Sunny Spain, living the dream. The old Spanish farmhouse we had bought was beautiful. The walls crafted from natural rocks from the mountains, and held together with mud; not very practical in winter, hence why we were rebuilding it. I came out of my little caravan, dog at my heels. I was so lucky, how many seven year olds had their own caravan? I walk past the house, trying to keep out of the builders way. They sometimes let me help, especially when it came to carrying bricks and making tea. Slinking up the track, dog at my heels, we headed up the mountain. It was a long trek, as always. Sweat trickled down my neck and the cling film around my sandwich stuck to my clammy hands, like a limpet. The humid air was laced with the thick scent of lavender. When I finally reached the top, my dog and I flopped down to rest on the warm, sun bleached rocks. A light breeze,entwined with the fresh fragrance of wild rosemary. When we caught our breath back, my dog disappeared into the bushes and I opened my sandwich. The cold ham was a blessing to my dry mouth. It waltzed with the strong flavour of Allioli across my tongue. The crust baguette scratched gently like a kitten on the roof of my mouth. Admiring the view of the luscious green slopes of the opposite mountains and the barren desert of a valley in between. It was always so quite up here; it was like the world was on mute. I noticed a tiny blue triangle, where the sea can just be seen can just be seen through the mountains. I began to wonder hen we would go to the beach again, when my dad was home we went almost every evening to cool off after a long day. Things where always more fun when dad was at home. We would go tot the waterpark, get my quad out, have tumble weed races… Mum was always to busy with the To-Do list to do fun stuff. A shadow passes over me, followed by a shriek. Looking up I see not juts one but two eagles, teaching their babies to fly. It’s a sight I see often, but it never gets less magical. There is a startling rustle in the bushes, and then I’m ambushed, pounced on by my beautiful collie. After nearly licking me to death, she lays down next to me. Her warm body and soft silky fur pressing against my leg. Twirling her fur in my fingers as a look back down at our farm. A flash of white alerts me. A Guardia Civil 4×4 was cruising down the track, a large dust cloud at its tail. A fire of panic was ignited in my chest a it soon spread across my entire consciousness. I was at the top of a 50ft mountain on foot, and they had a Jeep… I had to warn my mum: we didn’t have planning permission yet, but we had already started reconstruction. In addition to that, the builders we had hired to help us, didn’t have work visas. I took off. Sprinting down the slope like a prison escapee. Crashing through copses of rosemary and lavender, desperately wishing my quad bike was closer. Gravity began to take over, pulling my body down faster than my legs could keep up with. My long dark curly hair billowed out behind me like a windsock. I slipped. Struggling to keep my footing, I managed to remain upright. The 4×4 was dangerously close but I beat it back tot the farm house. “Mum!” I cried. “What is it, pudding?” she asked calmly. I hated it when she called me ‘pudding’; I always felt like she was calling me fat, but now was not the time to sulk. “The Guardia are coming” I cried, desperately aware of how close they would be by now. “Oh… Quick, cover the cement mixer, I’ll hide the builders” she ordered disappearing off. Cement mixer covered, builders hidden and dog at my heels, I waited anxiously next to my mum. She stood shaking slightly, with one arm around me and the other playing with me my sun-bleached curls. I was hugely aware of the smell of cement dust. The 4×4 drew closer and closer. Time slowed, from a raging river to a trickling stream. They arrived. The dust cloud settled and in my peripheral vision a tumble weed blew over a field. I could almost hear the western music in the back ground. A tall clean shaven man stepped out smiling. He wore a uniform consisting of a white shirt and black trousers; unlike me he had no sweat patches. His shiny dark hair was like a mirror in the sun. Handing my mum a large white envelope, he said, “tengo tu permission, señora.” in an authoritative voice.The translation rang through my head a dozen times, he had our permission, the planning permission! I began to sweat again; he was going to see that we had already started and arrest us. I suddenly empathised with people in Nazi Germany when they thought the Gestapo were coming for them. If mum did get arrested, no one would pick dad up from the airport tomorrow. The officer went back to his 4×4. He’s getting his handcuffs, I thought, but to my surprise he hoped back in and his college started the engine. They sped away, taking the dust cloud with them. Relief swept through us both. We were still shaking, as we hugged, with tears streaming down our faces. My mum was crying so hard I felt some of her tears drip onto the back of my neck. We went to relieve the illegal builders, we where huddled in the back of the barn, covered by a tarpaulin. It looked extremely suspicions and I’m sure, that if the Guardia Civil had searched the place they would not have hesitated to check under it. Dad came home the next day. We went to pick him up and he laughed when we told him of our little adventure the previous day. He was astounded that the Guardia had delivered our planning permission. He said I was like the look out on a pirate ship. I was so thankful to have both my parents around. Little did I know; it was all about to change.
The Immigrants
19 Wednesday Nov 2014
Posted Uncategorized
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