First Christmas in Mallorca.
In December 1986 we’d lived in Mallorca for nine months, these months had been filled with elation, stress, joy and tears. It had been some adventure but a very emotional transition. By the end of the year, we were ready to go home, not permanently, but we were desperate to be back in England with our family and friends for Christmas.
1987 was different, by then Cana Cavea was our home. Friends and family had visited giving support and appreciated why we had made our momentous move. By the end of the year, we were relaxed enough to spend Christmas in Mallorca.
Then in Spain, Christmas was not the great festival it was in northern Europe. In Spain, January 6 is the festival of the ‘The Three Kings’ when children receive presents from the wise men. Now, thanks to the likes of us, and commercialism not missing an opportunity, the children of Spain have adopted December 25 as well, giving them two days for presents. In Spain, in 1987 there was no build-up to Christmas Day as there is in England. No TV advertising campaign starting in August, no Santas roaming in the shopping centres. We knew it was coming, but then suddenly it was on us.
Thinking we ought to get into the spirit of things, we decided to go carol singing. We suggested this to Katy and Vicky, English friends of Tayrne and Rohan, who volunteered enthusiastically. Wrapped in jumpers, scarves and woolly hats, with a lantern we made our way through the dark lanes of Son Barcelo. With no moon the sky was black, clear and full of stars. Jupiter was high, shining so bright that the children knew it was the star of Bethlehem. Carol singing is not a renowned Spanish custom, so we chose a house carefully. Son Col was owned by Mike Brown the retired ex-president of Wrigleys Gum South America. We peeped through the window. Mike’s wife Pat was on the phone, so we had to contain the children’s enthusiasm until the call ended. By then, the children were bursting with excitement. They made a complete hash of ‘Away in a Manger’ followed by an interesting version of ‘Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer’. Never the less the Browns enjoyed the gesture, and we were invited in for drinks and mince pies. We returned through the dark lanes to Cana Cavea, then drove to the Port Pub, overlooking the marina of Cala D’or, owned by Katy and Vicky’s parents. The place was quiet, the yachts in the harbour abandoned, and all but the hardiest tourists had gone home for the winter. After a few renditions for the clientele, we drove home singing to prepare for the main event.
On Christmas eve, Mardy, a young Canadian, and her English husband David, who lived on a boat in Porto Colom, arrived and invited us to dinner at a house in the village of S’Horta. They left us taking Tayrne and Rohan with them to help decorate the Christmas tree. Sandy and I arrived at the house at eight in the evening. The house owners were Swiss but had gone back to Switzerland for the festive season leaving the house in the care of Karl Heinz, a German who also had a boat on the island. Karl Heinz spoke to an Englishman called Barry who lived on the island, and they decided to have an English Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve. When we all sat down for the meal, the nationalities at the table were German, English, Canadian, Austrian, French, Spanish, Swiss and Irish. There was no common language. The English and Irish spoke English, a little Spanish and less German and French. The French spoke English and German but preferred to speak French.
The Canadian spoke English, French and Spanish. The Germans, Austrians and Swiss spoke fluent English and German, and the Spanish spoke all the languages plus Scandinavian.
The dinner conversation was boisterous with people switching between a multitude of languages. It was a great night with never a lull in conversation even though it was sometimes third hand by the time it was translated around the table.
The meal was prepared by Barry, Karl Heinz, Mardy, Dave and the children. We had Christmas pudding and custard for dessert which most of the diners had never had before, but all enjoyed. After dinner we sat around an open log fire singing, mostly the songs were sung by Sandy. It was hard to believe that people were in conflict around the world because they were from different nations and religions.
We intended to leave before midnight as we had told the children Santa Claus wouldn’t leave any presents if he arrived and they weren’t asleep in bed. However, we didn’t leave the house until well into Christmas morning. None the less, when the children woke the next day the presents were there at the foot of their beds. From this, we deduced that Santa, working his way down from Lapland and through northern Europe, arrives late in Mallorca.
Christmas Day we went to Mike and Pat Browns for lunch. It was a spectacularly sunny day, so Rohan went up the lane to play with his Mallorcan friends Jordi and Estelle from Palma who were visiting their grandmother. Five minutes before we sat down to eat, Rohan was brought to the house in the arms of Francisca, the children’s mother. Not for the first time, he had fallen out of an Algaroba tree and cut his head and hurt his arm. We calmed him down and had our second Christmas dinner, no bones broken. Later we drove down the lane to spend the evening with Katy, Vicky and their parents Lynn and Dave.
A most memorable event occurred shortly after Christmas Day. Antonia, a lady in the village, had asked Sandy if she would teach her daughter Margarita English. For five months, twice a week, Sandy had been giving fourteen-year-old Margarita lessons at our house. Just before Christmas, Margarita asked Sandy how much she owed for the tuition. Sandy told her she didn’t owe anything, Margarita was a friend and to help a friend didn’t require payment. A few days later there was excitement in the garden, the children ran into the house saying Margarita’s father had arrived in his van. Pedro was a farmer and usually so busy with his animals and crops that we didn’t see a lot of him. He took us to his van in our field, he opened the back doors and ‘voila’, inside was a pig. Sandy said it would be lovely to have a pig along with our dog, cats and chickens. She asked Pedro how we should look after it.
Pedro took me aside, Rohan translated.
“It’s not a pet,” he said, running his index finger across his throat.
“It’s to eat”.
A great debate broke out between the family about the morality of killing the pig, Sandy and the children thought it should be part of the family. Pedro didn’t understand our dilemma, being a farmer, to him, it was straightforward.
“Do you want the pig or not?” he asked.
Now, pigs are intelligent animals. While the debate was going on, the pig, realising it was the centre of attention and knowing the fate awaiting it, escaped from the van shot out of the drive and ran up the lane. It was pursued by Sandy and me, a Mallorcan farmer, two children, a dog and two cats that thought they were missing out on something. Eventually, Pedro caught the pig by the back leg before it got to the main road and we put it back into the van.
Sandy and I came to a big decision. We lived in a farmhouse, meat was not fabricated; before it gets to the supermarket in a cling film pack, it is a living thing. The pig was doomed. I told Pedro I was a simple engineer and didn’t know how to murder a pig and could he do the deed for me. He agreed I was not qualified for the task, and he would do it on the spot. Sandy and I talked him out of that saying it would be better to take it home and bring it back cut up on the January 6 so we could cook it for the Three Kings fiesta meal.
In the short time that it was with us, Rohan bonded with the pig, he stopped Pedro as he left. Pedro rolled down the window of the van and in Mallorcan Rohan said.
“Put the pig back in the pen and when you do it bring us a different one”.
Pedro smiled at our innocent child, nodded in agreement and drove off.