Gone to the dogs

Once again the phone rang, breaking the peaceful tranquility of the office. Who will it be? A film company looking for an animal to perform God knows what, or some poor dog owner who has been driven to despair by their beloved pet? These very different aspects of my business throw many different challenges at me every day and although I blame my constant hair-loss and bags under my eyes on my job, I wouldn’t have it any other way. As I lifted the receiver I could hear a dog barking down the phone.

"Hello, Rockwood" I replied. "Hello, this is Mr. Evans here, I need some help with my Golden Retriever, Sam".

"Good morning Mr. Evans, I can hear Sam in the background, what’s the problem?"

"I can’t cope with him any more, he is ruining my life".

He went on to explain how his wife and he had picked up Sam from the RSPCA, they had had him in the house for six months without any behavior problems, when all of a sudden he had taken great offence at being left alone. He was destroying the house and was constantly barking for attention.

"Don’t worry Mr. Evans, I will come over tomorrow and have a look at him".

I looked at my diary and managed to fit him in between the neurotic Boxer and the aggressive Jack Russell.

As I placed the handset down I thought to myself: how did I get into this?

I found my mind, as so often before, drifting back to the village in Spain were I was brought up, my beloved Calpe.

Calpe was a small and typically Spanish fishing village on the Costa Blanca. The village had its harbor at the base of an unusually shaped mountain called Penion de Ifach. Beautiful mountains that seemed to stand over us like proud soldiers backed the village itself. Gently terraced hills and valleys broke the harshness of the mountains; here farmers would cultivate their grapevines meticulously and harvest their olive and almond trees. On the mountains themselves there would be goat and sheep farmers who, although extremely poor, seemed to have a wealth and contentment in life I have never seen again to this day.

I was eight when my parents brought me to this beautiful place to live. We had been here before on holidays, but after my father’s early retirement from the timber business at the age of 49, this time it was for keeps. It had been dad’s dream for many years to live here and I was thrilled at the thought of being part of this adventure. Little did I know then just how much of an impact on my life it would have. As strange as it may seem, I find it difficult to remember anything before my life in Spain; it was as if I had been reborn at that point. In truth I was born in 1962 in Boscombe, Dorset and I lived the first part of my life in Poole.  My mother was 42 when I was born and she had postnatal depression after the birth; my father took us on a world cruise to cheer her up. I was only six months old, but it must have affected me somehow: the sight of the ocean and the smell of the sea still fill me with excitement to this day. We had made many visits to Spain on holidays and I absolutely loved it, so it was natural that I was overjoyed at the prospect of living there.

For the first two months of our stay in Spain, my parents rented a small apartment, right on the seafront, called Apartment Algem, this was to give my father time to find us a home near the village. This he had managed to do and it certainly was a beautiful home. It was called Villa Primavera (springtime villa), aptly named as it was situated at the base of a mountain and surrounded by fruit, olive and almond trees with flowers and bushes of every description.  For me, things just seemed to be getting better. Opposite the villa on the other side of the road stood a ruined finca, it was a large fortified farmhouse that was used by many visiting Gypsy families. It was ideal for them to stop and camp there with their animals for a few days and it wasn’t long before I made friends with their children. Even when the finca was empty, I found myself playing within its walls and in the early months, using it as a means of escape and a place of tranquility.

I loved my new surroundings, the warm summer evenings, the comforting sounds of the crickets, along with the gentle rush of the Mediterranean Sea stroking the sandy shore; the light aroma of jasmine and rosemary floating in the air and the distant sound of church bells echoing down the valley. The people in the village seemed to make a big fuss of me and everybody was very relaxed. I could see why, after the long hours and stress of running his own business, this way of life was so attractive to my father. My dad was a timber merchant and had inherited the business from his father. My dad, with his natural business skills, had transformed the Timber Company into two very successful businesses. This enabled him to retire at the young age of 49 and to fulfill his ambition of living in Spain.

It was after a few weeks of sun, sea and fun that I had started to feel a little lonely. I was one of very few English boys living there at the time and although I was picking up the language well, it was hard to make friends. After a few initial problems, I finally settled into the local school and Spanish way of life. It wasn’t long before I realized the pocket money potential of translating for my parent’s visitors and friends and this was to prove very handy later on.  I would help them haggle for a discount in the tourist shops, a job I must say I hated and which might explain my innate loathing of shopping to this day.

My parents were soon making lots of friends, attending and holding many parties. My dad used to invite the local sheriff, so as not to get in trouble with the authorities. At that time if you had a meeting with more than a certain number of people, it could be considered a conspiracy against the government. The sheriff was a very large and jolly man who seemed to smile all the time. He and his family would always invite me to their home for some tapas and a cold drink, which was a great comfort on a hot summer’s evening. The house was kept very dark and cool; it was simply furnished and absolutely spotless. Dominating the wall, as with most Spanish houses, was a crucifix. Noticing that I was always fascinated with his side arm, he would sometimes let me hold it, without the magazine of course!

