On My Way to Samarkand: Memoirs of a Travelling Writer (41 page)

Our time in Vietnam ended with an evening at the French Embassy Ball. We rode there wearing evening dress in an open-topped 1930’s Citroën owned by Glen. Such style. The French Ambassador greeted us with, ‘Welcome, to the foreigners!’ Foreigners? I suppose we were, in his embassy, but I felt he had a cheek since we were all in the middle of Vietnam.

~

After Vietnam we took to returning to our old favourite, Malaysia, on several different occasions. On one of these trips we returned to Frazer’s Hill in the highlands of mainland Malaysia, and to the Cameron Heights, the old tea growing area, where we had taken Rob and Sarah after the Tioman Island trip. Malacca, the old Portuguese colony, has always drawn us with its elegant and stylish ‘Nonya’ families of mixed Chinese and Malaysian descent. And Penang island. And of course Taman Negara, the huge national park reachable only by river.

On one of our last trips to central Malaysia we were both ‘leeched’, Annette worse than me. The journey to the airport was difficult, since we got diverted to an Indian festival on the way and tried to catch a bus afterwards with 10,000 Indians. Bus after bus left the festival area packed with people and after pleading with a driver we managed to cram in next to the gear stick and give way when told to move. Late for our flight, we found ourselves at the airport filthy dirty, with socks and trainers sodden with blood.

As is their wont the leeches had pumped in anti-coagulant where they had bitten and though the creatures had been removed with the assistance of a lighted cigarette end, the wounds refused to stop bleeding. We took off our socks and shoes, threw them in a bin, and climbed aboard the jumbo jet in our bare feet. They were so dirty I don’t think anyone realised we hadn’t got any footwear on, though I noticed we were not given the offer of an upgrade.

The flight was around fourteen hours.

We were so looking forward to a shower.

We arrived back at
Wychwater
still filthy only to find that the septic tank had backed-up and covered the lawn and the shower room with sewage. There was no bath to be had until we had cleaned up the mess. Rick had already made a start, having visited to get things ready for us and found the devastation. Three hours and a visit from the sewage truck later we were able to get our blessed wash and go to bed. I think that was possibly one of the worst homecomings of my life. It was also one of the best sleeps I’ve every had. Completely comatose.

~

In 1997 Annette’s favourite aunt Marjorie had died and left Annette a few pounds in her will. Aunt Marjorie and uncle Reg had lived in Minorca for much of their retirement and we thought it appropriate to put it towards the money to buy a place in Spain. Eric Robinson, Annette’s art tutor at teachers’ training college, was already living in Spain with his wife Gaynor. We had been out to Eric and Gaynor’s Spanish village a couple of times, once with Pete and Peggy Good. They had an apartment in a row of single-storey apartments overlooking the sea on the coast of the Granada province. The Costa Tropical is the most southern part of Andalusia. The foothills of the Sierra Nevadas swept down to their doorstep. A short drive takes you into the mountains, with their Moorish white villages, high vineyards and orange groves. In the tiny village of Gaujara Alto, Carmen has her little bistro tucked away. At Carmen’s you can eat wild rabbit,
conejo
, with poor man’s potatoes,
pobre patates.
This meal, preceded by a wonderful soup and accompanied by locally produced wine, is one of my all-time favourites.

So, with aunt Marjorie’s bequest and some money from my writing, we purchased Eric and Gaynor’s apartment. Underneath the main flat is a studio flat, a single room, which Eric used as his painter’s studio. It was the only apartment in the row that was piggy-backed in this way and the two sections are joined by an external staircase. All four of us had to go before a Notary who officiates in the buying and selling of houses in Spain. Gaynor and Eric pledged they were selling ‘in good faith’ and we likewise that we were buying ‘in good faith’ and so the deal was done. We were Spanish-home-owners in a pleasant community with beautiful communal gardens around us.

The Spanish people of the small fishing village of La Herradura are remarkably tolerant and cheerful. They have been invaded by hundreds of Brits, Swedes, Danes, Germans and other odd nations, yet they invariably greet us with a happy ‘Hola’ in the street. I have often said the same would not be the case if a few hundred Spaniards descended on a village in England and took it over. Yes, the incomers swell the economy of the village, but many of the Spanish residents don’t need expats and tourists to make a living. They can do very well without us, thank you very much. Yet even non-restaurant and shop owners say ‘Buenos dias!’ as they pass, the sage old men nodding gravely, the young women flashing smiles.

