The printer jokingly suggested I travel by donkey to collect the first print run of the cookbook. So, wearing the traditional costume of 200 years ago, I rode sixteen kilometres over the mountains from Montejaque to Ronda. Now that is one sore ass ... and my bum is hurting, too
We, along with most of our foreign friends in our Spanish mountain village, are owners of holiday homes that we rent out to walkers, bird-watchers, and sun-worshippers. And we enjoy comparing notes on the habits of our renters...
“We should enlarge that upstairs window and install French doors, to match all the other windows on the second floor.” The builder opened it up to accommodate the change. “That looks dreadful. It’s only a foot above the top of the front door. Put it back the way it was.”
Por favor, una horca,” I ask the señora in the hardware store. She looks horrified. I make digging motions to indicate I need a garden fork. She looks relieved, and says there are none in stock. On looking up the Spanish for ‘horca’, I discover I’d asked for a gallows
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