Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

Interviewer: Congratulations for being awarded the HarperCollins Gold Star.

Vicky: Thanks! Still can't believe it!

Interviewer: First of all, what makes you write?

Vicky: I can't take life very seriously, and when I see people smiling, or better still, laughing out loud as they read my stuff, that absolutely floats my boat.

Interviewer: Well, I laughed all the way through, even more at the end than at the beginning! Did they really call you 'Schindler' at work because you're always writing lists?

Vicky: Yes.

Interviewer: And did you really knock over the village fountain?

Vicky: Yes.

Interviewer: What about the characters in the book? They're hilarious - are they real, too?

Vicky: Oh, yes.

Interviewer: My favourite characters are probably Judith and Mother, they had me laughing all the way. And what did your sister and her husband say when they read about themselves in the book?

Vicky: Ah, the Eco-Warriors... I have to admit, I was a bit nervous about showing them those chapters... But they were fine about it. They said in real life, they're much worse than I'd described, so that was okay...phew!

Interviewer: How difficult did you find it settling into such a small Spanish village? You didn't speak any Spanish, did you?

Vicky: Not difficult at all, everyone made us so welcome. But we had to learn to speak Spanish very quickly or life would have been much harder.

Interviewer: What was most different?

Vicky: Gosh, where do I start? Little children playing outside at 2 or 3 in the morning. Shops all closing at 2 in the afternoon. Crocuses flowering in November. The Fiestas - which are totally mad! The lovely Spanish attitude towards the elderly and families. I could go on and on...

Interviewer: I have to ask about the chickens. I can't use the words in this interview, but were those REALLY their names?

Vicky: Oh, yes!

Interviewer: I fully understand why you had to part with Cocky. Was he as bad as you described?

Vicky: He was worse. He was the most ferocious little creature I have ever come across, except perhaps for Tasmanian Devils which have pretty bad reputations. We really missed him though.

Interviewer: Those little matchstick-men you use as scene breaks. What are they?

Vicky: Ah, the Indalo. The Rainbow Man. That's the emblem for the region, you'll see it everywhere in the Almería region; as statues on roundabouts, on car bumpers, on tourist souvenirs and in people's houses. As I explain in the book, if you buy one and give it to someone else - it's supposed to bring them luck. But if you buy one for yourself, that's VERY bad luck. I'm not superstitious, or I wasn't until I came across the Rainbow Man. You read in the book what happened to us when I bought one for myself! I won't be doing that again in a hurry!

Interviewer: Yes, I remember! I'll take your advice on that one!
Now, the recipes... I loved the way you slipped those into the book. Where did they come from?

Vicky: A variety of places. A lot came from Gayle at Orce Serrano Hams. She's a superb cook and tries each one before she posts them on her blog. She photographs each step as she goes along, too. Some recipes came from characters in the book, and some were kindly donated by people on my website.

Interviewer: I tried the Crispy Potatoes - Patatas Bravas. Have to say, it was delicious and I've added it to my own recipe collection.

Vicky: Good, we like that one, too. I just love the whole Spanish Tapas idea. Little bits of this and that - yum!

Interviewer: Have you been on any more Home Exchanges since the one mentioned in the book?

Vicky: No, not yet. Perhaps when my daughter in Australia gets married we'll swap houses with someone in Sydney.

Interviewer: Have you ever regretted moving to Spain?

Vicky: Never.

Interviewer: Have you got plans for any more books in the future?

Vicky: Oh, yes! Every day I gather more material, and I jot things down. I hope to get started quite soon.

Interviewer: Well, thank you, Vicky, for the chat. I thoroughly recommend 'Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools' as a really good read. I couldn't put it down and I'm really looking forward to the next one.

Vicky: It's a pleasure. Oh, and I brought you some eggs. Laid yesterday.

Interviewer: Well, that's a first! Thank you very much!

Lucy Fox, author of 'The Keeper of the Enchanted Pool' wrote:
'Oh, I love it! It's one of the funniest things I have read in a long while. It reminds me a lot of one of Billy Hopkins' books.
Your recollections of everything that happens on your venture into a new life are brilliant and extremely well told. The people you met were real characters, especially Dick and Dale.
And the trotter, how could you have done that to your poor husband! Evil, but hilariously priceless.'

