'That's simple enough,' said Domingo. 'Now is the waning of the August moon just the time for cutting eucalyptus beams. Cut them at any other time, apart perhaps from the waning of the January moon, and they'll rot. Juan Salquero owns that eucalyptus grove down the river there. I'll square it with him and we'll cut them tomorrow. To do the job really well we'll want five fifteen-metre beams.'

Next morning I arrived to find Domingo forty feet up a tree with his chainsaw no gloves, no ropes, just his usual outfit of ragged sneakers, thin trousers and shirt. He had wedged himself in a fork and was leaning out with his foot hooked round a branch. The huge chainsaw, an ancient and terrible machine, unenc.u.mbered by any modern safety devices, was gnawing ferociously away at a thick trunk of poplar that was in the way of the operation.

Domingo really was a phenomenon. When he was around, things that appeared impossible got done as if by magic. In no time at all we, or rather he, had cut down five huge straighttrunked eucalyptus, trimmed them up and taken the bark off them, then covered them with brush so the sun didn't bake them too quickly. There they would lie until winter when we would find some way of hauling them out of the wood to wherever we decided to put the bridge.

I hadn't fancied using the chainsaw myself so I did the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g with a hand-axe, and the peeling of the bark. We worked away through the morning until Domingo called a halt. 'Come on,' he said, 'Let's go and drink a gla.s.s of wine on the terrace. It's too hot out here now.'

So we went up to Domingo's place where Old Man Domingo was sitting on a box not too far from a jug of wine, making baskets out of esparto gra.s.s.

'For my niece,' he explained. 'She has a restaurant in Granada. Wins cookery prizes. She likes to have lots of esparto baskets all over the place, goodness knows why! Her customers are all doctors and professors and what have you. She's just round the corner from the university. She says they feel at home with all these things from the country. Me, what do I know?'

The middle of the day was, like every other middle of the day, scorching hot, but up on the Meleros' terrace we were fanned by a gentle breeze and the roof was shaded by a giant eucalyptus. The air shimmered in the valley below us. I could see Pedro and his train of beasts heading up the path from the river for their siesta. From the olive groves on the western slope came the clink of a plough and the sound of Bernardo cursing his mule. 'Beautiful, isn't it?' said Expira. 'We're poor as can be and life is nothing but drudgery and pain, but I love this view.' She smiled as she swatted at a cloud of flies with a dishcloth.

'Yes, beautiful,' I agreed. 'I can hardly believe that we're really going to come and live here.'

'Do you have any children?' she asked.

'No, but we're thinking about it.'

'Thinking about it won't do any good. You must have children, you'll be so lonely otherwise all the way over there on your own. The valley needs more children. I need more children. My grandchildren are in Barcelona and I only see them once a year, and this one' she indicated her son 'this one doesn't seem to want to get married. You couldn't perhaps find some girl from "over there" for Domingo to marry, could you?'

'I'll see what I can do,' I laughed.

I had fulfilled a part of my brief. The new bridge was under way, even to the extent of something practical being done about it the cutting of the beams. Next, Domingo and I headed off into the Alpujarras in search of a machine-man to build the road.

In the car Domingo explained all there was to be known about machines. There were pits into which the unwary and uninformed could easily drop. There were machine-men who were crooks; there were machine-men who were incompetent; some were too timid and some were too reckless, and some even were unreliable. And then of course there were the machines. Domingo's bete noire bete noire was the machine with rubber wheels. was the machine with rubber wheels.

'Whatever we end up with, we don't want a machine with rubber wheels. They're no good. Esteban has one with rubbers, and he's a good driver, but he's a crook so we won't go to him.'

'Didn't you say that Esteban was a friend of yours?'

'Yes, he is.'

'But you just said he was a crook.'

'Even crooks need friends, and anyway I like him, crook or no.

