A fleeting shade...

I am still alive. This blog is not yet done. Updates coming soon...

The New Routine

There is an organised schedule here which makes it much easier to get into a routine. We're up for breakfast at 8:30 then out to work around 9ish. Get those beautiful chestnuts gathered up until lunch at 3pm. After that, the day is yours.

Buen Vino is primarily a guest house rather than a farm - like everywhere else so far - so sometimes we're expected to help serve the guests in the evening. Lucky for us there aren't many booked to stay at the minute so we have plenty of free time.

Four of us wwoofers are staying in a cottage down the road from the main house. It's a great little place except for several leaks and a bit of a fly infestation in the bedroom. I'm happy though; we have heaters for the cold nights and fine comfortable beds.

The other day, we finished harvesting early due to a torrential downpour and brought ourselves back to life by sitting at the fire and roasting panfuls of freshly-gathered chestnuts. Knob of butter, pinch of salt - delicious!

So far the food has lived up to my hopes. Particular highlights have been goat's cheese on toast with honey dressing; succulent Iberian pork stroganoff with creamy potato bake and green beans; potato curry and pork curry with an amazing mango, banana and pickled lemon chutney. And, of course, plenty of buen vino.

After dinner, we had a good chat with hosts Sam and Jeannie. They're nice folks and have some great tales to tell. I was impressed to hear when Jeannie was younger she travelled across the USA, squatted in Hugh Hefner's mansion and went on a VIP tour of Disneyworld with the Osmond brothers! There was a glint of mischief in her eyes as she recounted the experience, no doubt recalling some outlandish shenanigans which she wasn't so keen to have us all know about. 

Donny Osmond, or Justin Bieber?

The glitz and glamour of California seemed a universe away as we shuffled back down the silent moonlit lane to our cottage. It's no bad thing. I'm looking forward to a relaxing weekend of quietude in the leafy hills.

Third Time Lucky

Finca Buen Vino, near Aracena

When I close my eyes I see chestnuts. It's only been two days but many, many conkers have been gathered.

So far, I'm happy with this new farm. We were collected from Aracena bus station by Jeannie Chesterton, one of our new hosts, and whisked away to their hilly farm estate. Originally from Scotland, Jeannie is an amazing cook. She holds cookery courses at the house several times a year. I was looking forward to my dinner!

Later we met husband Sam, a writer, and their son Charlie, who is also a qualified chef. 

Our reception was much more relaxed and down to earth than that of previous hosts. We grabbed a grateful bite of breakfast then headed out to find the other wwoofers and get harvesting. 

Another immediately notable difference here is the climate. Although we aren't too far from hot, dry Seville, there is a lot of rain in these parts. The area is at such an altitude that it has its own micro-climate. I'm told that it gets the most rainfall in Spain. Looking up some figures, it seems that December in Aracena can see over 300mm of precipitation. That's almost half what "rainy" Manchester gets in a year. Rain in Spain.

Needless to say, it was raining when we started our great chestnut endeavour. I was never more glad of my trusty mac-in-a-sac. Finding our wwoofing companions James and Mons already tackling a steep, chestnut-studded slope, I tightened my hood and became one with the conkers.

Mude aber Stark

Julius told me an amusing joke:

Why does a bear have red eyes?

So it can hide in cherry trees.

How does a bear get down from a cherry tree?

It floats down on a leaf.

A real thigh-slapper!

The rest of our stay in Tarifa was spent walking the beaches, wandering around the quaint old town looking for a decent place to eat, and trying to get coffee from shady dealers on street corners. No luck.

We did however manage to arrange our next farm. There's a place up in the mountains near Seville with lots of chestnuts to harvest. Let's do it.

Strollin'

Playa de los Lances is a satisfying beach. At the eastern end there is one of those outdoor gym areas which seem to be everywhere in Spain. Basic metal exercise frames painted in bright primary colours which spin or pivot. I think they're designed more for old people than anyone else.

Walking along the water's edge I lose myself in the retreating waves around my feet and the amazing shadows underneath. Amazing visuals as the sunlight reaches the ground, moving through the ripples and bubbles of the sea onto the miniature landscape of the sand beneath. Like cells through a microscope.

An old man came wandering along. He was clutching his cane behind his back, leaning forward with every step. He reminded me of that old man on the mountain in Legend of Zelda: Link to the Past. I had to nod to him as we passed. He placidly returned the gesture, but didn't show me a safe path up through the mountains.

