George & Gloria: English Pensioners Living In Andalusía
That the first new recipe I learned in Spain was a hyper-regional English tart may come as a surprise. That it also happens to be the most perfect encapsulation of the mountainous desert of Andalucía and our hosts there is just the powdered sugar on top.
Part I, PArt II Here
About equidistant between now-capital of Andalusía, Seville, and once-Moorish-capital Granada, and just inland, 30-minutes by local train line from the large port-city of Malaga, is the desert town of Pizarra.
In the day time, Pizarra is bustling and anachronistic in the way of much of Andalucián Spain: Cars vie for the right of way on jagged streets barely wide enough for orange-laden donkeys on their way to market. Newly constructed condominiums (unlike its neighboring towns, a majority of Pizarra’s development has occurred only since 1988 when the peñasco, a monolithic slab of rock, precariously looming over the village and the source of centuries of superstition, was finally blown up) line streets walked barefoot and backwards by penitent women during religious festivals. And rambunctious town meetings, held in the also new (2010) town hall, tackle such problems as which parish’s caballeros (horsemen) should represent the town in this year’s festivals - the other parish gets to sell the wine - and discovering the identity of whomever is shitting in the newly built mailboxes. Or they would tackle those problems if they didn’t restart every time someone arrived late (which in Spain, is exactly frequently enough so as not to have gotten beyond recapping last week’s meeting by 11, when everyone is either too tired, or too drunk, or both, to continue).
And it is here, some 3 hours up the coast from the fish ’n’ chippies on the Rock of Gibraltar, and a plane ride away from that larger inhospitable rock called home, that English pensioners George and Gloria moved some 20 years ago.
Pizarra is just 30-minutes inland from the Mediterranean
When we arrived, at night, signal-less, and a few hours later than expected, Pizarra was desolate. The few late night passengers on our train quickly climbed into waiting cars and sped into the surrounding countryside - no restaurants, no bars, no reason to be in town after dark. The lone cabbie, called in advance by one of the women on our train, was kind enough to tell us not to walk “in that direction” as he sped off. Which direction? Or did he say not to walk in any direction?
Within a minute we were alone and ride-less. George would have driven in to pick us up two trains ago. Without cell reception or wifi we could only hope he’d assume we’d caught a later train and make another trip into town. On the upswing, we were very quickly less alone as Pizarra’s sizable stray cat population sprang from dumpsters and squeezed through fence slates to see what we might have to offer. Not wanting to part with the few chorizos or one granola bar we were hoarding, we walked in the direction of the only light, toward a closed gas station on a deserted round-about (we would find out later, in the daylight, that this is the busiest intersection in town), and we waited.
Forty-five minutes later, just as we’d begun to consider getting a room at the gambling hall cum hostel up the road (here’s one glowing review: “Disgusting in every way possible.”), we heard the loud thunk-scrape of some large vehicle plowing through a speed hump. Seconds later, a 1990’s purple Ford van came careening around the circle and to a halt in front of us, a cloud of dust in its trail. And it was unmistakably our British hosts: the driver-side was flipped, and nearest to where we stood on the curb.
Crammed behind the wheel was a very large man with a long face and kind eyes. His full, wild brown beard compensating for his thinning hair. With a slight raise of the back of his hand, he waved, opened the door, and descended to help us with our bags. In the passenger seat, a man, white hair tousled in all directions, struggled against his seatbelt to turn towards us as we put our things in the trunk. “Where in the bloody hell have you been,” he finally managed, craning his neck and revealing his left arm, bound in a sling across his polo shirt. He had a few days’ stubble on his prominent chin and peered at us through large wire-rimmed glasses (the kind only retired engineers or hipsters wear) with an intensity that caught us off guard. Embarrassed, we stumbled over an apology and thanks for the late-night trip into town as we climbed into the back of the van. He began to chuckle at our contriteness, “It’s really no problem. Fedor and I were just enjoying our nighttime drink and shows. That’s Fedor by the way, Polish bloke and handy man who we can’t seem to get rid of,” he teased, gesturing to the bearded man, “and I’m George.”
“We only wondered at what could you possibly be doing in Pizarra at this time,” Fedor clarified in his Slavic accent as he climbed back behind the wheel, “There’s not really so much to do.”
“Unless you know where to look,” George added with a wink. “Let’s go!” And Fedor started us up the hills of Pizarra, out of the village, and into the mountains.
Fedor, Breezy, and I sat in silence the rest of the twenty minute ride, up the mountain out of town and down a series of dirt roads, as George pointed out various aspects of the village and landscape which were impossible to make out in the pitch black. When we finally arrived at their property, Finca Ria Grana, the backlit silhouettes of two dogs could be seen in the window across the dark drive. We knew from our correspondence that our hosts did some volunteering with the local animal refugio, on occasion raising abandoned litters of puppies for adoption. “How many dogs do you have,” Breezy queried.
“I dunno, I think maybe nine now.” Breezy and I shared a glance and snickered at the exaggeration. “Never can keep track with all the coming and going, that’s Gloria’s job. I mostly just take care of all the “S”es: Shit, Sick, and slop. Speaking of, watch out for shit as you get out of the car.” Another look passed between Breezy and me. “Oh, we’ve already eaten by the way - just can’t be bothered with that crazy Spanish dinner time - but we’ve saved some for you if you’re hungry.”
A few minutes later, we sat around the large kitchen table inhaling beef stew, mash, and mushy peas and surrounded by at least five dogs (by morning we realized George had not been joking, they really had nine; two more were sleeping with Gloria, another waiting on the roof for dinner, and one more who knows where). George and Fedor sat with us and enjoyed a night cap.
“It’s totally mad here,” George insisted (and not referring to the dogs), as he struggled to pour himself another whiskey soda with his one workable arm, “the Spanish are constantly partying: New Years to kick things off, the Three Kings hullabaloo, Carnival and Easter. Various saints days throughout the year (it’s a very Catholic country you know). And then they got Halloween from your lot which pretty much takes us right back into Advent and Christmas. And don’t even get me started on the summer ferias. From April to October it never ends. Every week a feria for this and feria for that; honey, paella, almonds - you name it, some small town’s got a feria for it. It’s bonkers.”
He’s not wrong. The Spanish do not pass up the opportunity for a party, and each of these local festivals, if it doesn’t literally revolve around a regional delicacy (una festa gastronómica; think Snail Day in Riogordo, the Gazpacho festival Alfarnatejo, the Malaga Goat Party in Casabermeja, and a Tribute to the Victorian Anchovy in Rincón de la Victoria), is sure to feature plenty of food. The origin of the modern day feria dates back centuries, and was meant to draw crowds to markets where local meats and produce were sold once or twice a month. Now, local councils find any excuse, be it the Holy Spirit or spirits, to host a celebration, and most villages in Andalucía have a feria at least once a year. And of course, this includes Pizarro’s feria, for which the entire village shuts down for a week in August.
So how does a very British couple end up here, Keeping Calm and Carrying On in this, the desert land of endless festivals?