My parents were spending lots of time out and about with their friends and I found myself spending more and more time amusing myself. When leaving the villa, I would be faced with two simple choices, to go the mountains or to go to the beach. If the weather was very hot, then a swim in the sea was just too tempting. In the mountains I would follow the tracks left by the shepherds; these tracks led me to many shelters that had been built by them, to provide refuge from the midday sun. The heat in July and August would be intense and my favorite shelter was a cave that had formed in a cliff face. The entrance to the cave was very small and access could only be gained by crawling through on my stomach, however, once inside there was plenty of room to move about. It was cool and even had a water supply. I had never been in a cave before and it felt like another world. The light from the entrance would illuminate the beautiful red, green and pink walls of the cave and the rock would appear to sparkle. Small stalactites and stalagmites were dotted around the cave. It felt as if you were standing in the mouth of a great shark. I was keen to show my parents the splendor of this rock, so I took a large lump of a stalagmite down the mountain to show them. By the time I arrived home, the rock had dried out and looked like a normal stone; I was very disappointed, as I thought they would not believe me. My dad explained to me that the rock was like a living organism and taking it away from the cave had in effect killed the stone. I never took another stone away from that cave again and it was often a place of sanctuary from the hot summer days.

At the top of the mountain behind my house, the view was breathtaking. I could look down onto the village below and the vast expanse of deep blue sea; the distant song of a bird and a faint breeze breaking the absolute silence. There is a definite feeling of love for this world, an appreciation of life and the beauty of nature that you feel when you are standing on top of the world. It is no wonder to me that all the village churches are built on the highest point; it is the closest feeling to anything spiritual that I have ever had. It was a long hard walk, but always worth it. Sometimes the wind would carry the sound of life up the mountain like light from a distant star.

 As strange as it may seem neither one of my parents was an animal lover, don’t get me wrong they would not harm them, but to them they were something that would take up valuable time and mess up the house. My mum, God bless her, would have a fit if I came in with shoes on, let alone bring home a smelly dog that was dropping hair all over the place. Maybe it's because of this, that I was drawn to dogs in the first place, you know the saying: "you always want what you can’t have". If this is true, then I will always be grateful to them.

I can’t really remember why, after all the weeks of living in Calpe, I hadn’t noticed the dogs that roamed the streets in the evening, but it was on this one occasion that I saw this dog standing and looking at me. I was sitting on the wall eating some sunflower seeds at the time; did he want some of my seeds? I didn’t know, but he just stood there and stared. I maintained eye contact with this dog for about five minutes, when all of a sudden one of my school friends, wielding a big piece of bamboo, came charging at the dog, hitting and chasing him up the street. To me this looked like fun and I followed him into the night chasing and shouting as he fled. At the time I felt pleased with myself, we had got rid of one of those dirty dogs from the mountains that ravaged the bins and caused so much mess. As the next day passed I kept trying to justify my actions to myself by telling myself that I had done the right thing, but no matter how I tried those sad, yet proud eyes of that dog stayed with me.

Every month or so many of the men from the surrounding farms would go into the mountains for a shoot. By doing this, they would keep the feral dog population down and deter them from coming into the village. I thought I was doing my bit, but I found myself walking the streets looking for this dog, perhaps I wanted to apologise for my actions. I never saw him again. It was a few weeks later that, whilst playing with my friends in the hills, I noticed a pack of dogs walking across the valley. Without a word to my friends, I just dropped everything and ran as fast as I could towards them. In the distance they looked beautiful and majestic, but as I drew closer I could certainly see just how desperate they were. Placing myself in a good position at the bottom of the valley, I watched them walk by. It seemed that every step was sapping the last bit of energy. Many of the dogs had terrible wounds from car impacts, tick infestations and fighting. A German Shepherd-cross with only three legs was leading the group, but despite his affliction he was the healthiest looking and strongest dog of them all. At that time either from the fear of revolution, or because of what I had seen, I did not make any contact with them. However, this first meeting was to shape my destiny for the future.

The very next day I gathered all my pocket money and went to our local shop. I was informed that I only had enough for 3 tins of dog food, which would have been totally inadequate. So I bought as many French bread sticks I could afford and returned to the place where I had last seen the pack. I walked for miles trying to find them, but had no success, so feeling a bit down-hearted I left the bread in the hills.

I had done this at varying times of the day for some time, but the days passed by and I never seemed to see the pack, however each time I returned the bread was gone. On one occasion I waited and my persistence paid off. Some of the pack came down from the mountain, many of them I did not recognise, but they all seemed indifferent to my presence.

Over the next few months I was spending more and more time with the pack. They would appear to drift around between our village and Altea. The rubbish that was left in bins, was the main source of food for them, but if they were in danger of being shot they would keep away. There were occasions when they would seem to disappear for days. This would really annoy me, as I would be unable to drift with them, I always had to turn back, leave them and head for home. One night the need to stay with them became too great. I had wandered too far from home to go back, so I decided to stay out with them.  I can’t tell you how good it was lying down outside, staring at the stars above, with the crickets singing me to sleep and being surrounded by my new friends. I was beginning to feel that they needed me as much as I needed them and it felt good. Unfortunately my parents didn’t appreciate my little excursions and they were getting increasingly concerned about my education and lack of discipline.

