Part 7: Noise

You would think that life would be pretty tranquil in a village with just 252 inhabitants. And if you were to take a walk around the streets of Aljucén at half past three in the afternoon, the quiet would be all enveloping. Siesta time is sacrosanct, and nobody, but nobody, would ever dream of making a social call when all right thinking people are trying to get forty winks. (The figure forty, by the way, is only meant as a rough guideline.) But appearances can be deceptive. There is only one shop, and that single shop cannot provide everybody with everything. The gaps are filled in by itinerant salespeople who come round in various sizes of van to sell the things that can’t be bought in the shop. Fresh fruit, newly-baked bread, bras and knickers. These salespeople announce their presence by tooting on their horns, and they are not afraid of what might be deemed excess enthusiasm. I usually get up early, and on the rare occasions when I plan a lie-in, you can bet that the fruit and veg man will be right outside the door, honking away like a man possessed at half past eight.

Not all the travellers use their horns to drum up business. The knife grinder plays a recording of what sounds like pan pipes to let everybody know he is in town. The last time I heard panpipes, was when I lived in La Línea de La Concepción. I stuck my head out of the window to find out what all the fuss was about, and was somewhat surprised to see a man with a goat and a set of stepladders. But I digress.

There are, of course, the normal noises of the countryside, which, by and large, provide a relaxing soundtrack to the business of everyday life. Dogs bark, cats miaow, and cockerels go cock-a-doodle-do. And here I must apologise to all my Spanish friends, and say for once and for all, that cockerels do not, under any circumstances, go kikirikiriki. During the daytime cicadas buzz away in the olive groves, and at night the crickets take over and make that strangely comforting noise of theirs from outside on the patio.

Then there is the noise associated with the two bars. Three Spanish people in a bar can make more noise that a touring rugby team. And if the barman should happen to be drying saucers the resultant cacophony can be heard in the next province. It must be something genetic with Spanish barmen, who armed only with a dishcloth and a few pieces of porcelain can make a noise that makes you think of Armageddon. And the noise doesn’t stop at 11PM. Why should it? Nobody can sleep until about 2AM, so you may as well be up and about, as tossing and turning, bathed in sweat, in a futile attempt to sleep before the temperature has dropped to a reasonable level. And if the mums and dads are out, you can bet your britches the kids will be out too.

Then there are the noises that remind us why we came to live in the countryside in the first place. The scuttle in the undergrowth as lizards avoid our clumsy feet, the twitter of housemartins and swallows by the church, and the broken-whistle call of the bee-eaters, as they fly over our patio on their way home, the clacking of the storks´ beaks as they perform their courtship rituals and on winter days, and if we are really lucky, the honk of the cranes as they fly overhead on their way to their feeding grounds in the oak groves of Extremadura.

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