The William Roberts SocietyJohn David Roberts:from Guitar Travels© The Estate of John David Roberts. Reproduced with the permission of the William Roberts Society. [Guitar Travels is a collection of notes made during JDR's trips to Spain in the 1960s and '70s to attend the International Course of Guitar and Vihuela held each year by Emilio Pujol in Lérida, and to travel in the country and sometimes to North Africa after the course. In 1969 he bought a casita in the village of Bedar, near Almería; in his absence, a local family used it. In 1971 he went there before taking part in a guitar competition in Benicasim.] [Page 409] The Pig: in the corral or outhouse beneath my window. Bought at 2 months old, they feed him not too fat. That would spoil the meat, and make him ill. He smells not too badly. The straw is changed every two days, she said. (Yes, but it is only thrown round the side.) In the cold weather they'll kill and eat him. I found the washerwoman, daughter Josefina and son-in-law Juan spread over the whole house. They pretended they hadn't understood my letter. They quickly cleared a room (full of cookery) for me, like a transformation in a pantomime, and left me with my funiture: table, wash-stand and basin, camp bed and three rickety chairs. [Page 410] I would buy a cántaro of water from José now and then, to help, but they have been lent mule and cántaros, so I needn't bother. They mostly bring the water by hand. Cántaro = clay amphora. Someone says they're going out. Everything's going out, except boredom. [Page 418] I could buy a donkey – when they've sold the pig. I sounded her about a small donkey – it seems feasible. [Page 420] Josefina prices a donkey, burra, at 2–3000 ptas. The neighbour came in; said her husband would find us one. She has a glory of a donkey. Her husband looked about for a week to find one. Talk, about the donkey's defects and virtues. Entry of the washerwoman, who refused the burra pointblank. I left them talking. [Page 421] Is it Borrow or Stevenson who gives the good points of a donkey? Should look into it. I'm in good company. The washerwoman doesn't trust the neighbours; they are gipsies. Perhaps she doesn't hold with these new-fangled donkeys. I must cut across this, trust the gipsies, and get a donkey. Discussion: will the corral, or outhouse, hold donkey and pig? [Page 422] – Let your husband try fetching water, said the neighbour, and then we'll see. There is a corral next door to the washerwoman. Josefina still arguing with the neighbour. – He wants a donkey. [Page 423] Mother and daughter still dancing the donkey up and down. I have decided not to buy a donkey, as they expect me to pay for its food, expensive unless you have land. So that's that. Travels in Spain, without a donkey. [Page 424] The gipsies invited me to supper, hoping to sell me a donkey. – Carne. I took a mouthful, went off, and gave it to the pig. Agreement may be reached on the donkey yet. I will pay up to 3 mil, and they will feed it. Said Pedro Cano: I need a burra much more than you, but I won't buy one. The food's too expensive. [Page 426] They woke me up at six to buy the donkey. The gipsy offered his own at 4 1/2 mil and another surly one with only 3 years to go, at 3 1/2. I took his, docile, goodlooking and strong, and 5 years old. – Muy noble. I could load it up and go exploring. Morocco? Josefina is to buy the harness and the food. The washerwoman still disapproves. She forgets that she won't always be able to fetch her own water. Anyway they never fetched enough. Grubby. The gipsy opened its mouth and I looked at its teeth. They were strong and yellow. What does that prove? Said Josefina: 'I always intended to buy a burra, but other things came first. The child is expensive.' I hope I have done right. She has now to feed a donkey, besides child, pig and husband. She gets up at 5 to cook food for him to take to work. It took an hour, and then the pig was squealing. He smelt the cooking. [Page 427] Leaving for Valencia today. Round one was definitely to the peasants. The gipsies are loading stones on the donkey. Josefina has lent it to them while they look for another. – They are neighbours, after all. [Pages 428–9] I asked Gregorio about a donkey. 'As business, it's nonsense. For that money you can buy water for the rest of your life. As a caprice, however . . . ' But at a load a day, at 15 ptas., it pays for itself in 300 days. That would be for Josefina, Juan, the washerwoman, pig, baby and me, and perhaps Piñero. (I forgot the burra's food. Gregorio has never carried wood or water. He spent 3 years in hospital with lung trouble. [Page 442] They spoke of a apparatus needed to hold the cántaros. (We are using the neighbour's.) I had bought a donkey without apparatus, like a guitar without a case. I looked glum. [Page 443] Juan Varón Ferinández came round about some plaiting. He tickled the pig, which pleased it hugely. The washerwoman (María Manías) nearly killed herself and the pig by pulling down the door of the corral. It has only half a hinge. All right if you're careful. The saddle etc., is agreed for 500 ptas. So I still owe him 2 mil, having paid 3. But this doesn't include the containers for the cántaros. If made of esparto they are strong and