Our next stop is to be at El Balcon De Jatar, another help-ex contact, where we are going to work in exchange for food and facilities. However, before we go we visit Ronda, staying in the most expensive campsite in Spain – 40€ for a night. Five times more than the most expensive site in Morocco, and seriously denting our budget. We are outraged, and negotiate a discount. Ronda is very pretty, but we are rushing down to the coast, to Fuengarola where Doreen and aunty Tricia are soaking up a bit of winter sun. Motorways, traffic. We drive around the busy streets, marvelling at the number of people, the hotels lined cheek by jowl, and find the Hotel Angela with surprising ease. With the usual tension we find somewhere to park near the hotel, and go to meet them. The loveliness of familiar faces. We drink tea, chat and relax on comfortable furniture while the girls have their first bath since leaving home in their en suite bathroom – who'd have thought the Hotel Angela would be so luxurious? They buy us dinner in a proper Italian restaurant and we retreat to the caravan, now parked on the sea front with a ticket valid till 9.30 the following morning. It is clammy, noisy and supremely uncomfortable due to the fact we haven't put the beds up, instead sleeping me and the girls in the big bed and Mark on the 'sofa'.
Fortunately we are next to a caff promising a full English breakfast, so we keep that fixed in our minds as we toss and turn the night away. We awake grumpy and miserable and go out to find it closed. We meet Doreen and Tricia then go to the local market, leaving at 12.30 for Jatar, promising to return before they go home. We make the climb up the most death defying road so far. Half way up the car starts to overheat. Mark is worried that she won't make it up. We stop and watch the cars pass, seeing them scudding higher, then higher up the same mountain, endlessly. The girls climb trees and I go round the bend to see the next instalment of the terror. Don't look good, but eventually we climb back on board, with the engine cooled and move hair pin twisting steadily upwards to a pass through two peaks right at the top. Relief. The rest of the journey is curvy but flat .We stop off for refreshments at a roadside ranch-house and watch a man eat meat and two plates of chips, washing it down with a bottle of red wine before driving off in his big truck. Spain, eh, it's all meat heads and potatoes.We eventually arrive in Jatar, unannounced (due to communication difficulties in Morocco) at 5pm. We are a week later than we had arranged, as Catherine immediately points out, but she shows me how to use the coffee machine, fills us in on all the chores that need doing, then we are taken to a spot 2km outside the village to camp up next to the pig pen.
This is not the bad thing it might seem. The vista is truly magnificent. We are totally isolated. Quiet, save the night time owls and the occasional grunting of the pigs. We set up the awning – two rooms for the first time since Christmas, and think about what we need. We might stay for three weeks, if our initial feelings of unease at Katherine's superior demeanour prove unfounded, so it is worth making a proper camp. That night a full moon rises behind the snow topped peaks of the sierra Nevada. It appears unfeasibly large, but the photo I take doesn't reflect what our eyes are telling us. We 'moon' in its original sense, butts high, head between legs, and sure enough our eyes have been deceived. Later there are moon shadows. Everything seems cool out here.
The next day, our creeping doubts of the previous evening prove to be more substantial than we had anticipated. I find myself sweeping two floors of the building, stripping beds, doing laundry, polishing throughout, cleaning windows, making bread and dinner, loading and unloading the dishwasher, clearing and cleaning the table and learning to feed the pigs. Mark is set to work tiling the pantry and grouting the stone wall outside the toilet. What gives, man? We are introduced to Chris, the Romanian bar man – a man on the edge if ever we saw one. He has no English whatsoever, and we, as we have suddenly realised, have no Spanish conversation skills at all. During dinner (2pm sharp), we realise we are not quite on the bottom of the pile. All talk is conducted in English, and Chris is totally ignored in the stilted conversation. Fortunately we have, as fellow servant, Emma, and as we clean up in the kitchen she fills us in on what we've just walked into. It seems we have volunteered to be 'in service'. Fortunately everything is calm at the moment, because Rainier is away. Rainier runs a tight ship (god, it gets worse?) and when he says jump, you jump. Chris never sleeps, he keeps the bar open till 6, playing cards with the locals, and getting drunk, then works on manual tasks all day. Catherine has a constant stream of 'jobs' to attend to, walking the dogs (5), attending to the horse, phone calls, cars, shopping, etc. so people who come to 'help' are generally expected to run the household and bar to make this lifestyle possible. This is not a happy situation. Later, Catherine informs us that people usually work until 6, and have a day off a week. Hmmmm. We make sure to tell us we are going to Fuengerola to see Doreen on Saturday to assert our non compliance at the earliest opportunity.