The answer for them was to send me to a new international private school in Alfaz del Pie. Although my parents had the best of intentions, it was a disastrous move. It meant that I was being pulled away from my friends in Calpe and the school which was, in my parents view, a long way away (1/2 hour train ride every day). It was situated at the base of the very same mountains I used to roam. The school had just opened; it was a villa that had been converted. There were just two rooms with about ten pupils of varying nationalities and ages. I was amongst the first of pupils to attend, there were few books and the playground was a stone gravel area. The school was situated next to a dried up riverbed that ran down from the mountain. The rounded smooth stones were favorite hiding places for scorpions and within the first two weeks of us attending, one bit a young English boy on his bum, I felt sorry for him. His parents had come over to Spain to run a bar in Benidorm, he didn’t like the heat and like me, he found it difficult to adjust to the school.  I used to gaze out of the window, look at the mountain and wonder where my friends were. Before too long the temptation got to me and after my train had pulled into the station at Alfaz, I would walk into the hills to see the dogs. Some days I would come out of the school and there would be 20 or more dogs waiting for me to feed them. This situation developed into a bit of a problem for the headmaster of the school and after the third warning, I was to be given three strikes with the plaited leather whip.  It had been on display on the wall, but had never been used before.  I had to bend over in front of the class and grip hold of the desk. I learned to grip hard, as the force of the first strike knocked me clean over the desk and onto the floor. Two weeks later I had the same treatment, because I could not stop the dogs from coming. This time this big and powerful bearded man hit me so hard, that as I gripped onto the table, it shunted forward each time he hit me and I nearly ended up in the middle the class.

The strange thing is, that I felt sorry for the kids that had to watch, as some of them were very young and looked terrified. He hurt me badly that day and he knew that he had gone too far. I was severely marked, but too frightened to tell my parents. The whip had a metal clasp at the end, which would cut you on the side, and the knots of the whip would leave you badly bruised for days. There was no way that I was going back to that school, so I just got on the train every morning and never went into the school. My father kept paying the bills, the teacher never got in trouble and I had the dogs with me, far away from that bloody school!

After I had returned to England, I found out that the teacher had gone too far with a Japanese boy and had therefore been expelled from the school.

I knew every feral dog for miles around and loved them all. I learnt their behavior in the rawest sense; the severity of nature as I had learnt from my teacher in one brief moment, was a day to day occurrence for these animals.  Strength and dominance was the currency here and it was this strength that held the pack together. Amongst all my friends, there was one dog that was very dear to me. Strangely he was not a feral dog at all, but a magnificent German Shepherd dog called Troy (faithful). He belonged to some German friends of my parents, who had brought him over from Germany and I would look after him whenever they went home to visit. They lived very close to us, so it was quite convenient for me to just nip down and look after him. I was under strict instruction not to let him off his chain, as it was his job to guard the house while they were away. However, I couldn’t stand to see him on the chain, so I let him off and he would follow me everywhere. Their visits home became longer and more frequent over the next few months, until because of family problems they were never to return. I assumed responsibility for the dog and he rarely left my side, until it was time for me to return to England. My poor mother was horrified at the thought of me running around with this fearsome dog, but over the years that followed they both learned to keep away from each other.

Over the next two years I developed a tremendous love and trust with these dogs and I was spending every spare minute with them. It was not unusual for me not to talk to anyone, other than my parents, for days. Sometimes my parents would want to take me out on a trip somewhere, but I couldn’t stand being away from the dogs. One day my father was most insistent that we would go out together for the day, so I suggested that we might go into the mountains for a picnic. Dad thought this was a great idea and we all set off the very next day in our bright yellow Volkswagen: mum, dad, their friends and a large hamper and oh yes, not to be forgotten the vino, the essential ingredient for any picnic in Spain! It was a blistering 100 degrees that day, so my father pulled into a lay-by on the mountain road which led to a small village called Pollop. The lay-by was situated on the side of the hill overlooking the valley. We all settled down under a grand olive tree and made use of its protective shade.  Whilst my parents and their friends were tucking into the food, I told dad that I was going for a walk and he agreed providing I would be back by six.

This was my playground and I wandered off into the distance. I had no problem telling the time, as the local shepherds had shown me how to do this with the help of the sun and I was accurate to within 15 minutes, so I was not worried. I visited some gypsies who where camped on a plateau with their animals, their campfire and playing children drew me like a beacon. They were sheltering in a ruined farmhouse and stopped everything they were doing to talk to me. As I sat with them, listening to their singing and story telling, I was told of a mother and her young child, who ran away from the village and into the mountains for safety during the civil war. They survived for many months, keeping away from any form of civilization. The mother became ill, subsequently died and the child was left to survive on his own in the mountains. The years passed and after many sightings of this man, he was eventually discovered and brought back to civilization. All this time he had avoided people and had kept running away in fear of his life. Despite being later educated and taught communication skills, he still retreated back to the mountains where he eventually died. The gypsies still believed that his spirit roamed the mountains and for some time, the dark shadows of the night took on a whole new meaning for me. I’m sure that the old man was trying to tell me something about myself, perhaps he thought I was also running away, looking for something. He later went on to say, that there were two types of people: those that look at the mountain, admire its beauty and feel contentment; and those that look at the mountain and wonder what was on the other side of it.  I knew which one I was, the freedom to roam was addictive and the sight of every new horizon felt like a door that had to be opened. Two of the men began to play the guitar in a way that I had not seen before. The passion and emotion was very strong. In a split second they would twist the guitar and use it like a drum, the rest of the family would assist by clapping their hands. A wooden table had been placed on the floor and a man stood on it, stamping his feet to the music. All this seemed to be happening for me, their hospitality was extraordinary and within a very short time I felt as if I had known them all my life.

