Part 14: Extremeño Spring

March is upon us and as usual at this time of the year I find myself wondering just what season we are in. On clear nights the temperature still drops alarmingly. Much as I would like to be able to come in and put my feet up without lighting the wood-burning stove, it is still too cold for that luxury. The afternoons though are balmy with the temperatures hitting the low twenties. Dress for the winter in the morning and by 2 o’clock you will be sweating like a pig and liberally festooned with surplus clothing.

The time for the annual slaughter of the local pig population has just about passed, at least from the domestic point of view. The last one in our village was a huge celebration held in one of the big houses on the main street, officially the Avenida de Extremadura, but known to all and sundry as La Calle Larga. Children seemed unperturbed by the disconcerting squeal of the unfortunate pig, housewives plunged up to their elbows in blood when it came time to make the blood pudding and the men supervised and made sure that the smoke from the barbecues didn’t dry out their throats. This they did by ensuring continual lubrication with the local wine.

But this time of year is a time of conflicting signals. The first swallows arrived on the 1st of February, exactly as they did the year before. In Britain there is a saying “Ne`er cast a clout till May is out.” And the locals too seem to be very cautious when it comes to divesting themselves of winter overcoats.

About eight kilometres from the village there is a reservoir. This serves as a mini beach resort for Mérida and the surrounding towns. Complete with the same sort of chiringuitos you find down on the coast, it fairly hums with life on a Sunday afternoon. Last year on a fabulous spring day some friends and I were sitting on the terrace of one of these inland beach bars. A gentle breeze, soft as a virgin’s caress played among the pines. That was enough to send my friends rushing inside to the warmth of the pot-bellied stove. Protesting futilely, I meekly followed them. After all everybody knows what can happen to kidneys exposed to sneaky winds.

But the noise from the nearby river is a sound forever associated with late spring, or perhaps even summer. At nights thousands of amorous frogs chirr away in search of a mate. To my northern English ears, this sounds positively tropical. Bats are another animal supposed to confine their nocturnal activities to the summer months. But here in Extremadura you can see them in December and January, and what’s more, they come out during the daytime too. We haven’t seen the first snake of the year yet, but I suspect we won’t have to wait too long. Let’s just hope we don’t run into the dreaded Alicante. According to local tradition if you are bitten by one of these terrible beasts, the only option is to call a priest and receive the last rites. There is even a popular rhyming couplet celebrating the mortality rate of its fearful bite. But then again there is also one about the three-toed skink, a beast so harmless that it makes a ladybird look like one of nature’s killers. Now that I come to think of it, ladybirds are not as harmless as you might think. I was once caught in a veritable storm of them on a mountaintop outside Madrid. One of them bit me, and it bloody well hurt!

Articles in the series:

Introduction to Pete's Tale

Part 1: Village Life

Part 2: Bichos

Part 3: A Two-Bar Town

Part 4: Fruit and Veg

Part 5: Summer

Part 6: Politics

Part 7: Noise

Part 8: Our natural park

Part 9: New Year's Eve

Part 10: Timetables

Part 11: The Land Where the Pig is King

Part 12: How Not to Buy a House

Part 13: That First Winter

Part 14: The Extremeño Spring

Part 15: To be a Pilgrim

Part 16: A Change is Coming

Part 17: Wine Talk

Part 18: Free For All

Part 19: How Do You Spell Asparagus?

Part 20: Designer Peas