The atmosphere in the awning that night was electric, me and Mark are a team again, united for the common good. We were outraged – no 'thank you's, no friendly chatter, the exclusion of our Romanian friend at the dinner table – should we stay or should we go?
The next day, Chris became more despondent, but attempts to speak in Spanish on my part went nowhere. He sat in front of the fire, feet up, chain smoking and drinking, making constant phone calls. No one else spoke to him. Mark's attempt to help him with the tiling was less than appreciated. He was shown to the stone clad wall that needed grouting and proceeded to rip his hands to shreds. Oh dear. I am cooking dinner for 9. Everything is going wrong in the kitchen, the chances of getting anything on the table for 2 o'clock are fading fast. The frantic alien nature of the place is permeating my brain after a mere three days. Emma chain smokes, filling us in on everything she has had to endure during her stay. This is nothing, she says, wait till Rainier gets here. And I check the potatoes again. During dinner, Catherine talks almost exclusively to Emma, and we sit quietly, like flies on the wall, staring at our plates with Chris.
Fortunately, Saturday soon arrives, and we set off early for Fuengirola, Doreen and Auntie Tricia. We have a lovely day, visiting the flea market and buying jumpers for the girls, shirts for Mark, a gas heater, folding table and a flamenco dress for me. We go to the sea front and eat chips, fried eggs and sausages. It's like being back in Blighty.
In the afternoon, the kids go swimming with nanny, and Tricia. Mark and I help ourselves to the en suite bathroom. Hot water and no interruptions. Thank you girls. We drive back to Jatar in the dark, terrified. The gap between the twin peaks is lit up, close encounters stylie, like a vision of Hades, more unsettling than the blind curves and hairpins. We wish we'd had the camera rolling.
The next day we walk the dogs with Catherine and go out with the horse, the children taking it in turns to ride her. We are calm and relaxed, stopping off to feed the pigs and turning the caravan into an impromptu cafe on the mountain. We chat, the kids read and play, loving it. Other than the horse wanting a bath in the stream while Silvie was on her back, the day was going beautifully, everything seemed normal. Then, as we re-entered the village, trailing behind the pack of semi wild dogs she calls her pets, we see a dead terrier being carried away by a man, as a young woman screams in grief on the street. We walk on, confused, to discover it has just been killed by Catherine's two rescued great danes (dogs on the edge if ever we saw them). Emma tells us they are responsible for the wound in 'Patches neck, and the other dogs have killed loads of pets in the village. It's a dog eat dog town. We call off our previously prescribed dog walking duties. Catherine talks about the whole affair as if it's the other dog owner's fault. She tells us of her 'highly strung' nature - she might be using smack. She does it 'all for attention'.and anyway, the terrier was always yapping. There is a total empathy block going on. The dead dogs human uncle comes into the bar, hurling abuse in Spanish, and Catherine responds dispassionately by reminding him that he killed his own dog and put it in a shallow grave as if this made everything alright. It shuts him up, then she tells us how the locals have tried, and succeeded to poison her dogs without even thinking about why this might have happened. We just sit at the table, mouths agape. There is no space in her 'conversation' for any response. She talks at length about the terrible way people treat their animals, and displays pained expressions about the suffering it causes her, but doesn't for a moment think how terrible it might have been for the mentally unstable woman to see her pet dog bitten and shaken to death. This is a familiar take on people's mental health problems. Chris is also talked of in this way. His drinking, permanent hangdog expression and occasional benders are all 'for attention' – but she doesn't seem to want to give any. It's all getting too much. Every day we say we'll go back to camp just after dinner, but never get back before dark. The place is like a black hole, draining our energy so we can't get out.
