Driving Over Lemons by Chris Stewart

One of my fantasies in life is to escape to a house in the mountains of Andalucia. This idea was planted in me when I was ten years old and my family spent a year on the Costa del Sol. One of our friends said, ah, whenever you want a house up in the mountains just let me know, and I can arrange it for you, have it built, everything, very cheap.

Driving over Lemons is the autobiographical account of this exact fantasy, written with great agricultural relish by Chris Stewart. A funny detail about him, which he ignores entirely but his marketing people don't, is that he was the first drummer with the band Genesis. So there you have it - you can either be Phil Collins or you can escape to the mountains around Granada. Oddly enough, the friend who promised us a mountain home also used to be in a band that once opened for the Beatles, so clearly there is some kind of British rock ley line extending to Iberia. But I digress.

I sense that someone wanted to milk a Spanish 'Year in Provence' outta Chris, and it does start off that way - a proper story with humorous local characters and a linear plot. He arrives, sees land, must have it, obstacles to buying it, convincing his wife of the brilliance of the scheme after he's already paid for it etc. But then about halfway through he seems to tire of this structure and has chapters that are titled 'dog and sheep', 'cats and pigeons' and other obvious subjects no doubt designed to keep him on schedule. He's not a natural-born writer or anything, but in any case the details of daily life on an Andalucian farm, with no running water or proper electricity, many invasive insects, lotsa sheep, bridge and water problems, all add up to give one a realistic picture of an expat fantasy.

As I was reading I was remembering too the less romantic, more frightening details of peasant life in Southern Spain. His description of a pig killing party reminded me of the baby goat barbecue when my mother bravely chowed down on coagulated blood, while I tried not to scream when offered the delicacy of goat brains. Never mind the horror I felt when brought to the barn to gaze in awe at the recently slaughtered pig. I'm basically a city girl and it is good to remember. Would be much better off with a little village home in Andalucia, perhaps, with a good market nearby. Or maybe just a condo near the sea, with a pool and some shops near a promenade. So I thank Chris for sharing his story, and letting me arrive at this insight.

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