His machine is old, though, and completely knackered, another reason it'd be no good. You don't want an old machine. You'll pay the same hourly rate but the thing will get tired and won't work as hard as a younger one. And of course you don't want a new machine either, because a man with a new machine will be frightened to scratch the paintwork and he won't push it hard enough.'

My head was spinning with the complexities of the task. We sped back and forth through the mountains, stopping everywhere a machine-man had been spotted. We interviewed dozens of machine-men in bars, or in pyjamas at their doors after midnight, inspecting critically their plant and discussing the merits of various arms, blades, buckets, tracks, wheels, shovels and grabs.

Eventually we settled on Pepe Pilili and his machine. Between orgiva and Lanjaron is a tasca tasca, a thing too humble to be cla.s.sified as a bar or venta venta a sort of wayside watering-hole and beside it is a little a sort of wayside watering-hole and beside it is a little ermita ermita or wayside chapel, decked in flowers. Long after midnight and a fruitless evening searching for a machine, we pulled up. or wayside chapel, decked in flowers. Long after midnight and a fruitless evening searching for a machine, we pulled up.

'Pepe Pilili lives here. He has a machine,' Domingo announced.

Pepe was there in the bar, cuddling his new baby. Once acquainted, you wouldn't forget Pepe Pilili. He was tall with thick blond hair and c.o.c.ky as a sparrow.

'No problem, my friend. I'll do your road for you. Start tomorrow evening.'

We celebrated our pact with sangria, a mixture of red wine, lemonade and brandy. You don't get much sangria in the Alpujarras, which made the occasion a particular treat. Then Domingo and I returned home in jubilant mood. On the way Domingo confided to me that Pepe's machine, a JCB, had rubber wheels, that it had been delivered from the factory only the week before, and that Pepe had never actually driven a machine in his life. 'It'll be alright, though,' we a.s.sured each other. 'You can't afford to be too fussy in these matters.'

A week later Pepe Pilili turned up with his shiny new machine. To a man like myself, lately come to the business of appraising such apparatus, it looked businesslike despite its immaculate paintwork and rubber wheels. It splashed across the river, made itself a ramp to get up the sandy bank, devoured a clump of bushes, the last obstacle to arriving on the farm, and there it stood, gleaming in the last rays of the evening sun.

Pedro and his goats shuffled up to give it a critical scrutiny. 'What do you think, Pedro?' I asked. 'Don't you feel a bit sad that the world is about to thrust its grubby arm into El Valero, and cut a road through these timeless terraces?'

'The Host, no! This is the future, man. This is what El Valero needs. I'd have done it years ago if it hadn't been for my people. Pity about the machine, though.'

'What's wrong with the machine?'

'It's got rubber wheels.'

Domingo steered his donkey through the scrub to come and supervise. 'We'll start with that bank there, Pepe. Off you go and cut in as close to the almond as you can. We want to waste as little good land as possible.'

Pepe launched his machine at the bank indicated by Domingo. I disappeared up to the house to fetch some beer. Coming down I was surprised to see the JCB in an unusual att.i.tude. It was lying on its side at the bottom of the bank. Pepe was scratching his head beside it, Pedro was sn.i.g.g.e.ring, and Domingo was scornfully explaining to Pepe just what he should have done.

'Get it up on its feet again and start the bank from the top this time.'

'How in G.o.d's name am I going to get it back on its feet again?' Pepe's c.o.c.kiness was more or less unruffled but I could see that he was shaken by what could have been a horrible accident. 'With the arm, of course. That's what the arm's for.'

'I don't know, Domingo you try.'

'Me? I've never driven a machine.'

Saying which he clambered into the cab and started the engine. As he tried out the controls to see which did what, the machine wriggled about on the ground like one of those one-legged gra.s.shoppers. Then slowly it raised itself on its arm, wobbled about a bit a clever twitch of the bucket and bonk, it bounced back onto its rubbers.

'There,' said Domingo, climbing from the cab rather pleased with himself. 'No damage, still works.'