Rainier is coming home. The countdown begins. We are forbidden to say anything about the dogs. Catherine gets more and more hysterical by the moment. Her physical output decreases in adverse correlation to her faff levels. Emma stands in the kitchen as we cook and chain smoke together. She tells us about the mythical Rainier The time the horse attacked her, cutting her head open and rending her unconscious - within half an hour Rainier had set her back on task. Rainier spitting his dinner out at the table, and throwing it on the floor because it wasn't cooked properly. Rainier making people work 18 hours a day and amusingly, the time Rainier asked a help-ex worker to go upstairs and scrape the 'semen' off the bedroom floor. 'You'll need a trowel' he told them. Of course, he meant cement. In the meantime, Chris is really close to self destruct, Catherine talks about him as if he was a non person, in English, in his presence. How come we're still here? we can't understand why we haven't just left, then out of the ether comes Kate Bush...
'Suddenly my feet are feet of mud,
It all goes slow mo,
I don't know why I'm crying.
am I suspended in' Jatar.
Staying here is like watching a car crash in slow motion. How can we possibly leave? It is total voyeurism and we can't avert our gaze. These people are so self absorbed and deluded it is difficult not to watch, and life back at camp has never been better.
Me and Mark stay up talking into the night about how not to live your life, with the new heater tucked under the table with our knees, Moroccan style. It is such a relief to get home at night, we are all on a constant high. Laughing, playing, having the fun that is emotionally wrung out of your during the days at El Balcon de Jatar.
And there are other things. Lupo, their 11 year old son is a star. We can't imagine how it happened, but he is very lovely. He has fallen for Frida, who, in a town of lantern jawed local beauties, shines like a goddess. She has grown two inches since we left England, and is blossoming into a self assured, confident pre-pubescent woman. 
We manage to escape and take the kids to the local hot springs and watch the locals washing their hair and bodies in the blissfully warm water. Two hot water experiences in as many days. We drag it out, then return to the caravan refreshed.
Rainier arrives, a man over the edge if we ever saw one. We shake hands and he arranges his features. It looks like a dog mimicking a human smile. You are safe, he is friendly, but it obviously hurts his face. We are sitting around, drinking coffee, and it seems to confuse him, so we make like we're busy. Mark goes back to cleaning all the greasy shelves in the kitchen. I bake and chambermaid as per, Emma does more laundry duties. Fortunately Rainier is mainly taken up with Chris today. He talks to him over dinner, cooked by Catherine, and we see Chris smile for the first time. He has been given the job of installing a post box – which means he can finally receive his mail. He goes outside, smashing the wall in like a man possessed, then installs it. 2 hours tops. Rainier compliments him on the symmetry he has achieved over dinner. Maybe he's not so bad after all. However, it is not long before our feelings are proved wrong. Rainier thinks it's mad that there are 4 people working in the place while the bar is closed. It isn't right that there is only one person on the bar, Emma should help in the evenings, and we should get in early to tidy up in the morning. This conversation is directed at Catherine, over the top of our heads while we are in the room. Rainier is deciding what everyone is going to do without asking or consulting us in any way. I feel my blood starting to heat up, and make my way to the kitchen I can't understand why I can't say anything directly to his face. Emma is also fuming, she doesn't want to run the bar, she gets hassle from the local men who have no concept of woman's rights, drawing their opinions of women from a land before time. However, resistance is futile, and we find ourselves complying with our indirect orders before going out to fix a gate post that the horse knocked over earlier in the day . Strictly speaking we're not in the business of offering concrete solutions, but we'll do anything to get out of the boot camp for an hour, and manage to push it to two. That night we frantically text Sandra for tips on the how to deal with a big German bully.
