Part 1: Village Life

When the removals van crashed into one of the orange trees on our street, deftly removing some of its larger branches, certain feelings of foreboding, that I had entertained previously, surfaced again. What if the villagers resented supposedly rich foreigners invading their peaceful domain? What if our arrival changed the structure of the house prices? Would first time buyers now be unable to afford a little place of their own, once the notorious newcomers were firmly ensconced?

A couple of hours later, as a human chain of approximately half the inhabitants of Aljucén (for that is the name of the village, located some 16 km north of Mérida in the wilds of Extremadura) fetched the last of our belongings from the van, into the lounge of our new house, I was beginning to feel heartily ashamed of my previous reservations. By the end of the first week, we had been invited to dinner, showered with presents and assured that if we needed any help, we only had to ask. So much for unfriendly villagers.

This was back in the late August of 2005 and all seems like such a long time ago now. Since then we have hosted a party for my wife’s 40th birthday, to which just about the whole village turned up. We have celebrated our first Christmas and New Year in the village, and, by and large, have been accepted for exactly what we are (a couple of mildly eccentric, but otherwise harmless Brits).

But of all the events we have lived through, perhaps the bash for Cheryl’s big day was the most unforgettable. I had had a special barbecue, of enormous proportions made to order especially for the occasion. At twelve o’clock on the big day, and with proceedings due to commence at 1o´clock, there was still no sign of the barbecue being delivered. What’s more, after seven months without a drop of rain, the sky was looking decidedly grey, with low dense clouds threatening to rain on our parade.

I had had some invitations printed and had, willy nilly, handed them out to just about everybody I had met. To further reinforce the impression that all were welcome, I put a sign outside our house, which read: “Vecinos – gran barbacoa hoy, entrad y conoced a los ingleses!” Now nobody could claim that they had not been invited.

At 12.45 the barbecue finally arrived, the blacksmith who had made it looking a touch put out at my worried expression. As things turned out, the rain that had threatened all morning never materialised and by 1 o’clock, the temperature in the shade of the fig trees was a pleasant 25º C. I knew the locals could be a thirsty crowd, so as well as case upon case of cold beer, I had bought, in 16 litre containers, 48 litres of the local wine, known as pitarra. At one Euro a litre, not only is it good value, but is the best guarantee of an extended siesta known to man. With hindsight, I needn’t have bothered, the villagers brought so much pitarra with them, that after seven hour’s carousing we were left with roughly 60 litres of the stuff. Lord alone knows how much they must have brought for that to happen.

By the time things were rounding up, we reckoned to have fed and watered upwards of eighty people. At eight o’clock only a couple of die hard Brits were left, but to be fair, they had come rather a long way for the party. There was just one curious legacy to the proceedings. The locals, being unaccustomed to the name Cheryl had taken it upon themselves to re-baptise my spouse. From now on the new English couple in the village were to be known as Pete y Charo.

Articles in the series:

Introduction to Pete's Tale

Part 1: Village Life

Part 2: Bichos

Part 3: A Two-Bar Town

Part 4: Fruit and Veg

Part 5: Summer

Part 6: Politics

Part 7: Noise

Part 8: Our natural park

Part 9: New Year's Eve

Part 10: Timetables

Part 11: The Land Where the Pig is King

Part 12: How Not to Buy a House

Part 13: That First Winter

Part 14: The Extremeño Spring

Part 15: To be a Pilgrim

Part 16: A Change is Coming

Part 17: Wine Talk

Part 18: Free For All

Part 19: How Do You Spell Asparagus?

Part 20: Designer Peas