Pepe climbed back in and attacked the bank again rather timidly from the top. The rest of us sat on the gra.s.s with our beer and watched. As I looked up from this little earth bank, my eyes scanned the huge expanse of rocky hill that we would have to cut through to get to the old mining road at the top. To be truthful, Pepe and his machine and its wretched rubbers were not the ones for the job.

Next day we headed off in search of another machine-man Domingo knew of Andreas of Torvizcon. We arrived in the town and were directed to his house, where his wife told us that he was out cutting tracks in the Contraviesa ten kilometres from town. After an hour or so of cruising about on the dusty tracks through the almond groves and vineyards that cloak the hills of the great counterscarp of the Sierra Nevada, we found him. Domingo hailed him and there followed the usual half-hour of unfathomable conversation which, strain as I might, I couldn't catch a word of. Then the machine-man came over to me and shook hands.

'I'm the man for your job,' he said with a grin. 'Want to see what my machine and I can do?'

'Alright, go ahead.'

He had already hopped onto his bulldozer, no half-a.r.s.ed dust-p.e.c.k.e.r on rubbers this one, but a proper machine with tracks. There followed an astonishing virtuoso performance in which the little red machine, all but invisible in a cloud of sunlit dust, cavorted and pranced on a near vertical hillside. Occasionally I caught a glimpse of Andreas's face, lit up with a grin as he deftly flicked the levers and sent the machine waltzing gracefully backwards up a terrifying slope. In half an hour this dazzling and improbable ballet came to a close and Andreas was hired to put my road in. Tomorrow he would come to walk the land with Domingo and me.

The road was to be finished by November, and Pedro Romero was engaged to be the impartial arbitrator who would check the hours worked daily and resolve any questions that arose over where or how to put the track. Andreas insisted upon this arrangement so there could be no question of foul play: not that there was any question of foul play, but you know what people are like.

MOVING IN WITH PEDRO.

IN THE AUTUMN WE BOUGHT AN OLD LANDROVER AND trailer, loaded it with the carefully chosen remnants of our former life and took the ferry for France. For six days we lumbered south through France and Spain, huddled in the cab. Ana, Beaune and I. The Landrover was slow, the load was heavy, and the hills were long, so there was plenty of time for reflection. We stared morosely through the pathetic little wedges of window cleared by the wipers, not saying much.

It had been very grand to say to everyone at home, 'Oh we've bought this farm in the mountains of Granada you know the kind of thing, no road, no power, no water, no nothing. Oh yes, we thrive on a bit of adventure, not for us the dismal round, that's the way we are!'

And then we found it was actually happening. We had tossed aside all that was comfortable and predictable about our lives and hurled ourselves out into the cold. Anyone pa.s.sing us on the road might have thought we had the look of refugees forced to leave a beloved homeland, but we weren't so much depressed, just numbed with surprise to find ourselves actually taking part in a script we ourselves had written.

It seemed endless, the long tedious inclines up mountain ranges drained of colour by drought and frost, then the plains at the top, with the chill wind whipping the roadside dust. Then late one afternoon on the fifth day we found ourselves creeping down a long pa.s.s with dramatic green-cloaked rock formations on either side. As we descended we seemed to enter a different world. The washed browns of the gra.s.s above turned to rolling meadows of deep green, sprinkled with autumn flowers. The sun shone warmer, the sky was blue and we peeled off layer after layer of woolly clothes. Little white farmhouses, bright with flowers, were tucked into shady valleys and everywhere was the cloudy green of olive trees. We were coming down the pa.s.s of Despenaperros and entering Andalucia.

At El Valero, the roadbuilders had cleared a wide bare s.p.a.ce by the old pomegranate water-b.u.t.t and there we came to rest. Beaune leapt from the Landrover and set about investigating her new domain. Of course she wouldn't have seen it then as her domain, just another night-stop on a seemingly endless journey. And it must have looked a pretty odd sort of hotel.

