normal for a rat to climb a wall but that it would rarely enter a house even with the windows or doors opened. I remain unconvinced.

I collect my goods and amble up Calle Sa Lluna which is predictably awash with locals and summer holidaymakers. For Sa Mostra, the international folk dancing fiesta, has officially begun, turning Sóller's plaça into a veritable paradise for Come Dancing fans. Musical and dancing groups travel from as far away as Easter Island and Berundi to perform to appreciative audiences across Mallorca, using Sóller as their base. I pop into Art I Mans, the local art and picture framing shop, to buy Ollie some new pencils. The owners greet me like a longlost friend, keen to direct me to those which they know are Ollie's favourites. Clutching the small paper bag of purchases, I arrive in the busy plaça just as dancers from Asturias in brightly coloured folk costumes start cavorting around the bandstand. Crowds whistle and clap while local children get to their feet and mimic the dance moves on the pavements to rapturous applause. I am entranced by the grace and confidence with which these small boys and girls follow the movements of the dancers. Somewhat distractedly, with eyes straining to keep pace with the dancers, I pass by the bandstand and in the process collide with Tolo, our deputy bank manager. He kisses me on both cheeks and exclaims incredulously that he has just seen Alan in the gym. This sweat shop for the masochistic is run by Jaume, a popular and incredibly sporty Mallorcan whose cycling prowess has won him many trophies. When I first plucked up courage to duck through the heavy metal chains hanging in front of the entrance, I expected to alight upon a group of sultry macho hulks with names like Rocky, but I had a surprise. The majority of the patrons were quiet, middle-aged and dressed in unpretentious sportswear.

'Alan's doing another TV advert and is becoming rather self-conscious about his expanding waist line.'

'Ah, now I understand,' says Tolo wryly. 'He wants to look his best on TV.'

'That, or it's a late middle-age crisis.'

Tolo gives a smirk and heads off towards Banca March while I hurriedly make my way to the baker's. My film director chum, Victoria Duvall, and her husband, Robert, who also used to be in the entertainment business, are coming for lunch and I need to get busy in the kitchen. Like us, they enjoy long, relaxing lunches with good food and wine and plenty of banter. Today I shall make a special effort with my dessert because I know Robert has a penchant for home-made puddings. A return visit to their ancient finca, an idyllic eyrie high up on a hill on the outskirts of nearby Fornalutx village, is always a culinary treat and a particular favourite with Ollie because of Victoria's star turn, a talkative and entertaining parrot named Phoebe. Their forthcoming visit is particularly welcome because as seasoned sailors with a beautiful yacht in the Port of Sóller, we need to tap them for some sea-faring survival tips. Foolishly, Alan and I have been cajoled by our friends Pep and Juana into joining them for a week's sailing course in Palma the coming week. I vaguely recall agreeing to this absurd venture during a jolly dinner at their finca when far too many glasses of good Rioja had been consumed. Now, as the date draws nearer, both of us are scrabbling for excuses not to go but having paid our deposit feel we must bite the bullet. An entire week spent on the high seas sounds rather daunting so I hope Victoria and Robert will pass on some handy tips such as how to find our sea legs or when in peril, the nearest coast guard.