Free Two Old Fools in Spain Again by Victoria Twead

slope.
    We walked past the village square and eventually came to a halt at the gates and massive walls of their house at the edge of the village. Joe and I had walked past the house many times before and the unseen guard dogs on the other side of the high walls had always barked and snarled a warning. It’s not hard to guess the size of a dog from its bark and the dogs behind these walls, we knew, were big. Alejandro’s wife caught my apprehensive expression.
    “Don’t worry, they’re tied up during the day when we’re here in the village,” she said.
    Alejandro tapped a code into the alarm system, then used two separate keys to unlock the gates. We all trooped in and I looked around.
    The paved yard was big enough to park at least twenty cars. A mountain of firewood was stacked neatly against one of the far walls and, apart from a few large potted plants and a stone-built barbecue, there was little else to catch the eye. A wrought-iron gate, set into the far wall, overlooked what appeared to be tilled land.
    Three huge dogs, part grizzly bear, part wolf, were chained to the wall, barking furiously, lips peeled back, straining to reach us. I felt very sorry for them, they probably didn’t have much of a life. Being permanently isolated and waiting to shred an intruder, was, I thought, not an ideal existence for a dog.
    “Come into the house,” said Alejandro’s wife. “I will show you around.
    I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the house wasn’t ostentatious. I reminded myself that although it belonged to millionaires, it was a village retreat, just one house of many.
    The kitchen was huge, dominated by a massive fireplace so big that a whole family could warm themselves at once. Now I understood why they needed so much firewood. A vast table stood in the middle of the room, big enough to seat 16 people, but the room was homely in spite of its size.
    As Carmen and Sofía had probably seen the house many times before, they didn’t accompany us on the guided tour. Alejandro Senior lit a fat cigar and also stayed behind with them in the kitchen. Paco, Joe and I followed Alejandro Junior, Alejandro and his wife.
    “This is our bedroom and another two bedrooms and the bathroom...” said Alejandro’s wife.
    Joe and I oohed and aahed. The rooms were nice, very Spanish but unremarkable. Each was modestly furnished, the bedrooms with crucifixes on the walls above ornate iron bedsteads, the bathrooms typical of bathrooms anywhere. Alejandro’s wife chattered on while her husband waited patiently. Paco looked bored and stole glances up the corridor.
    When there were no more wardrobes to show off, Alejandro walked to the end of the corridor and tapped at another alarm box on the wall beside a heavy, locked door. A broad grin decorated Paco’s face.
    “Now you will see something!” said Paco.
    Fascinated but puzzled, Joe and I exchanged glances. Alejandro pushed the door open and stepped inside, beckoning us to follow.
    More bedrooms? I wondered. But why should these be locked behind an alarmed door? Alejandro groped for the light switch and an enormous room, the size of a barn, appeared in front of us. It was a bodega. Joe and I gaped at the polished-wood barrels, each neatly labelled stacked up on shelves that rose to the ceiling.
    “My father, Alejandro Senior, started this collection,” said Alejandro waving his arm to take in the room.
    “Wow...” said Joe. Words had failed us both.
    Alejandro fussed with some meters fixed to the wall. “Humidity and temperature adjustments,” he explained.
    In addition to the banks of wine barrels, racks of wine bottles, tilted slightly, lined the walls of the room. By now Paco was laughing at the expression on our faces.
    “English! I bet you did not know this was here in the centre of El Hoyo,” he roared.
    “No,” we said, shaking our heads in disbelief.
    Paco laughed. “You are honoured! Most of the villagers do not know about this!”
    “There are some very