We arrive at 10am the next morning to fulfil our cleaning duties and find Catherine and Emma driving round in the car. Chris has finally cracked. He has been up all night drinking, Rainier has sacked him and he has gone crazy, cutting his wrists with a kitchen knife, threatening to burn the bar down and bring the Romanian Mafia in to do them over. They have his stuff in the back of the car and are trying to find him so they can get him to the airport and transport him out of their lives. But Chris proves to be elusive, he is somewhere in the village, drunk, and getting more so. We imagine Catherine and Emma ,who is looking totally bewildered in the passenger seat, trying to bungle him into the back of the car. We receive strict instructions not to let him back in the bar, and they drive off on their mission. We look at each other bemused – bouncer duty? – not our thing really. We leave the door open.
Catherine and Emma return after failing miserably. Everyone waits anxiously for Rainier to get out of bed and be given the bad news. He'll actually have to do the job himself. Emma fills us in on the gossip. Chris is drinking in another bar, he is sleeping under a tree in the square, he is dishing out 50 euro notes to men in the village (he has finally been paid his money), he is unconscious half way up a mountain. The day before I had overheard Catherine saying that all the mail had been burnt because it couldn't be delivered, and |I wonder if this may have related to his meltdown. Probably it's just working like a dog in Jatar - 8am start, tiling 'til mid day, stilted lunch, open the bar, working, drinking and gambolling hard 'til the early hours. No friends, family, transport or appreciation. It's hard to say. But whatever the cause, Catherine and Rainier don't see it. We get on with our usual chores.
Rainier finally gets up and asks Mark if he can finish the pantry, quickly replacing his lost worker. He is in the past now but they still need the jobs doing. Chris eventually returns. He can hardly walk, he is foaming at the mouth and ranting about his treatment. Rainier looks set to explode, but fortunately Roger the healer has just arrived, lured to Jatar with offers of Massage work at the local hotel. He is lovely, and slightly confused about the situation, but seems to have a calming effect. During dinner (late again) he does his usual thing of talking exclusively to Catherine about who is going to run the bar that night. He is worried she is going to have a nervous breakdown because of all the things she has to do. 'It's ridiculous when we have all these helpers' he says, and we try not to look at each other in case we start to laugh. After a week it is really difficult to work out exactly what she does with her time. It is bonfire night, they can close early, but they still need someone to pull the pints. We pointedly refuse to volunteer, Emma reiterates her reluctance from the previous evening. So he decides Catherine will do it with Emma – did he hear what she said? - and he will work in the kitchen – he really doesn't want to be the barman. We retire to the caravan for a couple of hours under the guise of feeding the pigs, and return after dark so the girls can enjoy the bonfire night activities. We go off to join them but there's not much going on, so we go back and get slightly drunk. It's our first 'night out' on the trip. Emma, surprise surprise is working behind the bar when who should arrive but Chris. He is totally delirious by this time, making imaginary phone calls on his mobile, ranting again, taking up his old position by the fire. Inevitably the police are called and he is ejected from the building. Unfortunately for the owners, the police want to see their paperwork. Oh dear, there isn't any. The bar is promptly closed. We spend the rest of the night drinking and cooking big chunks of meat on the open fire.