Danny Gillan, author of 'Will You Love Me Tomorrow' wrote:
'I love the relaxed writing style and easy humour of this. Great stuff!'

Robin Bayley, author of 'The Mango Orchard' wrote:
'Victoria Twead is a natural storyteller with a knack for charm and wit.'

Aleck Loker author of 18 books including 'Ancient Explorers of America' wrote:
'This is wonderful. I have tears in my eyes...the humor, the warmth, the joy...I love this book...the two of you sitting on the sofa in that dusty street listening to Spanish tunes on the crackly radio. What a sight you must have been...'

We swung round, just as the owner of the voice found her keys and rattled them in the air triumphantly. She finished her good-byes to her drinking companions in perfect Spanish, loud and fluent.

This opportunity was just too good to pass. As she strode past our table, I smiled and said, "Hello, you're English, aren't you?" Unoriginal, I admit, but it had the desired affect. She applied the brakes.

"I'm Vicky, and this is Joe," I said. "We just love this area. Have you lived here long?"

Judith was unique. Stout, in her sixties, she had a thick plait snaking down her back. She was dressed in English country tweeds and sensible walking shoes.
We shook hands and she sank heavily into the chair Joe pulled out for her.

"Twenty-five years," she said. "Good Lord, where does the time go?"

"Well, you're obviously very settled here," said Joe.

"Bloody nice place to be," she said, leaning forward, knees apart, hands toying with her bunch of keys. "Climate's much kinder to Mother's rheumatism, don't you know."

Judith's voice was cultured although often punctuated by colourful expletives. Although looking and behaving like an eccentric English aristocrat, she seemed entirely at home in this remote corner of Spain. And judging by her interaction with the people at the bar, she was accepted and respected by the villagers. To us, she was friendly and informative, answering all our tentative questions in her strident voice.

"Awfully laid back, the Spanish," she said. "Our cleaner, Ana, needs a stick of dynamite under her before she gets going."

"Do you ever think of going back to England?" I asked, feeling rather sorry for poor Ana.

"Good heavens, dear!" she said, eyes bulging. "Not on your Nellie! Don't miss old Blighty one bit!"

Eventually, she looked at the man's watch on her wrist.

"Bloody hell!" she said. "Look at the time! Mother will be wondering where I am. Come back to my house, why don't you, and meet Mother?" Joe and I agreed, hastily paid Grumpy and followed her out into the bright sunlight.

"Where are you, you little bastards?" she called when we were outside. Joe looked shocked and I froze on the spot. Several dogs slid out of the shadows and loped towards her, and we realised that it was not us she was addressing.

"How many dogs do you have?" I asked, knee deep in panting canines.

"Nine," Judith replied shortly. "And that one over there is called 'Half'."

I must have looked blank.

"He's the latest. We always said we'd never have ten dogs so when he joined us, we called him 'Half'. So now we only have nine and a Half. Bloody Spaniards, don't know how to look after animals!"

Judith's house was just down the street from Grumpy's. Huge double doors were unlocked by an outsize key and we were ushered into the darkness beyond. Our eyes adjusted and we saw we were standing in an Aladdin's cave. The living room was crammed with huge solid pieces of antique English furniture, gleaming with age and history. Vast mirrors hung on the walls. Every surface was cluttered with knick-knacks and valuable bric-a-brac. Looking closer, the enormous sideboard and mahogany table legs were pale and splintered in places where the dogs had chewed them.

Shelves bowed with dusty figurines and piles of books. Occasionally, dark shapes shifted and we could distinguish cats sleeping at every level. One cat draped itself along the mantelpiece, another on the grand piano. A shaft of light sliced through a crack in the wooden shutter, spotlighting dancing motes of dust and cat fur.

"Let me introduce you to Mother," shouted Judith, clicking on a Tiffany table lamp.

A figure uncoiled itself from the ornate chaise longue, dislodging an orange cat that spilled to the floor. "Then we'll have a little drinky-poo."

We were mesmerised by Mother. She must have been eighty-five years of age but was draped in a lacy, diaphanous dress, low cut to reveal maximum cleavage and totally transparent against the light. She lay poised like a sex kitten, exuding glamour and wafting Chanel No.5.