handsome, rubber less so. Said María Manías: You ignored me when I told you not to buy a donkey. [Pages 444–5] I carried a cántaro of water from the fountain; it exhausted me, and made my clothes dirty. Beatriz is very thick with the gipsies. I sat outside with them and old Piñero; they were shelling almonds. The wife, fat, squinting and untrustworthy, was slicing onions for supper. The gitano offered me almonds and a few figs. He is a rogue, but I take to him. (Famous last words.) Beatriz is looking after a charming baby from the Belgian Congo, Claudia. They are on holiday from Madrid. The gipsy is well off. He has land, and is rearing 7 pigs for market. He was preparing their swill. Said the wife: If you were to get married I could sell you a pig. Discussion, as always, of marriage. The gipsies put in the poison. She said: The donkey's getting thin, not enough to eat. He said: A man should command in the house: Juan didn't want the donkey, Josefina did. So she commands. I haven't heard him commanding his wife yet, though he talks big. Said Josefina: Are the gipsies a different race from us? I don't understand. I mustn't forget the little cock who struts about and looks for food. He is English. I can work out the expense and implications of the donkey, but not while writing verses for Mrs X. and an essay on guitar fingering. More discussion. The gipsy wife sent round Juan Varón about the containers of esparto, because we are still borrowing hers. Josefina tried to lumber me with them, but 5 mil is enough. He agreed for 500 ptas if Juan provides the grass. We then looked at the well-worn saddle. The gipsy came over and showed how to improve it by branches (of Pomegranate?). Discussion as Varón looks at the saddle. The gipsy puts his finger to his head, meaningly. But Varón earns his pesetas. Josefina still arguing for 450. Finally I agree to add 50. They will fight here over a blade of grass (as I did once). Josefina won't have rubber containers. She gave Juan Varón a sandwich. As he said: 'I've been standing here watching your infant eat a pailful of prickly pear.' (Un cubo de chumbo.) [Page 446] At the fountain, José introduced me to a villanous gitano with a large burro which he wanted to exchange for mine. I would pay the difference. Discussion: examination of teeth. Said someone: After 5 years you can't tell anything from the teeth. We went to consult Josefina, but once out of sight of the fountain he advised me not to exchange. I wasn't going to. A large mule, like a large car, costs more to run. – You paid a little too much for your donkey. 4 mil would have been right, but don't say anything, for gipsies are vindictive. The gipsy neighbour also offered an exchange, but Josefina refused. We've got a good donkey and we're sticking to it. She is to get half of Keith's algarrabia or horse beans, which will feed it for a time. Difficulty with water. The gipsy wife objects to lending the containers, cow that she is. Various objections from Josefina to getting it. Got some myself. A cord on the saddle came apart, but we repaired it. I put the saddle on before the blanket, and the donkey lashed out. – The saddle's worthless, I said to Mrs Gitano. – 15 years old, what do you expect, she jeered. Cow. Finally I bought a garaffa, and carried my own. [Pages 448–9] Went with the family and donkey to collect chumbo, in the countryside. I was pleased to see the donkey doing something useful. I was too tired to do anv collecting. You take take half a cactus leaf and smooth it and use it to collect the fruit, which has very nasty little spines. Then pile it in a heap and brush off the spines with a bunch of wild plants, one of which has a delicious smell of camphor. In the evening sat with the gitano and Beatriz, etc., outside. The moon sets behind the hill, but you can see its glow. The gitano is after finding me a smaller donkey and a smaller house. Very methodical he is, and therefore the more dangerous. He got bored because Beatriz when talking to me says everything 5 times. Talk of houses and marriages. One Emilio, called me Mister. I explained this was a trifle vulgar. You can address a man as Señor but not as Mister. The custom of the country. The gitano, talking of Juan, put his finger to his head. This also is a custom of the country. A, talking of B, will generally put his finger to his head at some point. As I went off, Beatriz, putting her finger to her head, said of me: Tonto, isn't be? – Don't you believe it, said Mrs Gitano. This pleased me. In the house, the washerwoman and family went on at me about not changing the burra. – It's a good donkey. Don't you change it. – Ni hablar. Josefina came up and warned me not to exchange donkeys. [Page 450] Ours is making a lot of noise. It's in the corral next to the washerwoman, and probably doesn't like it. Josefina argues over every stupid detail. The burra refused to be saddled today, and was led back to its depressing corral. As Josefina went off, the gipsy wife put her finger to her head. The brute kicked out, and shook off the saddle before it could be secured. It did this 2 or 3 times. – Mind its feet, said the gipsy wife: It looks as if it's joking, but it's not. Yesterday to collect almonds with Juan and the burra. With a long cane he mounts the tree and shakes down the almonds, giving a dry clicking like a hesitant typist. To pick them up is hard labour. Josefina came later, as is her custom, I feel. Juan does some handy pilfering, figs, or a bucket full of grapes carefully hidden under the almonds. [Pages 452–3] The gitano is sober, hard working, intelligent, wants to be master in his own house, looks after his goods. We don't want such citizens! I called on him for advice on the donkey,. The band that goes under the tail was too tight, that was why it lashed out. They know nothing of animals, and haven't the facilities to look after one. It should a bundle of straw a day (20 ptas). A burro that kicks out is only good for slaughtering. 