Victoria Twead's Blog, page 12

The Next Big Thing -Two Old Fools on a Camel

Out of the blue, my good friend, Kiersten Rowland, contacted me and asked if I’d like to take part in the Next Big Thing online event. She’s a passionate animal and wildlife lover, and writes a brilliant blog about life and times in the Alpujarras. Of course I said ‘yes’. For you, Kiersten, anything!The Next [...]

The Next Big Thing -Two Old Fools on a Camel

[image error] Out of the blue, my good friend, Kiersten Rowland, contacted me and asked if I’d like to take part in the Next Big Thing online event. She’s a passionate animal and wildlife lover, and writes a brilliant blog about life and times in the Alpujarras. Of course I said ‘yes’. For you, Kiersten, anything!
The Next Big Thing is a series of questions that authors answer. So, *deep breath*, here goes:
What is the working title of your book?
Oh good, that’s easy! ‘Two Old Fools on a Camel’, subtitled ‘From Spain to Bahrain and back again’.
Where did the idea come from for the book?
It’s actually the third in the Old Fool series. The first two were about our life in a tiny Spanish mountain village, and ‘Camel’ is about our year teaching in the Middle East when the Arab Spring erupted last year.
What genre does your book fall under?
Oh, that’s a hard one! Can I pick three genres? It’s probably Memoir, Travel, Humour, and Cookery. Oh dear, that’s four...
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Hmmm... Julie Walters or Meryl Streep could play me. And I need somebody grumpy to play Joe... How about Jack Nicholson?
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Just one sentence? Okay... Two Old Fools spend a year in Bahrain, teaching Arab kids as the Arab Revolution breaks out. Oh, I forgot, with Arabic recipes.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
All my books take a year or more, because life keeps getting in the way. And grandchildren. And fiestas. And vino... It’s a miracle that I ever get any finished.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Um, I don’t think I know of any. Sorry.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
I’m so excited to announce that the lovely NADIA SAWALHA, (actress, presenter and winner of Celebrity Masterchef) has generously given me permission to use her recipes in my book! As I wove Spanish recipes through my first two books, I shall do the same with ‘Camel’ using Arabic recipes. Delicious!


And now I’d like to pass the torch on to these other writers, so that they can tell us about their Next Big Thing.
Alan Parks I can’t wait for this one! Alan’s written a great book, to be launched very soon, called ‘Bloody Hell, What’s an Alpaca?’ It tells of his move to deepest, rural Spain and how he and Lorna started up an alpaca farm. I’ve already seen excerpts, and believe me, this book is going to be fascinating!
My friend Sophie McCoy (Twittername @OneLittleEgg) is a TV producer/director and a very special lady. She’s just finished putting together a wonderfully uplifting book, ‘Tales from the Coop’, to raise awareness about battery hens. I challenge you not to laugh and cry when you read this!
Karen Wheeler Karen did a very brave thing. She threw away her high heels and glitzy media career to find peace (and maybe love) in rural France. Was she successful? Find out in ‘Tout Suite’ and its sequels, all excellent books.
Karen McCann has written a really refreshing book called ‘Dancing in the Fountain’ about her life in Seville. Creating a new life in an old European city has never been so delightful, heartwarming and laugh-out-loud funny. Thoroughly recommended!
Molly Campbell Award-winning Molly’s ‘Characters in Search of a Novel‘ is very funny, and totally unique. Each story is a quick & often rib-tickling read, just what you'd want on vacation, in a waiting room, or on a long plane ride. What a perfect Christmas gift, or gift to yourself!

Security in Spain

On the other side of our valley, there’s a holiday house owned by Brits. They rarely use it and most of the time it stands locked andunused. In the last week of August, Geronimo and his mule passed our house and stopped to bang on our door. “Somebody tried to break into the English house,” [...]