Rainier is leaving the next day. We had planned to go to a flea market in Granada for our day off, but found out the evening before it had been stopped. Instead we are invited to go over for dinner. Frida has bashed her toe at the bonfire party the night before and can't walk properly. When we arrive, Catherine gets all witchy (in a good way) and starts boiling and grinding herbs for a compress, whilst Roger, the masseur entertains a stream of glamorous women and I start work on writing a fairy tale with the kids. The village is beautiful, the light and landscape are a filmaker's dream, so the children are set to work writing ideas for it. Meanwhile, Mark is engaging Rainier in conversation about our recycling ethos, suggesting ideas for the bar. He has previously shown him the article in the guardian. He appears interested and comes up with a brilliant 'recycling project' of his own. The project involves removing the engine from our car and putting it in another Mercedes he has 'absolutely no use for'. It's great for us, he says because, 'with respect for your family, it is much safer' – it having no rust. Mark looks blankly at him. Obviously this would mean leaving our beautiful car behind and taking a crappy modern model instead. It doesn't even have a tow bar. He has visions of our car with engine removed, Rainier leaving for Germany and being stuck in Jatar for weeks on end. No brainer, Rainier It's not really our idea of recycling? Emma later tells us that he had really wanted Speedy when he'd seen her and suddenly it all makes sense. We affix the witchy poultice Frida's toe with special mud, and she sits complaining in front of the fire. She has become separated from her playmates. Usually they work in the mornings in the bar, and stop when Lupo and Helena come back from school, then they're off into their own world, but now she can't play. As a result she becomes an honorary adult, joining in the discussions about our hosts' behaviour We return to the caravan, saying our goodbyes to Rainier, breathing a sigh of relief. Emma manages to escape and comes to join us. She is not convinced he will go. We sit in the awning and laugh at the ridiculousness and outrage of it all. It is so weird. Working hard all day with no appreciation, no asking, just, directing and ignoring. It really is like a life of servitude, there is no time to do any of your own stuff. We commiserate with her on having to live there. She has not had a day off in two months, and is on call 24 hours a day. We have received a text from Sandra, telling us to just ignore them, be happy, make 'em jealous, and one from Jonny 'They don't like it up 'em' he says, drink them under the table. We decide to try it out. We will do enough work to cover our rental of the pig space and our dinner, and will ignore the bad feelings and tantrums that may follow. Frida takes the poultice off, and pronounces her toe healed - like magic, nice one Catherine. Emma returns home late and texts us that he is back. Oh blimey.
The next day we discover that he is too worried about the situation to leave. Emma is given a bollocking for not looking after the kids while they were visiting the airport (even though they hadn't asked her to). She has cooked their supper but not made them eat it. She swears at Rainier – disciplining their children, she says, is not her responsibility. Mark has overheard and adds his two penny's worth. There is rebellion in progress. We make the dinner, but they are not ready to eat it. The kids are patiently waiting at the table and the dinner is getting cold as they negotiate the sale of a crane to some Moroccans. Me, Mark and Emma sit around the fire chatting, laughing and making audible comments about their rudeness -are they completely mental? Mark asks in a slightly raised voice. Rainier states that he doesn't want to eat cold lunch again today, and Mark helpfully suggests that they sit down and eat it while it is hot. A confused expression flashes across his face. Jonny's right, they don't like it up 'em. We eventually eat the luke warm dinner after Helena has had enough of sitting round waiting for them to come to the table and has stormed off in disgust. Then they go off for a lie down.
The kids dress up for carnival, parading round the village in fancy dress with the kids from the school. I film them all passing, and cheer them on.
We are on a work to rule. I spend my time planning the film and making props with the kids while Mark is stuck in the pantry, doing a beautiful job (when the health inspector comes she comments on the quality). We are working, but at our own pace. Rainier isn't happy but only complains to Catherine – even though we can all hear him. On the afternoon of his departure, he finally shows his dissatisfaction by smashing his suitcase onto the table and rearranging its contents - but Mark has mastered his ignoring technique and cheerfully starts up a conversation about the weight allowances to diffuse the situation. Rainier is left shaking out his underpants in an annoyed way, we are no longer playing the game. He leaves the following morning and plans for the film get into full swing. The kids are all totally excited. Lupo runs to show us his fantastic lederhosen and silk shirt, and we plan the bulk of the filming for Friday. Everyone is going to take part. Catherine is the witch, Emma the queen, Roger is the fool, and the children are princes and princesses. Other than fumigating Chris' old room, making bread and dinner (which becomes more and more sketchy as the week rolls on), this has become my main job. The bar has been closed so the work load has diminished, although everything needs seriously cleaning for the arrival of the health inspector. They need the certificate – and another bar man, in order to open legally.