Looking at the shadows cast by the sun, I could see that it was time to go.

“Adios guapo" the lady said, as she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a big kiss on both cheeks. "Guapo" (handsome) was the name they gave me and always used whenever we were to meet again after that day.

 As I approached the car, I could hear my parents frantically calling for me, my father looked red with rage and poor mum looked as if she had been crying.

"Where have you been?" he screamed, as my mother checked to see if I was all in one peace.

I suppose looking back, it was understandable that they were worried, as they thought that we were in a place I was unfamiliar with and that I had got lost. But as my mother pointed out, trying to calm my father down, I had arrived back at exactly six o’clock and had done nothing wrong. Very little was said on the way home and that seemed to be the last of our family day trips.

Getting enough money to feed the dogs was becoming a problem. The pack seemed to be getting bigger, where did all these dogs come from? To this day I couldn’t tell you, but one thing was obvious they needed food. Twice a week a gypsy boy called Marcos and I used to go out on a small boat full of rocks. With a rock in one hand and a knife and net in the other we would jump overboard. The weight of the rock would get us to the seabed quickly and we would collect sea urchin, squid and octopus for the French tourists waiting on the beach. This would give us additional money to buy food for the dogs. Don't get me wrong, my parents weren’t short of a few bob and I always got toys and stuff like that, but the two things I knew I would never get from them was, one: money to feed the dogs and two: their valuable time. These sources of income only lasted for about a year, as I nearly drowned going down too deep and it’s only because Marcos pulled me out of the sea, that I am still here today. I lost my nerve after that.

Marcos was what can be described as a typical gypsy boy. He could not read or write and would steal absolutely anything. His father was a very aggressive man with loads of kids. The family would sometimes sleep in a ruined finca opposite my house, which is where we met. When we first met Marcos was very afraid of dogs and always kept his distance, but over the next few months I was to change that.

Marcos was older and much stronger than I was and I must admit that I became quite reliant upon him. He knew what to eat in the mountains and could always find fresh water. He was an excellent hunter of fish and rabbits, using a bow that he had made himself. It was always irritating how successful he was at catching fish. We were fishing this one evening in some shallow water and I was in the water trying to position myself with my spear. I was determined to be the one to catch the fish that day. Marcos was standing on the rocks motionless his bow pulled back and looking like some kind of Greek statue. The fish was cornered, surely this was going to be mine! The glare of the sun on the water caused me to lose sight of the fish for a second, the next thing I knew Marcos’ arrow struck me in the leg. I can remember seeing the fish dart past me and thinking, that’s the last fish I will ever see as a I will certainly die. The sight of the arrow sticking into my leg caused me to panic and I immediately pulled it out, leaving a gaping hole. Amazingly it hadn’t hit a blood vessel and it hardly bled, which is just as well, as I should never have pulled it out. Marcos once again helped me and we limped to the nearest house, which took us two hours, from where we driven to the hospital in Denia.

Some friends of my parents opened a ski school in Benidorm, they had a son the same age as me, called Paul and a pet monkey called Juanita. Marcos and I would help Paul's father on the beach for a bit of pocket money. I didn’t realize it at the time, but taking Marcos with me to that beach was to change his life beyond belief. The three of us became great friends and we would often walk to some waterfalls in the mountains, where we would spend many happy hours swimming and playing. The waterfalls were called Fuentes De Algar and situated about ten kilometers back from the coast. It meant a long walk through the valley but it was a fruitful one. I mean this quite literally, as we would often find ourselves surrounded by orange, lemon and grapefruit trees. As you neared the waterfalls, we would come across ‘nispero’ trees (medlar trees akin to apple trees) and banana trees. Nispero trees produced a very sweet yellow fruit and were one of my favorites. The water was cool, pure and well utilized by the local farmers, by means of irrigation channels to get the much-needed water to their crops. The water came from deep within the mountain and was crystal clear. Large rocks stood in places along the banks, their sharpness and rugged strength pacified and made smooth by centuries of passing water. Deep pools at the top of the cliff provided a natural swimming pool. Many different trees, along with bamboo, grew along the banks of the river with large dragonflies hovering in their protective shade. At the edge of the cliff, the water cascaded thirty feet into another large pool. The noise filled the air and the cool mist against our skin was like a gentle caress from Mother Nature herself. Just down from the waterfall, there were a couple of farmhouses and a single dirt track road, which was used by donkeys and carts, was the only way in. A small shack had been built near the falls by some of the locals and from time to time, families would come and eat their paella at this beautiful location. It wasn’t long before we noticed tourists coming in their hire cars. We would run and hide behind the trees and wait for them to go, before once again plunging our naked bodies into the deep pools. The visits from tourists became more frequent and the farmers began selling fruit at the roadside. We even posed a couple of times for photo’s for the tourists, but little did I know just how much they were going to change our secret place. It was always hard to leave this little paradise in the mountains and take the long walk home, down the valley and back into the hot sun.