Last night the four of us found a bench overlooking the Strait and the lights of Tangier in the distance. Darkness had fallen but there were still a handful of men fishing from the shore. We had a little wine and cheese as we watched the ferry coming in. "Glug, glug, glug. Die Piraten saufen wieder..."

If you're not into (or can't afford) wind/kite-surfing then prepare for a quiet time of it in Tarifa.

Here you can see Morocco. And a kitten.

Tourists in Tarifa

Thanks to Julius and Katja, I have a few delightful pictures to share. I've added some to previous posts Amongst Olives, Animal Bullies and Rockface.

We're now having a little break in Tarifa, staying in a beautiful Moroccan-style apartment. Buzzel's finca had its wonders - like the outdoor bathroom where you could gaze across to Africa - but this place is a welcome spell of hot-water, flushing-toilet luxury. It's also great to have some other (relatively) sane people to talk to.

Tarifa is a pleasant little town clearly focussed on being a wind and kite-surfing hotspot. Its other tourist attractions are clean sandy beaches, whale-watching tours, and the ferry to Tangier. The ferry crosses a time zone so, as it only takes an hour, you arrive in Morocco at the same time you left Spain.

The town's other claim to fame is supposedly being Europe's most southern point. Strolling along the seafront we came across a narrow land-bridge leading to Isla de Tarifa. Despite the tiny island being off-limits, the bridge is worth wandering along. As you walk south, you have the Mediterranean Sea on your left and the Atlantic Ocean on your right. You are between the Pillars of Hercules!

There was a striking difference between the two seas. The Med seemed calm and inviting, the Atlantic ferocious and formidable. Wind-surfers were sailing out into the Med's waters while kite-surfers flew all over the place in the Atlantic, seemingly at the mercy of the capricious Levante wind and the thrashing crush of the cold waves. I could taste the sea salt on my lips as I watched them, a touch baffled.

Barely

Buzzel seemed offended by our decision to leave and wouldn't give us a lift into town. So we had to wait around all day for one of the Swiss women. 

I was beginning to wonder if we would be allowed to go - maybe Buzzel was concocting some nefarious scheme to enslave us and force us to clean his infested barns and caravans for the rest of our lives. 

I was cleaning up cow dung when he appeared on the path in front of his house and stood laughing at me with hands on hips. 

He was completely naked. 

I mustered a horrified failure of a smile before quickly scurrying away, attempting not to look terrified. My mind was filled with nightmares.

Thankfully, none of them came true and to my immense relief, we escaped. The journey with the Swiss woman was a little edgy - she seemed guarded and mistrustful. As she was one of Buzzel's subjects, I answered her probing questions with careful, measured responses. She dropped us off in Tarifa and I revelled in an invigorating wave of relief.

We met up with our German friends Julius and Katja, who were also wwoofing, and agreed to share an apartamento for a few days.

A Glimpse of Reality

We stayed for the best part of a week. For company there was the mad King Buzzel himself, his Swiss women, the simpleton neighbours and a Chinese Chi-healer who I never encountered. I wouldn't be surprised if he only existed on Planet Buzzel and was undetectable to the rest of us lowly humans.

It was like a breath of fresh air one day when a sane Englishman turned up. It was no coincidence that he chose to drop by on an afternoon when Buzzel was out and about somewhere. 

Philip was the man who built the yurts. The various carpentry equipment lying around was his. That explained why Buzzel had zero interest in working with it. It was also Philip who signed the place up to the wwoofing scheme. So it was his description we had read online. He was the host. Unfortunately, we were too late: had we come a year or so earlier we could have learnt some real skills and had the chance to see some cool places in the area. 

What a filthy old liar Buzzel is, keeping that out of date description online so he can attract free labourers.  

Even worse, when Philip decided to move on from Planet Buzzel, the evil emperor tried to claim Philip's yurts and equipment as his own property. What gratitude after years of free usage. Buzzel was obviously too comfortable making money from Philip's work. Sadly, a legal dispute is now underway.

After my experiences, I can't say I was terribly surprised to hear this. The crazed solitary "Buddhist" suddenly turned on a generous companion in order to further his own monetary welfare. His self-serving hypocrisy is repulsive.

My stay on Planet Buzzel had been a remarkable one. I was now more than ready to head back down to Earth.

Eagle-eyed

The weather has calmed and it's quiet now. I realise this is another isolated place. Three Swiss women come during the week and run a small aromatherapy business in one of the buildings here. Who knows what kind of arrangement they have with the dirty old despot. We don't see much of them. 

