Free Driving Over Lemons: An Optimist in Spain by Chris Stewart

out of his home and livelihood . . . ’
    ‘No we are not. We’ve bought the place from him and he has a perfectly good home to go to with a wife and family waiting for him.’
    ‘Yes I know, but he loves it here. He says it’s his spiritual home.’
    I thought it best not to mention the wild offers I had made in the summer about running the place in partnership with Pedro, of how he would have a home with us for as long as he wanted. I was not well versed in the niceties of buying and selling properties and was still working on the assumption that the buyer was taking cruel advantage of the poor oppressed seller, a part Pedro and his family played very well.
    ‘Well, I hope he doesn’t make it his home, spiritual or otherwise, for too much longer. It’s one thing buying a peasant farm, it’s quite another buying the peasant with it.’
    I blushed inwardly at the word. Ana has a sharp tongue, though one often frighteningly close to the mark.
    ‘No no, don’t worry, he’ll be gone soon enough. Anyway I think we have a rare privilege to be living here and benefiting from the knowledge and skill of this noble . . . er, noble . . . ’
    ‘Peasant?’
    ‘You know I don’t like that word, Ana. I really do think it would be as well not to use it.’
    ‘Alright then, noble what?’
    ‘Son of the . . . no, master of the soil. ’
    ‘Pompous fart! He’s a peasant, Chris. What’s wrong with saying it?’
    ‘Alright, noble peasant.’ I choked out the word with difficulty.
    ‘But to get back to what I was saying, there are not many people who are as lucky as we are in being able to get to grips with a foreign culture by actually living in the same house as one of the local . . . ’
    ‘Peasants.’
    ‘Yes, one of the local people.’
    This conversation was taking place hissed in the darkness by the pomegranate tree with its oil-drum of grubby water. We were cleaning our teeth in it. We decided to leave the washing up for the light of the morning, and retired to bed. Romero had his bed in the next room but one – all of which were connected by doorless doorways. It was a lovely night, with a gentle breeze and a clear sky. We left the window open, as was our custom, and despite the unaccustomed noises slept deep and soundly.
    I’ve never been good at getting up early in the morning. The warmth and comfort of a good bed shared with an agreeable companion have always triumphed over the potential excitements of a new day. And this morning, our first in our new Spanish home, was no exception. The delights of my warm careless slumber were, furthermore, compounded by confusion as to what to do with the momentous day that lay ahead. What should one do on the first day of a new life? It would be so easy to make a mess of it. Best perhaps to fudge the issue and stay in bed.
    The almost reflex imperative of making my sleeping wife a cup of tea, however, soon asserted itself and I had fully roused myself before I remembered the cup we had shared the evening before. We could breakfast together later, I decided.
    Through a frame of dark ivy I could see the low sun brightening the geraniums and roses that lined the path of beaten dust and cow-dung. The sound of animals grunting and burbling rose from the surrounding stables. It all looked worth investigating so I shuffled down to the oil-drum to splash my face with water. As I came back up the track, Pedro was edging his way down, mollusc-fashion, with his bedding piled high on his head and shoulders and dragging in the dust.
    ‘You’re not moving out, are you?’ I asked, incredulous.
    ‘No no, but you left the window open in your room last night. The night airs will kill you good and dead.’
    ‘Nonsense, man,’ I reassured him. ‘We’ve spent all our lives with the bedroom windows open, in colder weather than you’ve ever known, and we’re still alive.’
    ‘That’s as may be – over there – but here the breezes of the night are absolutely fatal. I had an uncle