May is one of my favourite months in Spain. After the recent rains, the campo around the Casita has erupted into riotous full bloom.
Naturalists such as Sir David Attenborough would no doubt point out that all this blooming plus the bird song and rustlings in the undergrowth by the local fauna is merely the natural world’s equivalent of the backstage VIP area of a Marvin Gaye concert circa 1972. In other worlds, “Let’s Get it On”, pollinate, cross fertilize and anything else of a ‘below the belt buckle’ nature.
Everything in the campo apart from myself, obviously.
Rural rumpy-pumpy apart, one of the side effects from all of this pollen floating about can leave you with streaming eyes and bad case of the snuffles that make you look like an extra from the Medellin reboot of ‘Narcos’.
Along with the riot of colour is the noise. Mating calls echo across the lake (no, not mine), while the cicadas seem to have realised summer is on the way. Sitting on the terrace during a late night phone conversation last week, the other caller asked what type of amps they were using, as they had, in ‘Spinal Tap’ parlance, turned it up to 11. Not to be outdone the frogs have been laying down an impressive croaking bass line at the same time.
My revere was shattered by the sounds of Reggaeton
The real indicator that summer is on the way, however, is the arrival of ‘domingueros’. Contemplating my first Sunday café solo last week, my revere was shattered by the sounds of Reggaeton from the near bank. This was accompanied by the constant shrill cry of ‘Mami…mami…MAMI!!’ that is the default setting of every Spanish child. Muttering Lovecraftian oaths under my breath, I shuffled to the back of the Casita to discover that I was fresh out of light anti-tank weapons, so settled on a stern look across the lake before heading out.
I still fail to understand what drives people to come to an area of peace and tranquillity, far from the madness of the coast, and then blast out the latest diabolical drivel by Daddy Yankee.
Having said that, I took a sliver of twisted satisfaction as I heard them scrabbling and skidding up the track at the end the day, this time accompanied by cries of ‘Papi…PAPI!!!’ as they almost plummeted off the edge. It’s a long drop down.
Crawling up the track in low gear in the 4×4 on Monday morning, I found a least four parts of plastic from underneath their low-slung SEATS.
If you were wondering what another sound of summer is at the lake, it’s my manic mirthful Monday cackling as I bung car parts into the back of the Landcruiser…