"Pleased to meet you," said the old lady, extending manicured fingers for us to shake.

Joe and I spent a wine soaked hour or so with these welcoming ladies, perched on the antique sofa, wedged between cats and dogs.

"Got a dispensation from my Bishop in England," boomed Judith. "Have to attend their church here, don't you know. Bloody Catholics couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery. Soon put the priest right, didn't I, Mother?"

The village church-bells rang on cue, as if in agreement. Mother was admiring her nails and not listening. A small hairy dog resembling a floor mop began humping a cushion on the floor.

"If you're serious about moving here, you should talk to Kurt," said Judith, scribbling a telephone number on the back of a church newsletter. "Don't go to any of the bloody estate agents in town. Crooks, all of 'em. Let me know how you get on."

Eventually, we thanked Judith and said good-bye to Mother. We staggered out into the street plastered, both by red wine and pet hair, clutching Kurt's telephone number.

With Judith's voice ringing in our ears, "Straight as a bloody die, don't you know," we contacted Kurt the next day. He was an unofficial estate agent to foreigners and very German. He spoke excellent Spanish, rather quaint English and was married to Paula, a Spanish solicitor. Also, his business partner, Marco, was on the local council. An irresistible package. We were confident he was the right person to help us find The House.

We met at the appointed time in the square of Judith's village, outside the Town Hall. Several elderly Spanish men sat on benches and ceased their conversations to eye us. A group of women, all dressed in black, inspected us like curious crows. When we introduced ourselves, Kurt's handshake exuded efficiency. Tall, fit and utterly Teutonic, his curly blond hair flopped when he talked as though punctuating his sentences.

"I haf three houses for you to look," he said. "So I hope you are full of the beans."

He marched off down the street. His muscular legs covered distances in long, swinging strides while we panted pathetically behind him. Desperately trying to anticipate his next move, we concentrated on his retreating back. Frequently he made unexpected left or right turns, resulting in Joe and me crashing heavily into each other in the frantic effort to keep up. It must have looked like some silly Laurel and Hardy scene.

The first house had no roof. Kurt ignored our dismayed expressions and unlocked the front door.

"This is a good house," he said. "All the rooms are very big."

Well, that was true. All the rooms were light and airy, too, as expected from a house with no roof. In the kitchen, clumps of weeds sprouted from between the cracked floor tiles. We halted in a bedroom and looked up at the sky above.

"It's very nice," I said, "but I think we might prefer a house with a roof."

Kurt's flaxen eyebrows arched in surprise, as though we had asked for an indoor sauna, or home cinema.

"Ja, but I think you vill like the next house. It has a roof."

Relieved, we were taken over the mountain to the next house. It stood alone in scrub land, a single ragged palm tree standing guard.

"This is also a good house. It has a roof and a palm tree." Kurt's blue eyes challenged us to find fault.

The front of the house looked fairly impressive, but neglected. Joe disappeared around the corner of the building while Kurt fumbled the key into the lock.

Yes, it had a roof. And a palm tree. I couldn't help feeling quite excited. Kurt finally unlocked the door and tried to push it open. The door resisted, so he shouldered it. Still it stood firm, forcing him to give it a hefty Germanic kick. Success. The door swung open and Kurt and I both jumped in surprise.

There, in the middle of the room in front of us, stood Joe.

"How did you get in?" I asked, astonished.

"It's got no walls at the back. Or down one side."

"No valls, but this is a good house. It has a roof and a palm tree," said Kurt, recovering, confident that we could overlook this minor flaw. Was there a glimmer of humour in those blue eyes?

We continued the tour. Joe was right, several walls had caved in, rocks lying where they had fallen. Birds flew out shrieking as we disturbed them in the kitchen. Soft rabbit and goat droppings squelched underfoot. Two feral cats burst out from a corner and slunk away over the hillside. A cold wind blew more debris into the house, depositing it on the mound that had already accumulated over time.

"I think we need a house that has a roof and walls," said Joe firmly, and I nodded.

Kurt did not seem discouraged. We exited and he locked the door behind us again.

"What's the point of locking the door when the house has no walls?" I asked.

"Insurance," he said, flicking the forelock from his eyes. "Now, I haf one house more. It is a very good house. It has valls, and a roof, but no palm tree. You vill follow me." We climbed back into the car...

