Steady on, George! by Mel Taylor

Author:Mel Taylor [Taylor, Mel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Editorial Ugijareña
Published: 2019-08-08T20:00:00+00:00

9

When we left the house the next morning their car had gone, so we handed back the key, had a spot of breakfast in the bar in the square, then hit the road. After shooting up the dual-carriageway as far as La Calahorra we headed south and climbed a tremendous mountain pass called La Ragua. The forest gradually thinned on the endless descent and after several hairpin bends we reached the white village of Laroles. George motored through it, clearly making a beeline for Ugíjar, but when he was about to bypass another pretty place I insisted on stopping to see it.

“Oh, it’s only tiny.”

“Turn right here,” I ordered. “We’re not in a hurry.”

“It’ll be tricky to park.”

“There’s a space up ahead.”

He grunted and complied.

“Oh, what a lovely view,” I enthused.

“Yes. Ooh, that must be Ugíjar down there in the valley.”

“Come on, let’s have a look around.”

Mairena is so small that I feared I’d be unable to put my plan into practice, but on a narrow street not far from the white church with a fine brick tower I found what I was looking for.

“Look at this big old place, George.”

“Hmm, yes.”

“It says alojamiento. What does that mean?”

“I… I’m not sure. The word escapes me.”

I slid my phone from my shirt pocket. “I’ll just look it up then.”

He sighed. “It means lodging, but we’re only a few miles from Ugíjar.”

“Precisely. I like it here and I want to stay for at least a night.”

He flapped his hand. “Aw, it’ll be boring.”

As with a recalcitrant child, I thought it best to explain things fully, so I pointed out that Mike had invited us to stay for a night or two and that if George didn’t wish his time with his fellow photographer to fly by in forty-eight hours he’d be wise to hear me out.

“Look, we can stay here and maybe in other places near Ugíjar and meet up with them now and then. That way we won’t get under their feet and we’re not stuck in one place. I’d like to be back in Denia within a week and what better way to spend it than exploring this lovely area and seeing them too. What do you reckon?”

The protruding bottom lip gradually regained its former stiffness. “Hmm, you might have something there.” He looked at the guest house sign. “But I’m not staying here if it’s owned by Brits. About twenty years ago someone wrote a bestselling book about moving to the Alpujarras and I believe they’ve been invading the place ever since.”

“Sarah and Mike are English.”

“Precisely. They fulfil our quota and I don’t want to meet any more.”

Impressed by his curious logic, I went to make inquiries.

“We’re in luck,” I told him five minutes later.

He smiled. “Local owners?”

“They’re from just to the north of here.”

“Ah, where?”

“Holland.”

He frowned.

“They’re very nice and the house is lovely inside, especially our room.”

“Our room?”

“Yes, we’re booked in for the night. Come on, let’s get the bags.”

We settled in, arranged to have dinner there, then

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