Security in Spain

[image error] On the other side of our valley, there's a holiday house owned by Brits. They rarely use it and most of the time it stands locked and unused. 
In the last week of August, Geronimo and his mule passed our house and stopped to bang on our door.
“Somebody tried to break into the English house,” said Geronimo, thus passing the responsibility on to us.
We walked over to check it out for ourselves. The house is surrounded by Spanish oaks, and summer-baked acorns crunched under our heels as we walked round the property.
The attempted break-in was obvious. The thieves had tried to dig out the burglar-bars (see pic) but failed, apart from one corner of the living room bars, which they’d managed to pry loose (see pic above). The sliding shutters were forced open and the window-glass shattered. Despite the damage, we doubted anyone, unless he was a monkey or contortionist, had succeeded in getting in.
The interior was too dark to observe any details, so I stretched my arms though the broken window and snapped a few photos, relying on the flash to capture any evidence. The pictures looked fine to me. I could see an occasional table, a sideboard, and all looked tidy and undisturbed.
Back home, I emailed the bad news to the owners. I included pictures of the chiseled-out window-bars and interior, plus our doubts that anything had been stolen. However, we were wrong. 
Back came the reply: “They DID get in! There was a flat-screen TV on that sideboard and a computer on the little table. Could you please report it to the police? And find some workmen to fix everything?”
So Joe and I drove down the mountain and went to the Guardia Civil offices, armed with the photos on our iPad and the owners’ details. They examined the pictures and consulted each other.
“I’m afraid we can’t do anything without a fax number,” they said. “We need to fax the documents to the owner.” 
A fax number? Who has a fax machine nowadays? Why couldn’t they just scan and email? No, they insisted, they needed a fax number.
I emailed the owners and wasn’t surprised when they admitted to not owning a fax machine, but they rushed out and bought a ‘splitter’ or something. 
Meanwhile, I contacted Julio, a workman who speaks very good English. He kindly came to look at the job although he was supposed to be on holiday, it being August. However, he couldn’t do anything, it being August. And no glazier was open, it being August. 
I returned to the Guardia Civil offices and triumphantly produced the owners’ fax number. 
“Fax number? We don’t want that,” they said. “We can’t do anything without your passport.”
“My passport?”
“Yes, your passport.”
It was at that point that I gave up. I was due to fly to Australia in a few days, and I was NOT willing to surrender my passport.
We passed Julio's telephone number and email address to the home owners, and, far as I know, when September arrived, Julio returned and fixed everything. I imagine the Guardia Civil did nothing, but I may be doing them an injustice.
So if you see a monkey, or a contortionist, watching a flat-screen TV and using a computer, could you please report it to the police? Oh, and don’t forget to take a fax number and your passport.

Barbecued Lemon Sardines - Delicious!

[image error] Barbecued Lemon Sardines
Sardinas con Limon
from
Mouth-Watering Spanish Recipes
~Seafood~
~BBQ~
~Tapas~
~Starter~
~ 10 to 15 minutes preparation ~
~ 10 minutes cooking ~
Serves 6 to 8
Gayle: Cooking sardines on the barbecue is very popular here in Spain, taking advantage of the hot coals to get that lovely, smoky flavour.
Victoria: This recipe for sardines is really simple and uses lemon and thyme.

Ingredients:
24 fresh sardines
2 lemons
4 sprigs of thyme
Salt
Pepper
Extra-virgin olive oil

Method:
1) Clean and butterfly the sardines (your fishmonger will do this for you) by removing the heads and spine. Rinse thoroughly.
2) Cut each lemon in half (lengthways) and then slice each half into six thin slices.
1) Lay a sheet of kitchen foil over your opened hinged grill.
2) Lay out the opened up sardines, skin side down and place a slice of lemon on one half and then close the sardine again. Do this for all of the fish.
3) Place the thyme sprigs over the top of all the fish and season well with salt and pepper.
4) Lay another sheet of kitchen foil over the top and close the grill.
5) Barbecue each side for 4 or 5 minutes.
6) Add a generous drizzle of olive oil and serve with salad or fresh bread.
7) Enjoy!