Cas P, UK wrote:
Hi Vicky, This is an absolute delight. I'm sure most of us have toyed with the idea of relocating somewhere warm (with us it's Italy, as we spent 3 years there once) and it's fascinating to read the tale of someone who's actually done it.
I really felt the depression of the constant English rain. I also loved the description of the house-search and the way they fell for The House. I'm sure it's not just because of all those 'living abroad' programmes that I could see and smell and taste it all.
The image of 'Mule' bouncing round the streets looking for her master was so endearing.
I fell completely in love with Cocky. I can quite see why he had to go, though!

Cheri, USA wrote:
I can very much see why 'Chickens' has a shiny, gold star. This is just lovely. I was entranced and thoroughly enjoyed coming along for the ride. What I love best are the details; they helped to make Spain come alive for me and the myriad quirks of each person had me laughing and reading on.
Delightful.

Sylvia, UK wrote:
What gorgeous and humorous writing, Vicky. I laughed aloud.

Maria, Dubai wrote:
Oh this is priceless! I haven't laughed so much in ages! Wonderful! My box of tissues is running low...

Bren, Australia wrote:
What a beautiful story, Chicky Vicky! Charming, romantic, I want to live in Spain. A friend of mine lived in Spain with her grandparents until she was 6 and sent to London to live with her parents. She still misses her first life as one of those free-spirited village children. How lucky you are to experience it.
Very well written, lively, engaging. Judith & mother & the dogs, Paco & Bethina/Carmen, and the sister and brother in law were great characters. How could they possibly be real? People don't make up characters as good as this in their fiction! Have you shown your sister this?
Great stuff!

Cordelia wrote:
I think you have a natural talent for writing and the book flows effortlessly. I just kept on reading and reading ignoring the phone, doorbell, people talking to me!!

Scott Bartlett wrote:
The idea for 'Chickens' is elegantly simple, and it's a very easy story to settle into. I don't know if this will make any sense, but I felt very cozy and at home while reading it. It is that cheerful zaniness that produces the laughs. Skilfully done.

D. King, UK wrote:
I wish I could just sit here and read this all day, but I can't. What a wonderful story and style. I'm more like Joe than you, Victoria, but just as Joe has done so would I. If my wife wants something, she eventually gets it and I fall right in line... ;)
I've just got to keep this book from her curious eyes for as long as possible...

Winter approaches, the Log Man is here.

We never know exactly when the Log Man is coming. He just turns up, usually early in the morning, before we've woken up properly. He leans on the doorbell, and when I open the door, he grunts, 'Leña'. Not as a question, just a statement; 'Firewood'.

It happened today. It would be tempting to say 'No, thank you,' but we know we'd regret that. If we didn't accept it, we'd have to collect it ourselves, in our jeep. That would mean one trip every week just to keep our greedy wood-burning stove happy.

No, it makes sense to have it delivered. Even if it means three hours of hard work. The Log Man lets down the side of the lorry, and stands aside to allow his young helper to climb up and throw all the logs into the street. They soon pile up into a precarious heap, round logs avalanching down the pile and rolling everywhere.

Today, Joe felt sorry for the lad and climbed up onto the lorry to help him. The Log Man made no effort to assist, and the two workers soon had an audience of villagers, children and village dogs. When the lorry was empty, the lad sprang down. Joe jumped down too, but forgot he was probably 45 years older than the lad. He landed badly, then stepped back on one of the round, rolling logs. He ended up on his back, legs flailing, like an over-turned tortoise.

The spectators gasped and the Log Man and lad pulled Joe back onto his feet. Then, from nowhere, out shot Lala, our neighbours' spiteful Yorkshire Terrier. Lala darted through the crowd and made straight for her arch enemy, Joe. Before he'd composed himself from his fall, Lala sank her teeth into Joe's ankle. The crowd gasped again. Joe forgot the children present and swore as he shook her off his leg.

Lala headed home, the Log Man drove away, the crowd dispersed, and we started clearing the road of logs. It took three hours of wheelbarrow load after wheelbarrow load, uphill. As usual, I broke all my nails, developed severe backache and totally lost my sense of humour.

Never mind, it's only October and we have a FULL WOODSHED.

Priceless!

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