When you buy a holiday apartment in Andalusia it is almost always fully-furnished, right down to the last teaspoon. And so it was we had nothing more to do than move in and enjoy our new property right from the start. The view from the balcony was at first stunning, the place being high up overlooking the bay, but a Spanish doctor right in front of us has since grown some huge pine trees and blocked off the sea. We can still see the Sierra mountains to our left and hey, looking at trees ain’t so bad, they are usually covered in birds, serins mostly, and the occasional hoopoe. I did offer to have the trees pruned at my expense, for they are ragged and unkempt things and blighted by the notorious ‘processional’ caterpillars. The owner refused. ‘You people just come out here to die,’ he informed me, ‘so you have no need for views.’

Nice man, our Spanish doctor neighbour and totally untypical of our other Spanish neighbours, most of whom come from the city of Granada.

The processional caterpillars, which collect in their hundreds in web-like balls that hang from the pine branches, drop to the ground in February each year and form a line, head to tail, before marching off to unknown destinations like thin green snakes. The hairs on their backs are quite poisonous and can make a human ill and even kill a dog or a cat. If thrown on bonfires the hairs fill the air and can enter a person’s lungs. Yet our friend in front never has his trees treated, as do other residents. Perhaps the caterpillars help swell his list of patients?

Eric and Gaynor moved to a much larger place two doors down, which they purchased from a Dutch couple. They remain good friends and neighbours. Without Eric and Gaynor the place would not be the same. Gaynor manages our apartment when we are absent.

Ana Johnson, a Spanish lady of mysterious age is also a wonderful person to have as an immediate neighbour. Both Gaynor and Ana, permanent residents, keep the community on their toes and assist with the problems of those who arrive at their holiday home to find flood, fire or some other disaster has overtaken their Spanish dwelling.

La Herradura is an idyllic village in a horseshoe-shaped bay. La Herradura means ‘horseshoe’ in Spanish. It is an hour east of Malaga and an hour south of Granada. The beaches are not golden sand, but shingle with grey sand patches, which is a good thing. There are no big hotels, very few holidaymakers, and quite a few expat residents. In the background are the magnificent Sierra Nevadas, snow on their tops in the winter. Palm trees line the waterfront of the village, which has several restaurants, shops and a small market. Now that Annette has retired we spend our winters there. The days are around 20 degrees Celsius and the nights a lot cooler, but we have a log fire in the living-room which warms our evenings.

It became a tradition in the late ’90s and after the millennium for Rob and Sarah to join us in Spain over the New Year. We had a lot of fun, walking in the mountains, visiting the white villages of the Alpuljarras that cling to the steep sides and crags. Rob would usually cook for us, he being a very good chef. Annette would often assist him, while Sarah and I stayed clear of the kitchen. One year Rob and Annette decided to cook a suckling pig for New Year’s Eve dinner.

Sarah and I were a little squeamish about the whole thing, having recently seen the movie
Babe
. So as usual we two left the practicalities of cooking the beast to Rob and Annette. The evening before the day of the meal, Rob quietly followed instructions on how to prepare a suckling pig for the oven. In the middle of the night a thirsty Sarah rose to get a drink. Still half-asleep she went to the kitchen tap with her glass and in the moonlight stared down into a sink filled with water. A submerged pale creature stared back up at her with wide, haunted eyes. Sarah let out a terrible scream and dropped the glass, which shattered on the kitchen floor and woke the rest of the household. Annette and I were in the lower apartment but Rob rushed to the aid of his beloved. He spent twenty minutes explaining to her that all she had witnessed was tomorrow’s lunch undergoing a night’s soaking before being roasted.

~

One year at Easter the four of us went to Ronda, to witness the Semana Santa parades of religious figures. Semana Santa is when the men of Spain wear those uniforms we associate with the American Klu-Klux-Klan: a robe with a pointed hood that hides the whole face. I’m sure these one-colour burkas must have come out of the Inquisition. The ‘Brotherhoods’ who wear them carry heavy, ornate platforms on which sits a statue of Mary or Jesus, or both. Or they follow behind with chains or crosses. I confess to a certain ignorance of the details. The statues are carried from the church and through the streets, sometimes by sixty or more men, the platforms being fashioned of heavy metals and hardwoods. Sometimes the parade is silent and at other times a band or simply a drum is used to time the slow march through the town. Some parades are made up of hundreds of men, and perhaps women, wearing their mono-coloured pointy-hooded gowns with slitted eyeholes.

