Category Archives: Cadiz

WHAT A BOAR

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It’s all farms around here: farms that incorporate forests and gorges, and, once inside the natural park proper, the Sierra de Grazalema, a series of rocky mountain peaks. So the jabali, the wild boar, can go pretty much where they want. For some reason they want to come here. Fences are a rarity, but because my neighbour has donkeys and I have a vineyard, this farm has one, and this means that in order to come in and dig, or pass through and dig somewhere else, the boars must first chew through the wire fencing. Every night since the beginning of December there has been a Mexican wave of dog howling and fence chewing as the boar families lumber their way west to east and back again.

Liberated from their lives of pampered luxury, the donkeys have been able to break out of their field and gallop through the moonlight in wild-eyed panic; my dog has disappeared for hours and come back stinking of shit, guilt and satisfaction writ large on its face. And instead of the coffee and croissant of my dreams, my days have started with dragging sheets of fencing across fields, along with coils of wire and bolt cutters, and mending various stretches of the perimeter.

I’m hoping that the wandering season ends soon. I’ve read that wolf urine is the best deterrent. It’s used with regularity in the Basque Country to keep wild boar away from country roads and reduce the number of wildlife-car collisions.

I’ve thought about it, but it doesn’t grab me as being the easiest solution.

 

I’m attempting to post a photo every day this year @somewheresville365 on instagram. Picture credit: estudiantes.info (mine arrive after dark)

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THE WHITE STUFF

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Well. Whadya know. Snow. For the first time in fifty years or something. Two days ago, if you wore a lot of fleeces and stood out of the wind, it was quite warm. Yesterday we had The Snow and schools closed across the land. Today two men have made it out of Ronda to come here and fix something and they are full of stories about road closures, snow on balconies, snow on the bull statue, snow in the bullring (which admittedly must have been peculiar and spectacular), snow on cacti, snow on prickly pears and snow on palm trees, snow on donkeys. In fact they show me all the pictures, as well as videos they’ve been sent from friends in Malaga and Almeria and Jaén, of snow, some of which I really liked, including one showing a man with a stiff brush tied to the front of his bike clearing a path, set to crap music. And there’s another one that’s a compilation of slithering cars, also set to crap music and entitled jajaja, or as we like to say hahaha.

Well, safe driving going home I say. They look worried. It’s a big event though, this snow fall, irregular and portentious. Bring on spring.

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THE FUTURE IS OLIVE

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I’m now a signed up socio, along with around 700 other local farmers, of Nuestra Señora del Rosario cooperative olive mill. It’s a great Heath Robinson type affair, and since taking these pictures has once again become the bustling centre of all activity, lorries and vans getting all snarled up around the entrance gates, much back-slapping and high-fiving, and catching up. I’ve sent around 600kg of olives up the conveyor belt so far, but have around another 1400 kgs to pick. So I’d better get on.

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Pomegranate Porn

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I can’t tell you how much I love my pomegranates. Last year they split before they ripened, so this year I gave each tree plenty of water, day and night, from July onwards. It was extremely hard work which required me to lie in the dappled shade on a lounger, doing an occasional whip crack of the hose, directing it to a new trunk. I read several books.
Late August, the birds came, Hitchcock style. It’s clear now that they came from the adjacent vineyard, having depleted the stock of grapes. They got through almost every fruit on the far side of the furthest tree before I discovered the desecration. I agreed to let them have that one, and focused my efforts on the rest. I hung coat hangers with dangling CDs and tin foil from the branches, and when I wasn’t crouching underneath the trees ready to jump up and clap, kept a watchful eye over them from my desk, interrupting work and work calls to rush down the hill waving my arms.
Anyway, even taking into account the birds’ portion, the harvest has been big, wondrous, and exotic – they are Persian in origin, after all. The fruit is scarlet, inside and out, and huge. Bite in, and the juice pours out.
Every Saturday I flip out the seeds from a great pile of them, listening to the Rev Richard Cole on R4, and most mornings I eat a bowl of them (not the size of the one shown, I hasten to add) with Sonya’s goats’ milk mint yoghurt. There’s about 40kg in the freezer, and I’ve dropped off around 50kg at the local shop where they’ve sold well under a ‘granadas del pueblo‘ sign. Next I’m going to make sorbet.
They are ranked high among the wonder foods – currently – beating avocados, cranberries, blueberries, and spinach, and so forth, full of anti-oxidants, and a top tool in the battle against high cholesterol and heart disease.
There’s about another 60-70kgs left, dangling from the trees like hefty baubles. Thank you trees. More water for you next year (depending on what’s left in the well).

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WHINE

DSC05004Transpires the reason there were more, and fatter, birds around this year, is that they’d been gorging themselves in the vineyard. And once they’d tapped a hole into every grape, the wasps moved in. Maybe it’s the other way round, or they work in tandem. Anyway, beyond a few rows of photogenic grapes, there were five rows of dessicated raisins, sucked dry over a hot summer spent in virtual privacy. On the plus side there were less to pick.
I’d always associated grape-picking with romantic assignations. School friends would go grape-picking in France and come back dressed pretentiously, and get letters from French boys for one or two weeks which they’d read while smoking a Gauloise on the roof of the school building. I wasn’t sure what they did over there in the vineyards of Normandy, but it certainly wasn’t the crawling along dense tangled tunnels alone, covered in burrs, batting away buzzing things that I’ve been doing here. The fact I only had about six sackfuls at the end of it was fine by me.
I have no idea of the weight of six sacks other than heavy, my measure is man hours. It took me three man hours to pick the grapes, and a further four man hours to pick off the woody stems as we don’t have a machine to do it. I was helped at that point by two friends who really chose the wrong time to arrive. We used a wine press borrowed from Fernando – a barrel with a heavy plate you wind down (and down and down and down, and then up and up and up and up), and pressed the grapes three times. Last year we made around 85 litres – although some was lost during the famous Spill! of the filtration process, but this year I reckon we produced the grand total of around 20 litres, which equates to 3 litres per man hour. Artisan.
Ready-made local wine is available from down the track for about 85 centimos a litre. Still, I don’t want to leave the fruit withering on the vine and all that.

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GLORIOUS SEPTEMBER

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September in Cadiz is not autumnal, but it is not summery either. Not summery like the hairdryer hot, tarmac melting, heat hazy Andalucian summer that held steady right through July and August anyway. Everything changed on the very first day of the month – how’s it do that? So far in September there has been something chilling in the evening air, a delayed delivery of dawn, a right old soaking of dew, plus wind – albeit hot wind, scudding clouds – clouds! – and, two days ago RAIN. Rain: the first in six months, and it came with thunder. Storms caused chaos and flash floods and accidents further east and north, so I can’t congratulate myself too much on the efficacy of my rain dance, but here it watered the oranges, limp figs and pomegranates enough for me to have at least a couple of days that didn’t start with dragging hoses over rough ground.
The cat is no longer sleeping on an ice tray wrapped in a towel.
It turns out the dog isn’t lazy; it was just hot.
And the light is phenomenal. It’s like the sky has been dusted and polished, and the evenings are honey-coloured. For two whole months of summer it felt like nothing changed. Now it’s like time’s been kicked-started and the year’s moving on again.

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