A couple who live on a neighbouring piece of land also come over now and again to do some cleaning. Cleaning what, I don't know. Maybe they follow Buzzel around his house, mopping up the hypocrisy as it accumulates in his wake. The guest house and other yurts are all empty. There is no one else around.

With fewer people about my attention moves onto nature and my surroundings. The light brown rolling mountains dotted with grey and green, and of course the white of the ubiquitous wind turbines. The trees and reeds by the lake, all facing away from the wind, permanently angled, lop-sided. The gentle ripples of the wind on the water. Tentative birdsong and grasshopper sounds, the occasional bell or chime on the wind. 

There are turtles in the lake and I've seen a few raptors soaring high above, seemingly motionless as they glide through the air. One eagle even floated down to perhaps fifteen metres, casting its eye around the lake here. I stood silently in awe of its majesty as it made a few slow circles then effortlessly glided away towards the mountainside. It took a while for the little swallows to return to their water-skimming.

Cleaning

This morning I woke in the dusty yurt to the sound of some strange snuffling outside. I thought maybe Buzzel was creeping around in the bushes. Fortunately it was only some leftover cows and a bull. They were mocking us with their presence. Still, it was better than having that crackpot lurking around while we slept.

The mornings here are cold, wet and very windy. Yesterday I was awoken by a dramatic thunder and lightning spectacle. It's no wonder there are so many wind turbines. I've never seen so many. In every direction the surrounding mountains are crowned with lines of the giant white machines. There are hundreds. The famous "Levante" wind is a force to be reckoned with and it often results in the weather changing instantaneously.

The rain is also remarkable. It seems the wind whips it up from the Strait of Gibraltar and then violently dumps it straight back down again when it reaches the higher ground. Step outside for a moment and you're immediately saturated. I can see the sense in creating that barn kitchen. At the moment, it's yet another task just trying to scramble some eggs without everything turning into rain soup.

Today we were kept busy checking the tyres and various levels of Buzzel's BMW, then cleaning the interior. Spraying air to loosen the dirt then vacuuming it up was moderately successful, but I think filth is permanently imprinted into everything here at a cellular level.

A power cut resulted in us having to fire up the gas-powered back-up generator. Eventually the rain stopped so we finished with the car and busied ourselves with the joyful task of cleaning up what the cows had left behind. The aftermath soiling the path.

Cows

Today we were cleaning up a big metal barn full of every bit of wooden or metal junk you can imagine, the more potential for injury the better. One corner of it is supposed to become a kitchen. This would replace our existing "outdoor kitchen", which consists of a metal table, portable gas cooking stove, a few utensils and a hosepipe suspended above a ceramic bowl. The barn is pulsing with filth so it's going to be a hell of a job.

We were doing what we could - which unfortunately isn't the experienced handyman job Buzzel seems to expect - when we spied a stray cow in the yard. Mark went out to open the gate and let it join the rest of its herd outside in the neighbouring fields. 

I'm sweeping up rat droppings when I vaguely hear some noise. I step into the doorway to see what's going on. The image I'm presented with is of Mark walking slowly towards me, shaking his head dejectedly, while a blurred brown mass of about forty cows streaks past in the background - up the driveway and into the compound and gardens beyond. Blank incomprehension turns into astonishment, then into frustration, then incredulous wonder at how Mark could have messed up so colossally. Instead of one cow out, forty were in. I decide to take action, clueless as to the size of the task that lay ahead.

After perhaps half an hour of dashing about waving a stick, screaming obscenities and plunging knee-deep into a shitbog in a crazed attempt to herd the cows back towards the gates, my bitter distress at the lack of progress transforms into amused appreciation at the absurdity of the situation. This is reinforced all the more hilariously when Buzzel comes bursting out of nowhere onto the path in front of me, brandishing a staff in both hands above his head and ululating mad, foreign howls. Mangy old Fucker is of course at his heels, doing his part and barking his wizened lungs out at the huge brown beasts trotting around the lake in front.

If the compound is similar to a resistance refuge in Half-Life 2, this cinematic moment was like the old shotgun-wielding priest appearing out of the blue right at the moment when you're most in need of help.

He didn't make much difference though. We spent another short while roaming about in vain, chasing the surprisingly nimble animals. Eventually, we decided just to let them graze and relax for a bit. Then, later, it was easier to usher them out, calm and organised, using walkie-talkies like real handymen of the country.