The business in Benidorm belonging to Paul’s dad was becoming very busy and we had great fun on his speedboat, helping him teach the tourists to water-ski. Juanita the monkey would sit on our shoulders in the boat. The boat would often bank sharply to the right or left and Juanita would lean over as if she was driving the boat herself. She was great fun and was very close to Paul’s dad. Paul’s parents lived in Alfaz in an old converted Finca. They often invited us for tea, when we would all sit around a large wooden table. Juanita had her place as well and was, for the most part, very well behaved. However, I do recall one time when all the food had been laid out on the table and she was very impatiently waiting for her dinner. Russell’s mum put my food, which included some very hot new potatoes, in front of me. As quick as lightning, Juanita leant over, grabbed one of the potatoes and stuffed it into her mouth. She did not bargain for the heat of the potato and very quickly spat it out, at the same time running about and jumping in the air!

As the months passed by, it was apparent that Paul’s mum and dad had grown really fond of Marcos. He would sometimes stay for weekends and even went on holiday to Portugal with them. I'm not sure how or why, but my father called me into the lounge one day and informed me that Marcos would be living with Paul’s mum and dad permanently. I was so pleased, as I knew that they would give him all the things he had never had before. As the weeks passed by, I saw less and less of him. His new guardians, being extremely academic themselves, valued a sound education and sent him and Paul to a special school in Madrid. Marcos excelled in everything he did, he was a strong sportsman and an intelligent student; both he and Paul went on to University in Madrid. However, after all that Marcos had been through, his life was to end in tragedy. I learned some time after returning to England, that both he and Paul were killed in a tragic car accident on their way home from Madrid. Although they are both gone now, the happy times we spent at the waterfalls and on the boat that belonged to Paul’s father, will never be forgotten and at the sound of falling water, their voices and laughter still echo within me.

It was a turning point for me when mum and dad decided to go on holiday for two weeks and leave me with some friends of theirs, I thought this was great! When the cat’s away, the mice will play. Mike and Jan lived just down the road; they were a middle-aged couple spending six months in Spain. They had no children and were certainly unprepared for a wild boy like me, within two days I was driving them to despair. Disappearing all day with the dogs and coming home after dark. Mum and dad had become used to me doing this and it suited them for me to amuse myself, without getting in their way.

Despite my parents relaxed attitude towards me, I had never really been allowed to stay out with the dogs overnight, so I thought this would be the ideal opportunity, after all what harm could it possibly do? I knew that this particular evening some gypsy friends of mine, whom I hadn’t seen for a long time, were camped in the valley. Troy and I made our way up the hill to meet the rest of the pack. We met up and we followed them to a village called Altea. This proved to be a bad move, as once again I was blamed for bringing them into the village and the Guardia Civil police made me take the pack out and back into the hills. The pack finally settled down after killing a stray goat, that despite a brave defense, had had little chance against my friends and they devoured her within minutes. For the first time some of the dogs were aggressive towards me, as my curiosity at the kill got me a bit too close. One of the males ran over to me and as he did, I lay down on the floor and buried my face into the ground. I lay there for some time, with him standing over me, growling by my face, but there was no way I was going to make eye contact. The show of teeth and glazed eyes was the only way of telling me to stay away and by this time I knew and understood their body language very well and I did as I was told.

Lying down at the edge of the pack, it was interesting to watch one of the more dominant dogs appearing to be offering food to the submissive males. At first I thought that this was an incredibly kind gesture, the dog gently placed a piece of the carcass next to the other dog and turned his back on him. He stood their stiff as a board, his eyes rolled back, watching every move and then the other dog nervously sniffed the food and went to take a bite. As he did the dominant male pounced on him, ragged him and saw him off. Within seconds he was doing the exact same thing again, this time with a different dog. On every occasion he was setting the other dogs up. The more novice dogs would make the mistake of taking the food, but the experienced ones would just move out of the way and avoid the situation altogether. This was done to make it quite clear which of the dogs was the strongest and everyone knew its position within the pack.

Troy and I made our way to the gypsy camp leaving the pack behind. The usual welcome was given and I had my first taste of black tobacco. It was disgusting, but from then on I would always find myself trying it more and more with each visit and I actually came to enjoy it. The evening passed with songs and stories, they all wanted to talk to me and tell me about themselves. This was sometimes done through songs and I am sure was made up as they went along. After that I fell asleep by the fire with Troy at my side.

At sunrise, at the cockerels called, I woke up feeling stiff and stinking of smoke. The orange sun cast its rays onto my village below and it suddenly dawned on me that Mike and Jan might be missing me. I immediately began to run back home, down the hill, falling over twice, grazing my hands and knees. I arrived at the front door and waited for a second before knocking. My heart was pounding, not just from exertion, but also with anticipation of what they were going to do to me.

Mike answered the door: "Thank God, Jan he's back”, he said.

Jan arrived at the door, looked at my hand and knees, put her arms around me and pulled me into a warm embrace. Jan was a very attractive, well-endowed woman and it was the closest I had ever been to a woman’s cleavage, it was quite nice I must say and was a source of fantasy for many months. All was forgiven and I promised not to do it again, well for a while anyway!