We manage to complete most of the filming by Friday night, and go back to the bar to relax. We have been invited to stay overnight at the bar/ hotel so that we can have a drink and spend an evening together. The kids rearrange their bedroom and are allowed to watch a video and eat chips in bed. We sit by the fire, cooking and eating rabbit and chips, chatting and drinking red wine. Just as the conversation gets interesting a man turns up, and Catherine spends the rest of the night talking to him. We sit and chat to Emma and she tells us side splittingly funny stories about her youth and adventures. Suddenly we realise what the problem is with this place - the hosts generally dominate the conversation, and show little, if any interest in their helpers as people. The result is that everyone gets sucked into their world, their 'problems' , their dramas, their needs, there is no opportunity to talk about yourself at all.
Catherine has devised a plan that we will all go to visit her mother in Competa the next day and stay over night. We are planning to go to a car boot sale in nearby Nerja on Sunday morning, so it seems to make sense. She suggests we all go in the G Wagon, and Emma follows on later in her car. I am feeling edgy about our lack of autonomy on the trip. We will be stuck with no transport of our own, and be unable to escape should we wish to. But we go anyway. The ride over the mountain tracks is exhilarating, and we arrive to discover we have been given sole use of a cottage near by.
Catherine's mother has put on a lovely spread, we eat and spend the rest of the day wondering what we're doing there, while the children play with the six puppies and three full grown dogs at the house. We go and make up our beds and collect some fire wood from Mario, their neighbour. When we return Emma has arrived and we are all going out to a restaurant in town. We panic as we think of the price of a meal for four – our budget doesn't allow for such luxuries. Emma is likewise concerned and slightly annoyed at the lack of consultation. We order the cheapest stuff on the menu and find out at the end of it that they are paying. Very kind, but we Wish they'd mentioned it. We arrange to get up and go to the car boot sale early with Emma, to reduce the chances of being given something to do in the morning.
All goes to plan and we spend a lovely day searching out bargains, having lunch and sitting on the sea front with Emma, who is getting more and more desperate to leave. We arrive back at the bar at 5, finding Roger in charge and turning away a band of 7 bikers who have just come haring down the road and are parking up outside the bar. Some Moroccans arrive to take an engine, we are not sure they can have it, but Emma has seen them doing business with Rainier and there's no one around to ask. We help them to load the engine then they drive away with it in their boot. Emma is on a mission to find somewhere else to stay – possibly for all of us. She is waiting to sell her car to fund a trip to South America, but selling it in Jatar looks like a long wait. I check my e-mails to see if there is a response from our next stop, a friend of a friend in Orjiva who we are hoping to stay with for a few days, but there is nothing. Not good. We go back to camp, leaving Emma to email as many hosts as she can find.
We have told Catherine that we will be leaving on Tuesday, but by Monday, we still have nowhere to go. I phone Frances in Orjiva and it becomes clear that it's not convenient. She doesn't have the space, she was expecting us in January and now she is very busy. She offers us tea at 3pm on Thursday, and the address of a campsite up the road. Oh dear, our plans of escape need rewriting.
In the meantime, Emma has overheard that the Moroccans were supposed to come and take the engine out of the VW Golf which is up near our camp – not the massive Mercedes engine they took the previous day. We are slightly panicked and decide we need to be out of there before Rainier returns, just in case they've nicked it. In the meantime, the horse has developed a mysterious illness. Her tongue is hanging out of her mouth, swollen and pink. She has lost all control of her face and is drooling a thick frothing mucous continually. She might die her tongue gets any fatter. Lupo is mortified. Mark brings a bowl of iced water to the horse and she troughs it – being the son of a dog breeder has finally come in handy. We receive reports that the weather is about to change. Snow has been forecast for the next few days. Catherine receives a phone call from Rainier . He has been beaten up in a kebab shop in Germany. He is going to the hospital. We imagine him getting airlifted in, furious, and discovering the missing engine.