Planet Buzzel: Refuge of the Swiss

I'm sleeping in a yurt by a small lake. It's located next to a scrap compound which is part of a small estate owned by an aging eccentric Buddhist hoarder called Buzzel. 

Swiss in origin, Buzzel is bald, lean, chicken-necked and has a pair of glassy eyes which look right through you. He's also nearly deaf and speaks as if he has false teeth. His mess of a dog, who Mark has named "Fucker", is grey, shaggy and filthy. He has a small patch of fur trimmed above his hind leg - Buzzel hasn't got around to doing the rest. Fucker's eyes are also like frosted glass. Worryingly, so are those of the semi-feral cats roaming about (including "Lisa Left-eye" who sits there squinting at us all day). I fear for my health around these creatures, Buzzel included.

When we arrived at his finca, I thought perhaps we had stumbled upon the lair of a madman. I've never seen a scrapyard like it: oil drums, wooden sleepers, bits of metal, huge transport containers, all sorts of old tools, equipment and machinery. Even a speedboat, tractor, caravans and some massive unidentifiable industrial machines just lying dormant around the place. And it's nearly all in filthy disrepair. It's a breathtakingly ridiculous place.

Things made a little more sense after Buzzel showed us the guest house on the hill. As our end of the territory is dirty, disused and dangerous, the guest house is clean, stylish and beautiful in a rustic farmhouse way. It also has the best views over the coastal mountains, the Strait of Gibraltar and the silhouette of Africa in the distance.

Once presented with this bigger picture of Buzzel's world, his motives and ideas became evident. He wants willing and able handymen to manage and maintain the behind the scenes work on the estate, enabling him to loosely supervise and thus enjoy his semi-retired Buddhist mechanic pastimes. Even better for him if they come as volunteers and all the compensation he needs to provide are groceries.

It's dishonest of him to lure wwoofers into a place which is obviously not an organic farm and which does not provide the advertised opportunity to learn green-woodworking. This is another pitfall to look out for when wwoofing: some listings are out of date or unverified.

Nevertheless, we decided to stick around on Planet Buzzel for at least a few days.

Planes, Trains & Autobuses

Up early for a fun day of travelling. It started with a walk to the station, then a train to the airport, a flight to Malaga, a bus to Marbella, a bus to Algeciras, and finally yet another bus to Tarifa. Needless to say we were a little tired upon arrival in the small town.

So much travelling between farms is far from ideal. However, we didn't have much choice due to our unexpected departure from our previous hosts. It's easy to see now how unprepared we had been and how much better it is to have alternative places and people already contacted.

Our host had told us to call him when we arrived in Tarifa. He wasn't answering his phone. I got in touch with a girl who worked on the farm who gave us some convoluted directions. We decided instead to rest for a while in a nearby café.

Mark produced a box of cigars from his bag and so we sat and smoked and watched the surfers and locals drifting around in the hot mid-afternoon sun. The situation felt pleasantly absurd.

A long while later, we reached our new host who collected us soon after. It turned out he had been in town all day but had forgotten his phone. In terms of organisation, another discouraging first impression.

FCB, Gaudi & Tony Montana

As luck would have it there was a football match on. Barcelona were playing Czech minnows Viktoria Plzeň in the Champions League. I managed to persuade Mark that a trip to Camp Nou would be worth the €50!

For me, it was. 75,000 people in the vast stadium was an astonishing spectacle. "El Cant del Barça", the club anthem, was sung before, during and after the match. The atmosphere was festive. 

In the end, Barcelona won 2-0 with Iniesta and Villa scoring. Predictably, Messi starred as he danced through the opposition's defence to the delight of the crowd. Even the pocket of Plzeň fans had the time of their life, jubilant despite the defeat. 

While in Barcelona it seems necessary to also have a look at La Sagrada Familia. Thinking it would be dramatically illuminated, we went after sunset. It wasn't. Nevertheless, up close you can still get a decent impression of its scale and detail. Mark thought it a monstrosity. I agree it is unpleasantly sinister, but its Art Nouveau grandeur is faintly compelling.

So, after many emails, we arranged our next farm. It's located near Tarifa, pretty much as far away in Spain as you could yet! 

Before leaving Barcelona, we encountered a character working at our hostel. This tall, tanned, Spanish stoner became ridiculously excited when I mentioned we were heading for Tarifa. He was jumping around the room. As it happens, he's an avid windsurfer and recently spent four years in the town. Apparently he's known as the "Tony Montana of Tarifa". His enthusiasm was outrageous as he waxed lyrical about the town and how jealous he was of us. I'm intrigued now to see how it lives up to his portrayal of a mystical, mythical place where anything incredible is possible.