I must admit that after my encounter with Jan’s cleavage my mind did divert a little to mountains of a different nature and my interest in the opposite sex increased. I was only thirteen and I had had very little contact with people my own age, let alone the opposite sex. I found myself walking up and down the beach with Troy, looking at the girls. If I looked at them, they would show no interest. So, having asked for some advise from a friend, he suggested that it might help if I brushed my hair and had a wash from time to time, and can you believe it, he told me to leave the dogs in the hills as they made me smell! Well, girls looked nice, but they weren’t that nice and besides, I liked the way I looked and smelled.

I can remember many pleasant evenings lying by a campfire, the dogs lying down around me like patients waiting to be de-ticked. Most of the dogs were covered in them and it had become an important ritual. At times there were so many of these ticks that I wondered if there would be any blood left in the dog! A local farmer had shown me the best way of removing them: a hot cinder from the fire pressed against the abdomen of the tick, would result in a gentle hiss and the offender would be gone. The end of a lit cigarette, which gave much the same result, later replaced this. The dogs accepted me doing this to them with amazing trust. Some of the ticks were very close to their eyes, but despite this, they would hold themselves steady for me.

Mum and dad returned home with the usual presents and no mention was made of my behavior. We quickly settled back into a routine, until it was time for me to go back to school. For the first two weeks I got away with playing truant, but my father became suspicious and all hell broke loose when dad realized that he had been paying for months for a private school, which I had not been attending. It was decided at that point that something needed to be done about my education however, I was not sure yet what that would be. I was pulled from the school, until it could be decided what to do. At that time, my father seemed very distant and depressed. I think he knew then, that he would have to take me back to Britain for my education and take me away from my dogs. I'm not sure whether it was the thought of him leaving Spain, or the knowledge of how it would surely affect me taking me away. That Christmas it was decided that we would visit England and our family. This was the only time dad missed England and it was thought that this visit would cheer him up. I was very excited at the thought of tasting English sweets and having a game of football on grass. Dad wanted to drive across Spain, up to Barcelona, across to Zaragoza and then on to Santander, where we would catch a ferry to Plymouth. It was great to see the different parts of Spain and the three-day trip on the ferry was a real adventure. The sea in the Bay of Biscay was so rough, that we had to stop and rescue the crew of a yacht, I couldn't wait to tell everyone that I was on that ferry, it was in all the papers!

We stayed in a magnificent hotel, called the Tuition Glen, in Bournemouth. It was a grand hotel and it felt very strange having to wear so many clothes and shoes all the time. Mum made me have a haircut and I kept myself well groomed, so as not embarrass them. I even met a young girl called Jenny and she gave me a kiss, which was great until she poked her tongue into my mouth and that made me feel sick. She wrote to me afterwards, but once I got back to the dogs I forgot all about her.

I remember that the journey on the way home in the car seemed to go on forever, we had had a good time in England, but I just wanted to get back. My dad got pulled over by a traffic cop and he was trying to argue with him using me to translate. The only Spanish my father could speak was uno café con leche, which wasn't much use in this particular situation. I tried to explain to my father that it was no use arguing with the policeman and that he had to pay the fine. Reluctantly my father paid the fine, still mumbling as he counted out the pesetas into the policeman’s hand. Poor mum was trying to navigate on the way and managed to get us lost. She was rapidly dismissed to the rear seat and I was promoted to navigator. To make matters worse we had a puncture and when it came to mechanics my dad didn't have a clue. He was an accomplished businessman, but hopeless with his hands and I could hear him struggling with the tyre.

"Do you want a hand dad?” I said.

"No, stay in the car!" his tone of voice indicated that his blood pressure levels were rising.

I waited for a few minutes, listening to his moaning and cursing; I decided to see what was happening and to see if I could help. It was obvious to me that dad was trying to put the tyre on backwards, so I stepped in to show him. This action gained what psychologists would call a negative response; I would call it a stinging slap on the back of the legs! I was sent back to the car in disgrace immediately. After a few minutes dad returned to the car, the wheel was in place and we were ready for the rest of our journey. It was the first time in many years that dad had slapped me and I was almost too shocked to cry. We had only been driving a couple of minutes, when dad pulled the car over, looked straight at me and apologized for his actions. This made me feel a lot better and the story of how his son showed him how to change a wheel was often told to friends at the dinner table.

Eventually, after traveling across Spain on the journey from hell, we arrived home. The sight of the familiar mountains around the village raised our spirits and we all quickly got back into the usual routine. The need to sort out my education was still at the forefront of my parent’s mind but for the moment at least, I could return to my dogs.  The very next day I made my way up the mountain behind us with Troy, to see if I could find a trace of the dogs. To my horror lying on the floor, were the telltale signs of a recent shoot, there were spent shotgun cartridges all over the place. I could feel myself starting to panic; every rock on the mountainside began to resemble the shape of a fallen friend. Running and scrambling up the mountain, I could find no sign of the dogs, my imagination began to run away with me and I was sure they were all dead. Tired and full of guilt for being away from them, I returned to the house. Troy, who had been staying with our neighbors, seemed to sense my emotion and never left my side. As the days passed, I asked some of the farmers around the area if they had seen the dogs. This was very awkward for me, I had long fallen out of their favor, as they blamed me for helping the dogs and wanted them dead. I was very sad about this situation, the shepherds in the area showed me many of the mountain tracks and had been very kind to me, but I could not help myself where the dogs were concerned and they could not believe how anyone could bear them any consideration. Despite my efforts, no one seemed to know how many of the dogs had been killed. About a week and a half passed, when I came upon a gruesome discovery. Troy and I were walking down the mountain, when just by chance I could see a large blackened area on the side of the hill. Thinking it was left by some of my gypsy friends, I rushed over; Troy ran on ahead and was sniffing at the fire. As I approached I could see it was full of half-burnt, rotting carcasses, the smell was terrible and they were covered in flies. I called Troy away and as he moved I got a better look: they were the carcasses of dogs! I fell to my knees and wept uncontrollably, then fighting for breath I began the throw rocks on top of them. It took me all afternoon and as the sun began to set behind the mountain, I finally made my way home. My parents became worried when they saw the state I was in and I told them what had happened. I could not eat and became very depressed; my dad was so worried, he drove me into the hills to look for the rest of the pack. This was the first time he had shown any interest in what I was doing and this was a true measure of his concern for me.

