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Chris Whittaker

Chris and his wife Julia split their time between York and Jubar in la Alpujarra. Chris is an artist as well as writing regularly for the Moor Times. He has also been known to do a little DIY around his house. He continually loses his tools so marks them with a blue spot so that he knows they are his. If you come across any then please contact Chris so that he can retrieve them. I am told there are a few at his son-in-laws hotel and restaurant in Mairena, Las  Chimeneas.

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Village Life

“I shall have to take some stuff to the village wheelie bin later this evening.”  Wife, stirring gazpacho, “That’s exciting, Chris”.

Seven o’ clock in the morning.  “Shall we have a cup of tea and do an hour’s weeding?”

“Great idea, suits me”

After tea is supped, and books read for a while, “How about this weeding?”

“Oh, weeding! I thought you said an hour’s reading!”  

I had thought she was unusually keen.

Danny.  “ What’s the little fence for, Poppa?”  

“Its netting to keep carrot fly off the seedlings.  Its 60 cm high and they can only fly up to 40 cm.”  

Danny, thoughtfully, “Why can’t they land on the net and walk the rest of the way to the top, Poppa?”  

Poppa, silently, “Look, you’re only six!”  

We picked Juan up on the road to Laroles recently.  Hurrying down the narrow tarmac road in the morning heat, he was grateful for the lift, and we arranged to meet him in the plaza for the return journey after shopping.  When he didn’t reappear, we had a coffee and made a desultory search and then returned minus Juan (minus one?), feeling a bit guilty in our air-con, leather-seated luxury.  Later it emerged that he had met a cousin, not hard to do in a region where most people are your cousins or your brothers or sometimes both, and gone for a drink.  He was round next day with a gift of 50 heads of garlic and his usual gappy smile.

Some days we see a burly young man of about 18 out with a string of donkeys.  They collect logs up in the pine forest on the sierra above, and transport them down to the road.  These sure-footed sturdy animals are still used instead of machines on the steeper slopes.  This hombre is of cheery disposition and we have mutually incomprehensible exchanges from time to time.  The other night I wandered up to the street before dinner to see what the commotion was about.  His donkeys were lined up at the stable door, behind our house, while their hooves were cleaned and trimmed.  The last one, a fine young stallion was protesting loudly.  Finished, the young man released the hind leg and stood up to answer his mobile.  Still annoyed, the burro lashed out and sent the phone flying.  To my shock, this earned him a brutal and prolonged thrashing with a thick cane.  I came away with that uneasy feeling peculiar to Brits abroad, regarding Johnny Foreigner and animals. “ I suppose it is their culture, and the beast has to learn” type of thing.  But the young man’s mother was clearly not happy, shouting from the balcony above that the donkey was young.

Later, I returned to hear the tale told to a group of neighbours sitting on the steps in the cool evening air.  The story caused much laughter.  The donkey was still with him and he fondled his neck as he recounted the story.  The young beast snuggled up to him with evident affection, and his father, a giant of a man, demonstrated the donkey’s docility by lifting its hind quarters off the floor.  The burro looked slightly offended but didn’t react.  It’s me that is Johnny Foreigner, of course.

© 2010 Chris Whittaker

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