'Well, here we are. This is home. Here we lay our bones.' We laughed and walked arm in arm up to the terrace where we sat dangling our legs over the drop below while the sun slipped down behind the hill.

What we needed was a cup of tea. If you're English, or for that matter Chinese, you always need a cup of tea at such moments, even if you're just moving into your new home on the continent. So we set about gathering the wherewithal for a brew. Nothing that we had brought with us up to the house was suitable for that purpose and I refused adamantly to unload and go back across the river to where we had left the trailer before I had drained my first cup.

We eventually found a bent aluminium pot. The sort of pot you boil up handkerchiefs in. It looked as if a mule had trodden on it. Then we built a fire of twigs, filled the pot with water from the pomegranate-dribbling hose, and suspended it over the flames with some bits of rusty wire. When the water began to smoke not steam, oddly enough, but smoke we removed it from the heat and put in some sort of tea-bag we'd located. Then we covered it with a flat stone to mast.

'Cups, cups, cups . . . what shall we do for cups?' But of course! There were some empty tuna-fish tins lying around here and there. I took a couple and went to scrub them in the water-b.u.t.t. 'Have six minutes elapsed yet?' They had, and we poured the loathsome grey liquid into the tuna tins.

'You didn't wash the cups very well,' said Ana accusingly.

'I did the best I could they're alright.'

A sc.u.m of fish-oil was floating on top of the tea. We sat back and sighed, gazing at the lovely view of rivers and mountains below us, while we sipped what must surely have been the most detestable beverage ever to pa.s.s the lips of man.

Nonetheless, we have kept as family treasures the paraphernalia of that first brew and on November 26 each year we celebrate El Valero Day by seeking to surpa.s.s in vileness that first momentous cup of tea.

Romero came up and watched as we unloaded the Landrover. 'What's this for? What on earth do you do with these?' he asked as he fingered and rubbed all the myriad things that had no place in his simple countryman's armoury.

'It's a thing for slicing eggs . . . an asparagus kettle. That? Oh that's a tea-cosy . . . for keeping tea-pots warm . . . a device for applying rubber rings to the b.a.l.l.s of lambs, a pepper-mill, a food-processor . . . a word-processor . . . ' I felt more and more abashed as, with my explanations, I laid bare for him the fripperies of our existence. It seemed somehow wanting when compared with the elemental earthiness of his.

Alpujarran man has no need of such dross. He makes do with what he has got or what he can find for nothing. Give him a plastic fizzy drink bottle and half a hank of baler-twine and he will create an object of delicate beauty that is also functional in that it keeps your water or wine cool or just below the boil at any rate in the heat of summer. An old car tyre will become a pair of sandals for irrigating. A bit of bone sees use as a doorstop. The plants that grow on the hillsides furnish just about everything the home needs.

'And what in the name of the Host is that?'

'What?'

'That!'

'It's a bed.'

'But it's made of wood. You can't have a wooden bed!'

'Why ever not?'

'It breeds chinches. Wood breeds chinches.'

'Well, what might chinches be, then?'

'They're the bichos bichos that sting and bite you at night. There's enough of them here as it is. You don't want to go encouraging them with a wooden bed!' that sting and bite you at night. There's enough of them here as it is. You don't want to go encouraging them with a wooden bed!'

I knew we'd never be able to get everything right in Pedro's eyes. We liked the wooden bed, so the wooden bed stayed.

'I'm making something to eat,' said Pedro. 'Come and join me. It's papas a lo pobre papas a lo pobre.'

Ana gave me a look.

'It's really very nice of him: I do think we should accept his invitation. Thanks Pedro. We'll be down in ten minutes.'

I banged some big nails into the arms and legs of the homemade wooden bed to cut down on the wobble. The floor of the room fell steeply away towards the goat-stable below, so I also stuffed some books and magazines under the feet to level it. Ana wiped every last speck of dust from the bedroom and then opened the window wide to let in the fast-moving night air and the ever present miasma of goat.