Barcelona City Break

Just when I felt I was getting to know the ropes and making progress with the hosts, they dropped the charade. At a group meeting, they made it clear that some of us had to leave. Fair enough, there were too many people. However, this poor organisation was solely their fault so it was very disappointing to be indirectly asked to leave via unfair criticism and backhanded insults.

This is always the risk with non-contracted work. Objective fairness has to be observed by all parties otherwise it simply won't happen (or exploitation will occur).

With no alternative farm immediately arranged, we chose the logical course of action: city break! So off we went on our merry way to Barcelona.  

A few days in the city provided an impressive contrast to the previous ten on the farm. In particular La Rambla, which is bedlam. After the warm tranquillity of Sella, I felt like I'd been dropped into an icy whirlpool of noise and confusion. It's amazing how loud people can be.

Following a stroll down the slightly calmer Passeig de Gracia, past two of Gaudi's buildings, we wound up in El Barri Gòtic - the old city. We entered the quarter through a gap in the ancient Roman wall. Still preserved are the remains of the aquaduct which watered the settlement Barcino, as it was known.

The area now is a labyrinth of narrow passages which open onto plazas crammed with cafés, tourist shops and quaint artisan boutiques. We found a tapas bar and sampled some chorizo, tortilla and sangria. Pricey but delicious. A perfect madalena bun with apple and cream from a tiny bakery, followed by coffee and "focaccia xocolata", rendered the indulgence complete. 

It was a struggle to get back to my feet after that, but I was restored by the slow walk back up the hill to our hostel. That and the sight of a rigid yuppie fellow marching along with a tiny white fluffball of a dog trailing apathetically behind.

Animal bullies

Sleep at night is often disturbed by the dogs bolting past, barking at the top of their lungs, bouncing off the tent in their frenzied rush to chase whatever animal it is they've scented nearby. Sometimes I wonder if they do it just to mess with us.

Asleep in the tent one night, I slowly returned to consciousness. There was something fluffy moving across my face. As the surreal haze gradually cleared from my mind I realised it was one of the cats. The tent door was open a crack. She must have squirmed through and promptly snuggled up with me. Apparently I murmured "Thor" as I woke up with her on top of me. Thus, she is named. 

Thor comforted, sleep resumed. But later that night a horde of cats climbed onto the roof of the tent, depressing our ceiling chaotically low. At the same moment one of the dogs managed to shove her head through the door and rested it on the floor, motionless but for her eyes watching the squirming madness within.
 

Thor doing what she does best.

The Miller

Mark and I went for a wander around the hills to reflect on our options. On our way back to the farm, we passed by an old mill in the valley. It looked to have been converted into a house and was fed by an ancient stone canal system. As we hiked past, an old man appeared from nowhere and hailed us. In perfect Spanglish, we greeted each other and he introduced himself as Amable, the miller.

I felt like I had somehow slipped into a Cormac McCarthy novel. Amable, accompanied by his beautiful little cat Nica, launched into a speech about the centuries old mill, millennia old canals, and how dangerously unforgiving he is when anyone tries to dump rubbish nearby. He has spent several decades and many thousands restoring and maintaining the waterways. There was a mischievous spark in his eyes as he repeated his warning about respecting the land.

It seemed to me like there was more wisdom to this man. As we parted ways, I was contemplative of his simplicity, dedication, and stubbornness. I later heard from Mrs. Host that he was known to fire rifle shots in the air when he took a dislike to someone. 

Rockface

A routine has developed. The olive trees aren't quite ready to be harvested so the main task is to feed them. They like goat manure. A huge pile of which has been dumped on one of the terraces. So, armed with shovels, buckets and a wheelbarrow, the wwoofers get stuck in.

The manure has been sitting in the sun so long that it has mostly degraded to a fine brown powder. It gets up your nose and sticks to your sweaty skin. Before you know it flies are everywhere and you've turned into a giant walking turd. If you want to work on an organic farm, be prepared to get your hands (and everything else) filthy.

Julius with a fresh delivery.

In the evening, I had my first experience driving on the right side of the road. It was a good challenge: navigating a small van past a truck on a narrow winding mountain track. With no fence before the sheer drop. And a couple of Swedish rock climbers in the back quick-firing me questions about the Irish economy. No bother!