I passed each day walking across the hills, whistling my call to the dogs. They knew my call and would always come if they heard me. As the days went by, I was starting to give up hope when, to my amazement, they just suddenly appeared right in my village, rummaging in the bins and scavenging for food. I immediately recognized them and could notice that some were absent. The shoot had scared them off for a while, but now my friends were back. I felt so happy, that I ran up the street shouting and laughing. Some tourists that were walking past looked at me as if I was the local village fool, I didn’t care, I knew things would get back to normal now.

The village was becoming more and more popular with tourists visiting from Benidorm and the whole feel of the place was starting to change. One positive thing about this was that there were more English girls about. Not there was anything wrong with Spanish girls, but in those days their parents were very strict and it was impossible to strike up any conversation with them, especially with the way I looked. However, this was not the case with English girls and I found them taking an interest in me. I was far too shy to approach girls at that time, but a very petty girl called Sam, who was there on holiday, asked me if I would take her to the village cinema. I couldn’t believe my luck, as she was much older than I was. She was sixteen, had long blond hair and oh yes, those beautiful mountains! We had a great time watching our man Flint with James Coburn; little did I know then that one-day I would be working with him. Because of the increasing number of English visitors, they would show a film in English. The cinema consisted of a large rendered brick wall painted white and about 100 folding chairs, which were placed in neat lines. A man, holding a very long bamboo pole, would sit next to the wall. His sole purpose was to dislodge any lizards that had been attracted to the light and were crawling across the screen. Sometimes he would fall asleep and the whole audience would whistle and jeer for him to wake up, so that he could dislodge some animal from the screen. The censorship was very strong during Franco’s time and all the violence and sex had been cut from the film. The cuts were very obvious and would therefore draw further angry whistling and jeering from the crowd. With the noise from the crowd and the sound of chewing and spitting of sunflower seeds, that would cover the floor like snow, it was amazing how we ever managed to follow the film at all!

At the end of the evening, we walked back to my house; it was very dark, my parents were out at a party and I could feel myself getting very nervous. As we got to my front door, she grabbed hold of me and gave me an incredible kiss; it lasted for ages and as she pulled away I stood their with pecked lips and eyes closed, as if in some kind of trance. That was it, I was in love and the bombshell was that it was a farewell kiss, as she was going home tomorrow! Still dazed from the kiss, I watched her walk into the night waving goodbye. I couldn’t believe it; this kiss had reached parts that other kisses had never reached before, what was I to do? A few minutes passed, I just had to go after her, so I ran out of the house as fast as I could to catch her. I ran down the hill and just as I got to the corner of the main road, a car sped past and hit me on the leg; it tossed me to the edge of the road like a ball. As I lay on the road in agony, I could see the car stop; the driver looked at me and then simply drove off. Luckily nothing was broken, I managed to crawl back into the house and lay on my bed crying whilst holding my leg. I honestly thought that God had punished me that day for feeling the way I did. That was definitely the last thought of girls I was to have until my return to England.

It was 1976, Franco was ill and Spain was like a flower, waiting to bloom. Franco had held Spain together for many years, but the cost had been very high. No freedom of speech, censorship and having to invite the local policemen to parties would all become a thing of the past.  It was also to be the time that I was to go back to England. I knew something was wrong when my parents insisted that I go for a meal with them; dad quietly informed me over a meal of paella that we would be going back to England, as my reading and writing skills were appalling. I rushed out of the restaurant, knocking over a table with drinks as I passed; I then ran to get Troy and straight on into the hills, to my friends, where I stayed out all night. In the morning I returned home, where my Father agreed to let me stay out during the night sometimes, until we left, but I had to flash him twice with an old car headlight that Marcos and I had taken up to the hills. I often think back to that time now and wonder why on earth I didn’t put up more of a fight to stay. If I had known then, that I would not return for many years, I would have savored every minute of those last weeks.

When I told my friends that I was going back to England, they asked me how long I would be gone for.

Naively, I said it wouldn’t be long, just until my dad was happy with my schooling; in my mind I knew that he would not be able to stay away for long. As the time drew nearer, I had to find a home for Troy.  A shy plump boy, called Paul, had moved into the village with his grandmother. His parents were dead and I thought that Troy would be good company for him. Although I hadn’t spent much time with Paul, he had always had a good rapport with Troy, but was weary of the mountain dogs. On the dreaded day that I had to take Troy over and leave him with Paul, I felt so sad that I could not eat. Nothing was said, for I could not speak; he just stared at me. Paul handed me a book that he had written himself, called the mini Ha Ha book and which was full of jokes.