Pedro still did his cooking in the lower part of the house. It was dark and starlit as we walked down the path, and the air was sweet with jasmine and woodsmoke. There was an electric light-bulb hanging in the middle of the room but Pedro was much too frugal to use it. The twig fire blazing beneath the black pot of potatoes illuminated the scene, aided by a skilfully adapted tuna-fish tin with old oil floating inside and a rag for a wick. Shadows and low light danced on Pedro's big body as he crouched over the fire with his preferred stick, stirring the happy concoction. 'Cristobal, you lay the table and pour some wine for Ana.'

I set the drum and poured Ana some costa costa. She took the gla.s.s, sat beside the makeshift table and gazed down at the river. It was a less fine wine than she might perhaps have wished for (Ana had, after all, named her favourite dog after a particularly delicious wine from Hospices de Beaune) but she sipped it without a murmur. I had hoped she would station herself by the cook and chat about recipes or the like, but no, it seemed that Ana was not quite so sure about Romero as I was.

That first meal was not a success. I did my best to lubricate the wheels of sociability but the gulf was great. Pedro had decided on some whim that he couldn't understand a word of what Ana was saying, despite the fact that she was at least as fluent as I was. Ana returned the favour by withdrawing from the conversation and the meal soon degenerated into an embarra.s.sing exchange of grunts and sighs, punctuated by long silences.

'Is he going to cook that for us every night?' Ana whispered as soon as we were alone. 'And how long do you think he intends to stay? He's alright in his way, I suppose, but he's rather an oppressive presence, don't you think?'

'Well, I can't deny it would be nice to be alone,' I had to agree. 'But we have to remember that we are pushing the poor man out of his home and livelihood . . . '

'No we are not. We've bought the place from him and he has a perfectly good home to go to with a wife and family waiting for him.'

'Yes I know, but he loves it here. He says it's his spiritual home.'

I thought it best not to mention the wild offers I had made in the summer about running the place in partnership with Pedro, of how he would have a home with us for as long as he wanted. I was not well versed in the niceties of buying and selling properties and was still working on the a.s.sumption that the buyer was taking cruel advantage of the poor oppressed seller, a part Pedro and his family played very well.

'Well, I hope he doesn't make it his home, spiritual or otherwise, for too much longer. It's one thing buying a peasant farm, it's quite another buying the peasant with it.'

I blushed inwardly at the word. Ana has a sharp tongue, though one often frighteningly close to the mark.

'No no, don't worry, he'll be gone soon enough. Anyway I think we have a rare privilege to be living here and benefiting from the knowledge and skill of this n.o.ble . . . er, n.o.ble . . . '

'Peasant?'

'You know I don't like that word, Ana. I really do think it would be as well not to use it.'

'Alright then, n.o.ble what?'

'Son of the . . . no, master of the soil. '

'Pompous fart! He's a peasant, Chris. What's wrong with saying it?'

'Alright, n.o.ble peasant.' I choked out the word with difficulty.

'But to get back to what I was saying, there are not many people who are as lucky as we are in being able to get to grips with a foreign culture by actually living in the same house as one of the local . . . '

'Peasants.'

'Yes, one of the local people.'

This conversation was taking place hissed in the darkness by the pomegranate tree with its oil-drum of grubby water. We were cleaning our teeth in it. We decided to leave the washing up for the light of the morning, and retired to bed. Romero had his bed in the next room but one all of which were connected by doorless doorways. It was a lovely night, with a gentle breeze and a clear sky. We left the window open, as was our custom, and despite the unaccustomed noises slept deep and soundly.

I've never been good at getting up early in the morning. The warmth and comfort of a good bed shared with an agreeable companion have always triumphed over the potential excitements of a new day. And this morning, our first in our new Spanish home, was no exception. The delights of my warm careless slumber were, furthermore, compounded by confusion as to what to do with the momentous day that lay ahead. What should one do on the first day of a new life? It would be so easy to make a mess of it. Best perhaps to fudge the issue and stay in bed.