Spending so much time on a remote farm can feel isolating, especially for habitual urbanites. So it was refreshing to get out for a beer that night, even if it was just to the village. We were a gaggle of wwoofers and climbers, exchanging opinions about our various home countries and occupations.

Everyone seemed tired as, before long, conversation was replaced by The Angry Game. Fellow wwoofer Julius, from Germany, initiated this ridiculous entertainment: two people lock eye contact with angry expressions - you laugh you lose. The champion was probably Arvidh from Sweden whose face was simply closed, devoid of weakness, much like the cold, impenetrable rock he spends so many hours scaling.    

Amongst Olives

Despite the tense atmosphere, this is a wonderful place. The house is set on the dusty hillside near a handful of smaller casitas, various tool sheds, and a copse of pine trees. The hills roll on in every direction, with the village Sella visible in the south and the sea in the east. The steep slopes have been landscaped over centuries into terrace steps, now covered with olive and almond trees.

Extensive: the farmland and village beyond.

From the house, a narrow winding path leads up to the next terrace. Past the chicken coop and a vegetable garden lies our wwoofer room and tent. You can take steps down to the orchard below where tomatoes, avocados, oranges, lemons and even kaki (persimmon) are growing. There are two black dogs running about, mother and daughter, and at least nine cats. The seven chickens are eager to be released from their coop, then eager to go back in again. Perhaps they remember what happened to five of their friends when a rogue dog in the area recently chanced upon them.

One evening I was watering the vegetation when I experienced one of those moments where time seems to stop. The light from the setting sun caught the spray from the hose producing a vivid, glistening rainbow. The tapered mountainside beyond formed a fitting backdrop, harsh dry brown, with the olive trees patches of life against the dust.

Tips for harmonious wwoofing

The hosts had forgotten we were coming, hence the astonishment at our arrival. They were disorganised and had taken on more wwoofers than they could handle, hence their stress at our presence.

Both hosts and wwoofers alike can learn from this. Two important things to remember:

1 - Be organised. Keep a diary and document everything relevant to wwoofing (contact details; addresses; times and arrangements).

2 - Communicate. Everyone has different needs and expectations. The way to happiness is to be open and honest with those around you. If you're not comfortable with something, explain your feelings. Chances are there is an easy solution. If not, move on somewhere better!

This sounds like very basic advice but, as I've learnt first hand, these qualities are too often neglected.

Wwoofing Begins

Bewildered, Mark and I shovelled down a quick bite of lunch while attempting to remember the names of the handful of other wwoofers in the kitchen. It was an international mix, with young people from Sweden, Germany, USA and South Africa. 

We were then led out of the main house, up the winding path to our accommodation. This was, in theory, a wooden room extended on the back of the hosts' cottage. But it was clear on entering that the four beds were already claimed. Great stuff. We threw our packs down and set off to find our evasive hosts.

Assured that we would be sorted out, I was asked to get to work. I had hoped for a little time to settle in and rest up first, but if work was needed then I was happy to pitch in. Alas, my helpfulness was unappreciated by Mr. Host who I quickly found shouting in my face. I'd done what I was told, transferring several loads of almonds into a storage container, but this wasn't good enough. Supposedly we weren't meant to stop working whenever we'd finished a job...

The rest of the day passed largely without incident and was spent helping prepare dinner for a dozen guests. As well as the washing up, of course! I should mention that most smaller organic farms in Spain seem to also operate as guest houses. So there is plenty of hostel/catering style work.

We eventually finished for the night. It had been a stressful and exhausting day. We trudged back up the path, threw together a tent that had appeared for us, and fell asleep to the sound of chirping grasshoppers and snuffling dogs.

Welcome?

Sella, Spain

Sitting on the grass outside the wwoofers' shack in the mid-afternoon sunshine. Seeking shade, I've positioned myself half in a bush. The heat is intense for someone accustomed to the grey gloom of Ireland.

Three days since arrival. Spirits are a little higher after overcoming an unwelcome greeting from the hosts. The first clue of their attitude came when they collected Mark and me from the bus station - over an hour later than arranged.

No worries, I thought. However, my doubts only grew when we eventually arrived at the farm. Ushered into the kitchen, we were greeted with blank stares from the other wwoofers and borderline hostility from the husband of the host couple. What's going on?!

The Falcon has landed!

Welcome and bienvenido!

This page will be the home of the experiences and observations of an Irish 20-something as he wwoofs his way around Spain. That dubious verb stands for "World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms".

Check back very soon for updates.