Moving to a farm is ridiculous for people like us. It’s true. And moving to a farm in rural Galicia is, very simply, the height of absurdity. Even after three years we have yet to scratch the surface on how to be farmers.
Farm Shopping
Are we real farmers? It’s debatable. Jeff has tackled farming like a true American who is not a farmer. He shops. I haven’t written so much about this but we own so many farm implements we could hire ourselves out to scrape, plow, furrow, mow, or chip/shred huge limbs. We have so many pieces of equipment Jeff is looking at building a new building aka another barn, in which to house them all. Seriously. And I’m the one with a shoe storage problem?
Most of our farm stuff comes on big trucks from Italy. In large wooden crates. And the wooden crates need to be stored, because apparently you can’t have too many good, heavy duty wooden crates. Dear Lord.
Trucks pull up all the time delivering things. Jeff has alerts set up so he is notified when the tractor chestnut raking system is back in stock in Italy. We were on the train to Malaga last week when the notice came through. It should be here any day. <eye roll>
But, I get it. It’s the American expat go-to. Shopping our way out of discomfort. Except, and I can’t believe I’m uttering these words, eventually that has to stop! 🛑 Especially for farming equipment.
Neighborhood Politics
They say What you don’t know can’t hurt you. But that isn’t strictly true. As we have learned, being a foreigner in a place like this can come with a host of disadvantages you are blindingly unaware of that are working against you, every day. Your very presence is grist for the rumor mill. Gossip is a sport here, in a place where information about a new neighbor can provide a year or more of collective eye rolling and head shaking. Idiotas. And if you do anything, well, foreign – as you inevitably will – it restarts the clock. But, as we have learned, there are other considerations.
The community will determine your success or failure. They can kill your new business. Or ensure no one will come out to fix your electrics or plumbing issues. Ask me how I know.
Living in a farming community – US or Spain, it doesn’t matter – means relying upon your neighbors. American individualism and independence doesn’t work here. You can not do it all alone even if you were born here, just like the fifteen generations of your family before you. It’s a universal truth. And we all, old and new (foreign) neighbors alike, relearned this lesson this morning.
HELP!
Jeff and I pulled into our driveway this morning after running some errands in Palas and Melide. It’s a quiet morning- Ash Wednesday. The madhouse of Melide during Carnival is gone. The 40 days of Lent have begun. Even the chupitos (booze shots) to boost an old man’s coffee in the morning are no where in our coffee house. A little liver cleanse seems to be in order until Easter.
Jeff and I have already given each other our Valentine’s Day gifts. Jeff made our local jeweler’s day yesterday when he stopped in first thing in the morning to pick up a lovely ring for me in the shape of a torques. It’s good luck here. You must wear it up 🔝 so the luck doesn’t run out. It’s a symbol of strength. The moment of force, it assists in starting something new. Or in finishing difficult tasks. Jeff liked that. I do, too.
As we walked from the car to the house on this cold morning, I heard a noise. Then, I saw my neighbor waving to me and calling my name. I suspected it had to do with their horses. Yes, those horses that have ‘visited’ us many times, but cannot now that we have an electric fence. Something was wrong.
I ran to gather a bag of carrots from the fridge. We always keep a bag of carrots for those horses. And Jeff grabbed a rope. Then, we rubber booted up and ran to where our neighbors were in another field.
One of the horses was out. That meant they were stuck. They couldn’t get her back inside their fence because the horses wouldn’t leave each other on either side of the fence. So getting the one who was out to follow to the gate would not work.
These horses know us and are comfortable with us, but something was spooking them. They would not comply. And the one who was out was under tremendous stress. Sweating like she had run miles. So much that she barely nibbled at the carrots. And then, she fell over and lay down hard. Luckily, neither Jeff nor I, nor our neighbors were under her as she fell.
We petted her and I talked to her in a sing-songy voice I use when we feed them. Jeff sat with her talking to her and scratching her behind her ears. This went on for a while. Finally she sat up, but she wouldn’t stand. Another hour passed. I was getting worried she was sick or injured. The neighbor tied her to a tree but had to leave to make a call for help from other neighbors. We stayed with her and her sister. One neighing on the other side of the fence, encouraging her sister to get up. But it didn’t help. Then, I had an idea.
The brown – healthy horse – is the alpha. If I could get her to follow me along the fence line maybe the white horse would allow Jeff to lead her towards us. I went around to the place we usually feed these horses. And I called to them like I always do. They will usually run across a full pasture when they hear me. This time, the brown horse turned my way. She made a few steps and stopped. I put out a carrot and she came and got it. Then, I moved up the fence line. She came again. We did this three times, but she turned back towards her sister and neighed. The white horse got to her feet. Progress.
I walked back and gave Jeff a bunch of carrots. Then repeated what I had done before. We needed the white horse to follow the brown horse along the fence line by the road until we could get them up to the house to the main gate. We had a half carrot left when the white horse stopped. She got a little feisty with me. Jeff tried to keep up her momentum. Luckily, she decided to comply, but head butted me in the back.
Pagado!
When we arrived into the courtyard of the house, our neighbor came out and ran ahead of us to open the gate. Afterwards he smiled and asked me ‘How did you do this?’
He had tried everything. But, nothing worked.
I shrugged and told him our winning strategy. ‘No pasa nada.’ Then we waved goodbye. ‘Luego.’ As if it had been no trouble, at all. We were both muddy from head to toe and smelled like a horse.
And that, my friends, is how you spend Valentine’s Day in rural Galicia, adding points to the neighborhood gossip bank. And more importantly, how you pay your debts when your dog eats someone’s chicken😉
Viva Espana 