Royal Flush - by Scott Bartlett

[image error] I first came across Scott Bartlett and his wacky book, ‘Royal Flush’, back in 2009. The writing made me laugh then, and so did the author, a charming young Canadian. The novel is finished and published now, collecting a prestigious award along the way. If you like quirky, well-written humour, you’ll love this!
Victoria Twead

In the following scene, the King’s castle is stormed by a group of highly-trained soldiers. They are repelled using unorthodox means.

A trumpet sounded in the distance. The King looked up, unenthused. His interest grew when he discerned a flood of movement on the apex of Shepherd’s Hill. He squinted. A swarm of black-clad figures was cresting the summit, only to rush down the side nearest the King. It seemed to be some sort of a parade, or a marathon, or perhaps a…
(The King’s mouth fell open.)
…a vast host of armed warriors, dressed in the same uniform Private Reginald had worn.
The trumpet blared again, inspiring the King once more to scamper down the hallways. This time, he screamed uncontrollably.
“Your Majesty!” Frederick called as the King ran past the room in which he and Eliza cuddled. “Whatever is the matter?”
The King entered the room and paused to catch his breath, holding up a finger. Finally, he was ready.
“What is it?” Frederick said urgently.
The King’s brow furrowed. “I can’t remember.”
“Oh.”
“It can’t have been very important. I’ll let you know if I recall.” The King left the room again.
Frederick and Eliza returned to snuggling.
The King came barrelling back in. “I remember now!” he shrieked. “Invaders! Approaching the castle!”
Frederick jumped up. “Is the drawbridge closed?”
The King thought this over.
“No!”
“Then let’s go!” They dashed out of the room.
“Bring your fiddle!” said the King. They dashed back. Frederick tore open the case and extracted his instrument.
They dashed out again.
Downstairs, the attackers were already rushing into the entrance foyer.
“Hey!” Frederick shouted from the stairs, his voice cracking. The King cowered behind him. “Get out of here!” Frederick brandished the fiddle.
“Assail them!” ordered the King from over the fiddler’s shoulder.
By now completely pale, Frederick proceeded hesitantly down the staircase. “Hey!” he shouted again. He swung the instrument in a clumsy arc.
The black-uniformed soldiers drew up hastily. “Hold it, boys! He’s got a fiddle.”
“That’s right!” Frederick said.
“Is that a Stradivarius?” asked another soldier, who wielded a broadsword.
“Er, no,” the fiddler said. “It’s a replica.”
“Skilfully crafted, though,” said the swordsman. The invaders all agreed.
Another piped up. “Hey, now, you’re not going to hit us with that, are you?”
Frederick faltered.
“I’ve been thinking about it!”
“But you might damage it,” a thoughtful young corporal observed.
“That’s possible, yes.”
“You shouldn’t jeopardize a decent piece of equipment like that.”
“I’ve taken leave of my senses!” Frederick said, gaining momentum.
“Instruments like that are hard to come by nowadays.”
“I’ll just have to do without!” the fiddler said, a wild gleam in his eyes.
The soldiers muttered among themselves. “Bloody maniacal,” one said. “Not a shred of respect for good craftsmanship,” said another.
The corporal cleared his throat. “If you’re not going to be reasonable, then we’ll have to. Come on, men. We’ll find another way in. On the double, now.”
The soldiers filed out in an orderly fashion. The King rushed up to the winch that controlled the drawbridge and cranked it for all his worth.
King and fiddler leaned panting against the blessedly vertical wooden plane.
“Play me a mournful tune,” the King requested...