Half a deer has been sitting on the kitchen table for two days, and Catherine wants it boned and chopped into stew sized pieces. There are no volunteers (our policy by now is to wait to be asked properly), so she asks Roger to do it. Poor Roger. Since his arrival he has been put on horse, dog, building and kitchen duties, despite his lack of experience. 'I am a healer', he says, 'I don't know how to do these things...' Like the rest of us, he is less than happy with his life of servitude and is keen to leave. Emma and I help with the butchering, getting more and more hysterical by the minute - all the people she has contacted have responded in the negative and we are starting to wonder if we'll ever get away. Afterwards, Mark and Emma go back to camp to pull the caravan up the track with the G wagon. While they are up there a car passes and chucks a puppy out of the window. Will it get eaten by the big dogs? Who knows, it's a brutal world out here. We are supposed to leave the next day, but we have nowhere to go. We go back to the bar and watch the film. We decide to go to Granada the next day and leave the caravan near the pigs. This is okayed by Catherine, so we go back late after a drink and more meat. The puppy is waiting. It has adopted the caravan as its new home. The girls are deliriously excited when we get back at 11.30 -like all their dreams have come true. We tell them the bad news – we are leaving and we can't keep her, but they don't seem to hear the words that come out of our mouths.
Granada doesn't work out – we need to pre book tickets for the Alhambra, so we go to see the caves at Nerja, and plan to visit the donkey sanctuary to find a new home for the puppy. We drive around for an hour trying to find it, then abort. We go straight to the caves at Nerja to find it closed until 4. We've been so used to having our time mapped out for us, we've forgotten how to do it for ourselves. We have the first row for three weeks, I throw the picnic at Mark so he kicks me up the arse. We eat at seperate tables. When we've made up – just in time for opening, we visit the caves. It is like a cathedral, housing the biggest stalactite in Europe. Colossal. We look at the prehistoric remains and the history of man's use of the site. The kids are fascinated. We phone Frances in Orjiva to tell her our plans have changed – it's a bit far to come for a cup of tea – then decide we will head for a campsite in Granada the next day. We go back to the bar for our farewell dinner. Emma joins us for a drink (usually she doesn't indulge) and we have the strange experience of a conversation where Catherine doesn't get a word in edgeways. In an attempt to compete she comes up with her best story yet. Listen. She had a beautiful donkey who she loved, which had escaped from its field and was grazing on someone else's land. Being busy herself she asked some poor sap who was staying to go and fetch it. She instructed him to take a rope and put it round the donkeys neck and pull it behind the truck. So the guy does all this, but lets the rope get longer and longer until the inevitable happens. The donkey falls off the side of the road and is choked to death by the rope. He comes back and tells her that the donkey has killed itself, and she wonders how anyone could be so stupid. Anyway, they go and fetch the dead donkey and take it to the workshops and proceed to skin it, chop it up with a chain-saw, and put the meat in the freezer for consumption for family and clients. The poor helper had a heart attack the next day – and serve him right, she says. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. She proceeds to tell me I look like Britney Spears when she shaved her hair off and makes snipey comments to all of us. A fitting end to our stay.
The next day, after the children have used up all their powers of persuasion to get us to take the puppy, we pop in to say our final farewells. We have become firm friends with Roger and Emma, we give her the address of the campsite we are staying at for the next two days in case she needs to join us. We go to the school for emotional goodbyes to Lupo and Helena, then drive away. Past Alhama, towards Granada. We have been driving for 20 minutes when we realise we are going the wrong way and turn round – Oh God help us, we are going back, we can see Alhama again, twinkling in the mountains in the distance, we take the proper road and 40 minutes later see a sign for Jatar – it is 10 km away, we are the other side of the reservoir we could see from the pig pen. We drive quickly past without looking back.