'I've sold them in Valencia for years, 10 at a time. Sausages. Your capital's deteriorating. By the time vou get back next year the donkey will be dead. Take my advice and sell it. If you have the caprice to ride a donkey, next year I'll lend you one for nothing.' So ran his words. The donkey's depressed, has a poor corral and hardly anything to do. Juan is away all day breaking stones, and Josefina is too busy and too feckless to look after it. The gitano gave me a good lunch, of which I ate and drank sparingly. Mrs G. has 4 sisters and 3 brothers. Compared with Josefina she is a model of cleanliness. Their daughter Vicenta aged 5 is bewitching. Josefina came upstairs and offered to pay the remaining 2 mil on the donkey. Perhaps the best. But Juan said later: We haven't the money. You, you run the house (to her). Gas cooker with no guarantee, you, and the pig, you, and now the donkey, you. We can't afford to feed it. Josefina: I will collect herbage. Juan (sarcastically): O yes, you will collect herbage. Hands of gold! The gipsy arranged to come at 5.30 and see if the donkey could be saddled. If not it was valueless. But at that time he was wrestling with 7 halfgrown pigs, kicking and feeding them. Last night and this morning Josefina had an idea – all donkeys kick, so we will keep this. This morning the gipsy ran his hand over its rump, and it lashed out. So he left it alone, and so did Josefina, after some bragging, I didn't attempt to saddle it, but I did take it into the countryside for a feed (plenty of herbage there) and to the fountain for a good drink, 30 gulps. It's hungry and bored, therefore bad-tempered. [Pages 454–5] The burra again this evening. It lashed out when I tried to bridle it, although as quiet as a mouse this morning. This gave me a fright, as the paddock is small. Josefina bridled it, and I am repeating this morning's performance of food and water. An opportunity of seeing this peerless countryside. Yes: but coming home the damn thing kicked up, showed its teeth, and made for me when I tried to seize the bridle. I managed eventually to get hold of the bridle with one hand, while falteringly offering a bunch of grass with the other. The brute definitely doesn't like me. Later Juan tried to put the saddle on, but failed. The gitano either knew it was awkward or has done something to make it so. (v. Borrow.) Never buy a donkey from a gipsy or vice versa. A nasty cactus spine in my left forefinger, while collecting grass to pacify the donkey; I messed about with a needle, finally Emilio got it out neatly. He is in business with the gitano. Keith in the Bar with two friends . . . He quoted the proverb: Un burro grande, ande o no ande. The Spanish say, a well-grown mule will, or won't go, as a rule. I have agreed with Gregorio to borrow 2 mil. He lectured me on the folly of buying a burra to let it die of hunger. They had no land, no orchard, and were forced to buy miserable sacks of straw. He's down on them. This morning the washerwoman brought the news that the burra had vanished from the corral. I just wagged my ears. I was told later that Keith, the mad wag, had taken it. The water-carrier showed it to me in a paddock of Johnson's. [Pages 456–7] I met Keith, who denied any, knowledge. We had a drink, and went to look at it. Meanwhile the gipsies had gone to pester Gregorio, who got annoyed. He paid them the 2 mil outstanding, and told me to sell the animal because it's causing too much fuss. As he's the village policeman (el municipal) as well as everything else, I have to obey. Naturally he will conduct the sale. I hope my loss won't be too great. Matters have been brought to a head by this stupid joke of Keith's. It's funny that now they've been paid, the gipsy women are shouting more than ever. The gitano has vanished, repeat vanished. I had a curious feeling this morning, when taxing Keith about the burra; difficult to describe. I felt the scene would become famous. Keith, the fool, was wearing a big Mexican hat. Said José the water-carrier: Don't be a fool, John. Give Gregorio his 2 mil, and I'll sell the donkey for you. I can get 6 mil, and of that you'll give me a mil. I am a truthful man, and I appreciate you, as you do me. Only he took ten minutes to say it. The gipsy wife pleased me. She said: If you're short of money, ask me. Or if you want to sell the donkey. When she gets excited she stops squinting, and the effect is terrific. Remarks, such as that of Pedro Cano's: 'Never meddle with gipsies,' annoy me and make me want to trust them. This