Letter to my brand new granddaughter

[image error]
Hello Indy Grace,
We haven’t met yet, but I’m your grandmother. Welcome to the world, little one. The world is a big place, and you and your Mum and Dad live in Australia, on the other side of the world. We live in Spain, but that isn’t going to stop us coming to see you as often as we can.
We’ve been waiting for you to arrive for so long! Yesterday, your Mum went into hospital so that they could hurry you along. But you weren’t ready. So your Mum went on a children’s slide, and a space-hopper thingy, and tried all sorts of things to encourage you to come out. But you weren’t ready. Your name, Indy, suits you already.
But now you’re here, and of course you are the most gorgeous, intelligent baby ever born. 6 pounds, 12 oz of beautiful baby.
You couldn’t have been born to a better Mum and Dad, or in a nicer place. Your life is going to be filled with love and laughter. And you are lucky! When you were in your Mummy’s tummy, your Daddy called you Wolfgang, then Grug, then Gruglington. Thank goodness they finally settled on Indy.
The world you were born into is a wonderful place, and I hope it stays that way for you. I’ve seen so many changes and technological marvels in my life, and I can only guess at the advances you’ll see. Perhaps you’ll have a holiday home on Mars, or a robot to do all your housework? Perhaps you’ll live until you’re 150? Who knows!
Have you any idea of how many people wish you well? Not just me and Grumps. Not just family, but hundreds (yes, hundreds!) of lovely people have posted on Facebook, Twitter and have emailed me, all congratulating you on your arrival. (You’ll learn about Facebook and stuff later - there’s plenty of time for that!)
You’ll love Grumps, by the way. He grumbles and scratches himself quite a lot, but he’s a big softie. You’ll be able to twist him round your tiny finger.
So, little one, you’re here at last. In one month, I’ll be holding you, and I can’t wait!
Until then, I shall blow you kisses from Spain. When they arrive, they’ll turn into little fairies that flutter around your cradle, watching over you.
Be well, little Indy, and I’ll see you soon.
Your loving grandmother, xxxx

Cockroaches in the kitchen

[image error] It all began last month when I got up in the middle of the night and came to the kitchen for a glass of water. I switched on the light and, to my horror, saw black shapes scuttling into the shadows. Cockroaches! I ran back to the bedroom and woke Joe.
"Joe! We've got cockroaches in the kitchen!"
“Wah? We got wah? Right..." and he resumed his snoring.
In the morning I reminded him about our little problem and, this time, he was much more attentive.
"How many did you see?"
"Loads!"
"How many is ‘loads'?” 
"Well, there must have been about...six."
"Hmm... Not exactly a plague then?"
"Don't be facetious. I've just googled 'cockroaches'. I read that if you see a few, then it’s likely there are dozens more around, hidden. ” 
I packed Joe off down the mountain to buy some cockroach killer. He came back with a flat contraption into which we had to place small poison-blocks. The following morning, I found two corpses on the floor. Well, it was a start.
In England, cockroaches rarely crossed my mind. I didn't know much about these resilient creatures, but now I could probably answer questions about them on Mastermind. There are three main types of cockroach: the American, Oriental and German. Did you know that a cockroach can live for a week without its head, can run at 3 miles an hour, and can hold its breath for 40 minutes? Did you know cockroaches have 18 knees, and that their mouths work sideways? All very interesting, but it didn’t help with the extermination of the wretched things in our kitchen. 
Every morning produced a few more corpses, but I knew that was just the tip of the iceberg. Again I sent poor Joe down the mountain for more cockroach killer. This time, he returned with cans of spray.
“Spray?” I asked. “Are we supposed to stay up all night in the dark, and spray them as they appear?”
“Don’t be ridiculous - read the side of the can.” 
So I read the modo de empleo carefully and, that night, followed the instructions to the letter. I sprayed at floor level, all around the edges of the room, paying particular attention to the gaps beside the cooker and fridge. Success! My efforts bore fruit. Twenty carcasses awaited me the next morning. Shuddering, I swept them up, noticing that a few were still alive, lying on their backs, their legs (and all 18 knees) still twitching.
Every morning produced more corpses, but the numbers were declining very satisfactorily. After a week, I’d used three cans and disgusting black bodies no longer littered the kitchen floor. I disinfected all the kitchen cupboards (cockroaches can climb and fly) and heaved a huge sigh of relief.
I confess to having a sneaky admiration for the cucaracha. They’ve been around for millions of years, and scientists maintain they’d survive a nuclear blast. However, that doesn’t mean I welcome them into my kitchen. Believe me, if one so much as pokes its head out from behind the cooker, it’s dead.

