Articles by Chris Whittaker
Gathering In the Logs
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. You can view
his web site at www.goggleme.co.uk. 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-
Peter finished splitting the logs yesterday. The whole thing started last month when
a neighbour mentioned the matter of a very large tree which had fallen across the
barranco and was imperilling his electricity cables. It was, he explained, my tree
and would make excellent lena for our stove, and the cable really wasn't safe, while
my tree, loosened in the massive spring rainfall, rested on his house. This was
a matter of sadness to him for although he now generally lived in Barcelona, he had
known that tree since they were both saplings. Well, he's no sapling now, but the
tree has outgrown him fifty-
So I called Peter, known as Numero Uno for his prowess with his moto-
The actual felling was quite exciting and physically hazardous, involving shinning up the trunk, fixing ropes, and sawing perilously above the water. Peter did this bit while I did the hauling on bits of rope and shouting a lot.
Eventually we got the huge logs to the top of the bank at great risk to life and limb (Peter's).
Peter felt that as he had done most of the work, I should organise the removal of the lena to my terrace 40 or 50 feet above us. This would involve mule trains and vecinos muy simpaticos, and probably euros. This seemed only fair, and accordingly today we gather in the logs.
In the event, it took one mule which was huge and twitchy, and Juan who is tiny and simpatico, for euros.
It was early when we started. (Yes, can't trust Spaniards to live up to their stereotypes
all the time!) And the dew was heavy on the long grass. I was wearing my best Gortex
mountain boots from Ilkley, and a body-
As I was thinking of writing this experience up, I checked that the mule was called,
yes, Mulo, and the tiny dog who rode the empty pannier? Si, Perro!
I had checked the word for panniers – alforjas – which I chucked around a lot and
Juan good-
I was fascinated by the alforjas. The traditional way of moving vast loads up the narrow paths connecting the sheer terraces in the mountains. First two canvas mattresses stuffed with straw are thrown over to protect the mule's back. I happen to know that these are called palliases in the forces, and wondered if there was a joke in there? On top of this is a tough blanket with cinches to hold the thing tight. Mules have the reputation for stubborness, but they are far from stupid. While Juan tensions the rope with deft movement of his short strong hands, the mule blows his stomach up to avoid discomfort. The experienced muleteer counters this with a sharp elbow in the ribs, the mule snorts and the cinch is tightened.
The alfojas are simply slung on top and balanced on either side and hang there comfortably
on the way down. The secret is in the loading. Each pannier has to be filled simultaneously
to maintain the balance, and Juan continually ducks beneath the beast's neck as he
changes sides – two big logs weighing in against five smaller etc. His small stature
is a help here, and I, being taller and incompetent am given the job of holding the
tether. As he ducks and weaves, Juan “talks” to the mule, an incessant patter of
clicks and whistles of a reassuring kind.
Logs are an awkward load and the shape of each one is assessed in the placing so that as the pile on the mule's back grows, it is tightly wedged.
When the load is judged complete the whole thing is deftly tied in place with one
continuous plaited rope tensioned with a Y-
Great care is taken to keep the load balanced, and as the great beast heaved itself up the narrow track, its owner would halt once or twice and heave the lower pannier with his shoulder before continuing.
On arriving at our bancale I wanted to unload the logs as they had been loaded, by
hand. No, Juan restrained me. Stand clear, a quick release of the knot and the whole
pannier slid neatly off to one side, cascading the load on to the grass.
On the second journey, Juan stopped briefly to wring out his socks, sodden from the wet grass – seems to put paid to the myth about bare feet being shameful to a Spaniard, or maybe it was my heart that was being wrung?
Village Cats Again
Ever see a cat catch a lizard? Yesterday one of 'our' cats leaped into the oleanders and emerged with a long tail protruding from her mouth. Two gulps and it was gone, whole and twitching.
If you read my earlier account of the kittens born in the storm, this was Pearl, the mother. As you gather, she is fine, but as expected, the kittens perished. They are now buried under the orange tree. Nature in the raw eh?
© 2010 Chris Whittaker