Ronda is located on a plateau and the two parts of the town are separated by a chasm several hundred feet deep. A bridge joins the two halves under which falcons glide and choughs have their nests. We have had the excitement of witnessing a Bonelli’s eagle soaring above and through through the gorge. On the darker side, we’ve been told that during the Spanish Civil War one side or the other tossed their enemies off that bridge into the chasm. It is not an image I like to dwell on, quite apart from being bewildered by the inhumanity of the act.

Rob, Sarah, Annette and I watched the evening Semana Santa parade through the streets, then went to our hotel thinking all the religious festivities were over for the day. We said goodnight around 11 o’clock and I climbed into the hotel bed and fell fast asleep.

At around one o’clock I was woken by an excited wife.

‘Go to the window.’

‘What?’

‘Look out of the window.’

I did as I was asked and there below was a completely silent Semana Santa parade filing past the hotel: a long, colourful snake of hooded marchers swathed in robes. There were those wearing chains and those carrying heavy crosses. It was a very sinister scene, with hundreds of figures solemnly treading through the night streets. They all looked down or straight ahead, neither glancing to the right nor to the left, nor up at the buildings or sky. The sight sent a shiver down my spine. I was witnessing a ritual that had been going on for centuries, which to my understanding was steeped in secret rites and cryptic practices.

Annette picked up the phone and said, ‘I’ll ring and tell Sarah and Rob to look out of their window.’

The next morning I heard the tale of a half-asleep Rob, who had stumbled to the window and whipped back brass-ringed curtains along a hollow brass rail, thereby creating a great deal of noise. Down in the street several hundred people in hoods indignantly jerked their heads up to stare at the man who had created the disturbance. There, spotlighted by the hotel’s bedside lamp, was a naked science fiction writer.

~

On another visit to the same town we took Rob and Sarah to the Pileta cave, ten miles north of Ronda. This site is rarely visited by tourists, being off the beaten track and poorly advertised. It’s owned by a local farmer who has fitted an iron grill over the entrance and he alone holds the key to the rusty padlock. A telephone call is necessary to ask the farmer to meet you at the cave and when you enter you are in for a real experience. I have never been to Lascaux but I have recently seen Werner Herzog’s
Cave of Forgotten Dreams
a film of the Chauvet cave and its astonishing hoard of prehistoric paintings.

The pictures on the walls of Pileta are not as rich and numerous as those in Chauvet, but they are amazing none the less. The cave is narrow most of the way and one is uncomfortably close to the walls that wind through the side of the limestone mountain. Annette and I had been there once before and were not disappointed with Rob’s expression and reaction when he saw the finger-paintings of bison, goats, horses and other creatures in black, ochre or red, accompanied by one giant fish. The walk through the cave, walls still drizzling with water and pools every so often, takes around an hour to cover a half-mile. The farmer’s colourful English adds to the experience as he explains:

‘This painting five-times more old than Egypt pyramids.’

Some of these Paleolithic pictures were indeed painted over 20,000 years years ago.

‘This is terrific,’ Rob told us, his eyes alive with interest. ‘What a place!’

I believe Sarah was just as impressed, but there probably weren’t any story-lines beginning to buzz around in her head.

~

Granada is of course home to the Alhambra, the Big Red, which is one of the world’s most beautiful buildings. We also went to Cordoba and Seville together, both cities with amazing architecture. Sarah drove within the city limits both times, since I am now extremely wary of Spanish towns. The narrow streets, often two-way, mean backing into tight alleys to allow traffic to pass. Once, I drove down a street the width of a motorway hardshoulder in a mountain village and before long the walls of the houses were brushing my wing mirrors. I had to ask a woman to open her front door so that I could edge the car back round and escape. All the occupants of the houses came out to watch and give advice as the sweat rolled down my brow. I hate driving in Spain. You need to be born there to be able to do it without losing your head. On the other hand, if your name is Sarah, you could be a gifted driver.