Lost in translation

What more delicious comfort can there be to sweltering temperatures than succulence?

Lifting spuds and scything eye-height fennel (checking carefully for swallowtail caterpillars first, of course) are sticky summer agitators of brow and grumbling back. But we have the soothers of cool water and –mmmmmm – fresh figs.

Most unwisely, I cannot get enough of these purple tear-drops of yumminess, best devoured while perched on the balsa wall in the ochre light, grubby feet immersed, watching the martins and swallows skim and swirl in chattering delight. The robust fennel continues to spread, pleasingly, for we rejoice in the company of the butterflies. But, come July, when these perennial herbs that crowd the house begin to steal the view we carefully curl the blade around the fanning stalks, grasp and chop.

I was busy reaping a line that was overshadowing the tomatoes, aubergines and peppers when I suddenly had company; a noisy sparrow fledgling on my head. She moved, eventually, to my shoulder, was coaxed onto fingers and then into a quince tree. Maybe she could scent sweet figs. Maybe we had met before, because we are constantly releasing young from the chicken run netting at feeding time.

But let me tell you first of our Ella on television. She is 15 and at 5ft 11in she is rising to occasions. TV3 is the national broadcaster of Catalonia who told me they were organising a two-hour live broadcast from our local town.

"You mentioned on the telephone that you have a 15-year-old daughter. Would she like to take part, instead of you?" She argued for the young generation and spoke very convincingly and oh-so eloquently of teenage contentment in the hills. A few days later we were in mildly moist and subsequently lush Asturias in north west Spain for a break that coincided with the World Cup Final, when I relaxed a little too much (it's cider country) and managed to sound absolutely bonkers.

As Spain lifted the cup, and delirium set in, I was raising a glass of free fizz in a village bar close to the Picos de Europa mountain range. A grandmother ran down the street and into the building waving her arms in unbridled glee before blurring with the general festivities. It seemed only appropriate that I burst into song (with suitable apologies to Queen)."We are the champions. We are the champions!" is what I thought I was singing. "We are the mushrooms!" is what spilled forth in Spanish repeatedly, I am reliably informed. Tricky business being spontaneous in a foreign language. "Campeones" means

champions, "championes" means mushrooms.

For the record, everyone here felt Howard Webb from Rotherham handled the game as well as anyone could have in the vicious circumstances.

I am glad I wasn't at home to watch it in our local hostelry because, on the whole, Catalans don't support Spain. Not even the presence in the winning side of seven Barcelona players would induce some of my friends to reluctantly applaud, such is Franco's legacy here.

Up until this summer we'd never had more than a snatched few days of what could be called holiday, for both financial and farm reasons. Spare cash is as scarce as Halifax trawlermen. Plus there are precious few people who have a working knowledge of our plumbing and ponies – and sufficient time on their hands – to be able care for Mother's Garden while we swan off. So when cousin James volunteered (again, bless him) we made our plan. Camping near Santander, Cantabria, and then cheap digs somewhere, somehow, in Asturias, while canoeing, horse-riding and walking. Here's a brief synopsis.

Eucalyptus scent after calamitous night storm; tents pegged on lines to dry; zip wire wobbles; cycling the wooden walkways of Santander's dreamy beaches; meeting retired soccer player Jose on his city waterfront newspaper stand and being steered to a perfect, cheap, lunch; sundowners on the cliff-top beneath the lighthouse beam; green, green, green; feeding mares and foals; 118 steps down to crowded sand and crashing surf; west to Altamira's Paleolithic cave paintings and on to the snowy peaked Picos and the music of cow bells; fresh milk, still warm; a Celtic piper on a Roman bridge; endless salmon in the River Sella; purple canoes, wet bottoms; cider; and a steep, lonely walk down to jagged coast to put hands in the Jurassic footprints of dinosaurs.

It had everything as family holidays go, save being motionless for several hours on a regular basis with book in hand or hat over eyes. And we didn't pay more than 18 per person per night, which was a result because the assorted activities drained the budget dry.

For me, the best bits were free – picnicking beside a lake on cropped grass between cowpats with the backdrop of the mountains, and scrambling over salty, slippery rocks to find 100 million-year-old reptile trails.

We nearly didn't go at all. As I write, the wine-barrel ponies still haven't had their foals, but my money had been on them timing the arrivals for the eve of our departure. I was twitching. Something invariably happens when we step away. It proved to be water, or rather the alarming lack of it, which unhinged me. Language as well as fruit ripened in the heat.

Just a few hours before we were due to depart Ella was taking a dip in the holiday cottage pool while I fiddled about, doing some last minute filter and level checks to ensure all remained shipshape while we were absent. The water evaporates at an extraordinary rate in midsummer, so we must top the pool up on a regular basis, using a fat pipe which is just one branch line of our elaborate waterworks. I wanted it brim full. Water fresh from the well is several degrees cooler than the pool, understandably, and Ella loves to use it as a refreshing shower. Only it started spewing mud. She screamed. I screamed. Then I legged it up the land to the well in 100 degrees of heat like my rear was on fire. The well couldn't have run dry, surely? That would be a catastrophe. Our home, the holiday cottage and the land relies utterly upon its unwavering good nature. But there could be no other reason for sludge. We must be down to the last dribble. I felt sick. Then, as I loped wheezily through the top vineyard towards the well I could hear the pump purring and water. It was gushing out of a tear in the out pipe that had been softened and weakened by the blazing sun. The soil around the well was saturated and this was leeching back into the shaft, along with copious amounts of earth. I risked a great guffaw of relief. It would take a few days for the water to clear, but we were off the hook. Then I went back down the hill to impart the good news and ring the plumber, only to discover the mud had jammed open an electrical tap causing our house water deposit to overflow, flooding the barn and blowing the hot and cold water pump, for pity's sake. Quieter hills? Not.

Martin Kirby's English novel, Count The Petals Of The Moon Daisy, is published by Pegasus (ISBN 9781903490297). See www.mothersgarden.org.

YP MAG 7/8/10