It’s a cheap farm, on the wrong side of the river, with barely a trickle of water. The estate agent pronounces it the perfect match for Chris. The owner plies him with rough wine from a plastic bottle. Flies buzz. The sun beats. Chris nods off. He wakes to a jab in the ribs and the deeds for El Valero, a dusty mountain farm in Andalucia, southern Spain.

There’s no road to the farm. No water in the bathroom, and the water which does trickle into an oil-drum on the property is poisonous. The previous owner won’t leave and that’s just the beginning of the trials Chris and Ana face as they settle into the Spanish farming community on a wonky-donkey slice of land.

The charm is in the farming details and Chris’s portrait of rural Spanish life. And to my delight, he avoids biographical background preamble. The farm is the story.

The sun dragged up over the hill, bathing the whole ghastly proceeding in warm light. The second pig dispatched, a third and fourth were pulled from the stable, hooked, jabbed, bled, scorched, scraped, split and hung. Round and round went the goatskin wine-bottle, washing down pig-fatty dishes. (p107)

I loved the sheep shearing section. Great holiday reading.

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