Horizon Fever

[image error] Well, we’ve finished sorting through all the scrapbooks and photos, and my son has designed a fabulous cover...

Horizon Fever is finished and published on Amazon. Whew!

At the moment it’s just the ebook, but it’ll soon be available as a paperback from Amazon and all the other usual outlets, too.

This is the blurb from the back cover:

Not only was A E Filby a famous British explorer, but he was also my Uncle Archie. He died before I was born, but his unpublished manuscript, ‘Horizon Fever', and many scrapbooks, survived. Proclaimed "the World's most travelled motorist", A E Filby undertook some breathtaking expeditions, including his 37,000 mile journey from London to Cape Town and back in a series of dilapidated motorcars.

‘Horizon Fever’ is an honest, colourful, often shocking account; a snapshot of bygone days and attitudes. It tells of missionaries, pygmies, big-game hunting, gold-mining, crossing the Sahara and swimming in the Nile with crocodiles. One of Archie’s companions was a monkey called Congo. Another was a dog that adopted him, until it was killed and dragged up a tree by a leopard. Archie himself comes across as a courageous, feisty, quick-tempered, bossy little man, but full of fun, generous and never one to bear a grudge.

Thanks to Archie’s records and photographs, we have a unique glimpse of an astonishing feat of endurance, 80 years after it was completed.

Ebook available from Amazon.
Paperback available from Amazon soon.

Two old fools and pink

[image error] Hurrah! All the decorating is finished, inside and out. We’ve splashed white paint into every nook and cranny and everything looks fresh and clean. Joe’s bad back is better, although he still complains about his scraped knees (from kneeling on the roof), his bruised thumb (trapped under a plank of wood) and gashed finger (changing a light bulb).
 
Yes, everything looked wonderful, ready for the summer, except for the chicken house. The chicken house was badly in need of sprucing up and we still had an unopened tub of paint. Joe pulled the lid off, and we stared at it.

“That doesn’t look right,” I said. “It looks pink!”

“I’ll stir it,” said Joe, grabbing a stick. “Perhaps it’s just separated.”

So he stirred energetically, but the more he stirred, the pinker the paint turned.

“It’s most definitely pink,” I said, rather unnecessarily.

“Well, I’ve had enough. I’m not going down the mountain to buy more paint,” said Joe. “The chickens will just have to have a pink house.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but something unexpected stopped me in my tracks. A little tractor was passing our house, going uphill, heading for the farmland above. That wasn’t unusual, but the next event was. CRASH! Startled, our chickens shrilled their alarm call, while Joe and I froze, listening. We heard a series of loud thuds, and rolling sounds, followed by the tractor braking, and a torrent of Spanish curses from the farmer. Then the tractor started up again, the farmer’s curses fading as he continued up the mountain. Joe and I opened our back gate to look outside.

It was a scene of carnage. Red juice splatted the street, and shattered watermelons lay strewn around, all jagged edges and pink glistening flesh. The tailgate of the farmer’s trailer must have dropped, and his load of watermelons had escaped, bouncing and rolling down the mountain. 

Joe and I gaped at the mess, then silently collected all the undamaged watermelons, rolling them into a pile for the farmer to collect when he returned. As for the huge shards of damaged watermelons, we knew who would appreciate them! As we daubed pink paint on their house, our chickens feasted on watermelon. (Pic 2)

Actually, the pink chicken house looks rather good, if a little, um... pink. Some of the  chickens have pink streaks where they’ve rubbed against the wet paint, but that’s wearing off now. They love the watermelon, and we still have plenty more to give them. (Pic 3)

A couple of pieces of advice... I know that watermelons grown here in El Hoyo are exported to British supermarkets. So, if you are buying a watermelon, check it for bruises. Also, if you are purchasing white paint in Spain, double-check that it says ‘Blanco’, not ‘Arcilla’. ‘Arcilla’ actually means ‘clay’ but, I promise you, it’s pink. Very pink.