“This will cheer you up” he said, as he handed it to me. I took it and placed it in my pocked without looking at it. I have read it many times since then and still possess it to this day.

Turning my back on Paul and Troy for the last time, listening to his frantic barking and scratching at the window, it seemed that he knew that it was the last time we were to see each other. Just as I had reached their gate, I heard an almighty crash. I turned my head to see Troy running towards me, with his nose bleeding. He had pushed through a glass door, smashing it and had managed to escape with just a small cut on his nose. Once again I said good-bye, this time securing Troy on a lead.

Although I was feeling sad, I always thought that it would only be for a couple of years before I would be back. The mountain dogs had survived before without me; they were very independent and perhaps I would miss them more than they would miss me. I just kept telling myself that I would be back and that we would return to Spain regularly to visit. Looking at the mountains for the last time, I closed my eyes and stored their beauty in my mind, as if to take a photograph. All our belongings were put into storage and preparations were made for our journey home. Once again we were to travel across Spain, this time with more success than the first time, having learned from our previous trip. As the car pulled away from our village, I sat gazing out of the rear window, cherishing every last familiar sight. My eyes began to well up, so I turned my thoughts to the trip on the ferry, which I was quite looking forward to. I must admit that, although sad at the prospect of leaving Spain, I was keen to improve my education. I had seen English Schools during our last visit and was enthralled at the facilities at their disposal.

We arrived in England during a heat wave, the weather was beautiful and I could not help but be moved by the beauty of the green fields and trees. Our destination was a small town in Hampshire, called New Milton; it was here that I was to enter a time of my life that can only be described as the Dark Age. My first few weeks had been quite good, the weather wasn’t as bad as I had feared and Paul had written to say that Troy was well and settling down. Although I was missing the mountains, I still felt that this was just a long holiday and that I would be returning soon. Mum and dad always told me that they would be returning as soon as I had become more stable with my education and wanderings. My parents didn’t want a property in England, so as a temporary measure they brought a mobile home, or as I would call it a bloody caravan and oh God, how I hated it!

I know what you might be thinking “spoiled brat”, but I felt like a bird in a cage and longed for my freedom. The summer of 1976 was very hot and as far as the weather was concerned, there had been little difference to Spain. As the summer drew to an end and the first of the bad weather and darker nights drew in, I could begin to feel my heart filling slowly, as if with lead.

The school that I was to go to was very big; there were more pupils in one class, than there had been in the whole of my last school! The school stood just off the road; its tall and modern square shaped buildings stood like giant Rubik cubes. As I arrived on the first day, there was little life outside in the vast tarmac playground that surrounded the buildings. After a brief chat with the headmaster, I was taken to my class. As I walked behind him, a waft of school dinners began to fill the corridor; it smelled good and helped to relax me.

I was very excited on my first day; I had been well groomed and was wearing my new uniform. The headmaster was a very nice man and he showed me around; I was amazed at all the technology, science equipment, and sports facilities. I might have looked normal on the outside, but it didn’t take long for the other kids to notice how different I was. Sitting in the classroom, I found myself hopelessly lost. At first the teachers did their best to explain things to me, but before long it was becoming very apparent that I was a time consuming nuisance. After a few days it was established, that I was years behind with my education and with my father’s permission, I would be put back a year. I was quite happy for this to happen, but in the eyes of the other kids I was a thick Spanish gypsy, who lived in a caravan. I had many good gypsy friends in Spain and felt no shame in talking about them; due to my naivety and lack of understanding of human nature, this was to prove a mistake. As the weeks passed, I began to miss Spain more and more; no one spoke to me and I was starting to be subjected to bullying. I found myself arriving at the school gates dreading the day and before long, I was playing truant again on a regular basis. No matter how hard I tried; I just could not understand what the teachers were saying.

There were no dogs, no space and it was cold and wet. I felt very angry; I blamed my parents for bringing me to this terrible place. The soles of my feet started to shed sheets of skin and for the first time in many years I had to wear shoes. Sometimes I would take off all my clothes and run across the woods to feel the wind on my skin; even the rain gave me the sense of freedom that I once had. I decided to try to get money so that I could run away from home. I stole money once and made my way to the docks in Southampton, where I asked a man if there was any way of getting on a boat to northern Spain. He was a nice man and told me to wait where I was, so that he could arrange it. I waited with great expectation for 20 minutes, however the man returned with a policeman who took me home. Many attempts followed, but each time I was either picked up by the police, or reported as missing. All the local police knew me by my first name and I had started to become rather predicable. Eventually I started to settle down and became resigned to my situation; I was tired of sleeping in doorways and telephone boxes. When I was away, I would only drift from place to place in a trance like state, my mind would drift into a haze of memories and I was unable to plan or focus on anything. At that time, my life was like a pile of sand at the shoreline and each wave was taking a part of it away to the sea. Eventually the pile diminished, until it was no more. There was nothing left of the old me; everything I was, no longer existed.

The battle to get what I had lost was about to begin...................................................................................................................................