afternoon Josefina went clacking about the money she had spent on the donkey's food (200 ptas.). I told her to shut up. [Pages 458–9] I hope that . . . all will be well if I take the burra from its corral next to María Manías to another, not so near. That is the gipsies' cry, and Josefina's. The washerwoman looks more dazed than usual this morning. She must have accused the gipsies of stealing the donkey, and got a short answer. Josefina: I won't feed the burra any more. Wliat are you going to do about it? The Gipsv Mother: Here, do you want to sell the burra? (Aside: I'll get it for 2 mil, and sell it for sausages.) José the water-carrier: I'll deal with it. When the gipsy who wanted to exchange comes again, I'll sell it to him for 6 mil. [Pages 460–61] Josefina accuses me of meanness. When Juan Varón came about the containers, she beat him down from 500 to 450. I was tired of the haggling, and said afterwards: I'll give him 100 now, and you the 400 on completion. She took the 100 from me on some pretext, and said she would give it to him. When he came round, I reminded her. O, yes, we've agreed on 450, she said. And she gave him 50. Not a word about my other 50 then or since. [Page 462] Gregorio offers me another mil in settlement, i.e. 3 mil for the burra. I lose 2 mil, but have learnt much about Spaniards and gipsies. Unfortunately this will include saddle and halter. The gitano asked me a stiff price but did not swindle me, unless you can prove he knew that the animal was 'ornery. Josefina curses me for having mentioned the saddle to Gregorio. [Page 463] Gregorio stood outside a long outhouse where he owns 500 sacks of plaster. The purchaser of the burra has not yet made up his mind. Gregorio began shouting Fish! He had half a small shark in a wooden box, covered with wasps. [Page 464] The gipsy offered to exchange the burra for a smaller, Piñero's. I stuck to 3 mil or nothing. He says she is now only good for sausage meat. – Then I'll sell her in 'Los Gallardos'. – But the gipsies there have no money. – Will I end with no money, and no burra? He offered 2 mil; 'No blame attaches to me in this matter' he said. Gregorio still hopes to get 3 mil [Page 465] The gipsy is still anxious to give me 2 mil for the burra. He goes to Almería tomorrow. [Pages 466–7] Burra operations last night. I offered it to the gipsy when he returns, but as he is sending 4 donkeys, sausagemeat, to Valencia tomorrow, it's now or never. But 2 mil is not enough; and I don't want it killed, though he will probably feed it back into a good humour and sell it again for 4 mil. Can I accuse him of selling me a donkey apparently mild, knowing it would get fierce? I am not sure. Beatriz has a corral where he keeps a donkey; I went there and told him I was hanging on. – All right; but I'm afraid you'll lose your money. He spoke of the donkey temperament; once spoiled they were spoiled. Of Keith's crime of donkey stealing. The gipsy would have gone to the police, had he not been in Madrid. No wonder the donkey was difficult. He had been friends with Keith; but one day K. called, unasked, went all over the house, unasked, came out and rode the donkey, unasked. The gipsy rebuked him: 'I'm not a man to joke with.' Since then, a coolness. Emilio and Beatriz his mother gave strong opinions: 'Out with him!' She has few teeth and is a tremendous talker, with full enunciation. Others, such as Pedro, never move their lips. The gipsy went, and I learnt from Beatriz and Emilio that, originally from Garrucha, they live in Madrid. Emilio is sick of it and wants to start a tapa factory here. (The bits and pieces you get with your drink.) He is fond of animals, chicks, kittens, guineapigs and a pekinese puppy. A tremendous row between Josefina and her mother. What about? the burra? I hear that next to its corral they can't sleep because it kicks all night. [Pages 468–9] Because of complaints that the burra kicked all night and kept people awake, we all went round to tie it up. This took time, in the light of a guttering candil (a wick in a dish of oil). When we came out, Angel, the peasant opposite, was sitting on his doorstep. He got up and in a furious rage ordered the washerwoman to find another home. He worked all the blessed day, and now was unable to sleep at night. His wife calmed everybody down. We agreed to leave the burra there for the night. The gipsy has loaned Josefina a small burro, which she is to buy in a couple of months. The burra, tethered outside, stamped all night, so I slept little, what with the cat trying to get out, and Cabila's drunken singing over the road. 1 took pains witli the burra next day: put it in the shade, bought 3 kilos of oats, and fetched water from the fountain. In the afternoon Gregorio came round with Nicola. It was all over in a minute. As soon as Nicola seized her tail she bucked and soon had the saddle on the ground. 'I'm sorry' he said deprecatingly, and went. There we were, Gregorio, me, the gipsy wife, Josefina, the washerwoman and the baby, looking at the donkey. – That's it, said Gregorio: you've sown melons, but haven't reaped any. (Spanish proverb.) The gipsy wife fetched 2 mil, gave it to him, and now the gipsy owns the donkey again and I've lost 3 mil, £18. Said the gipsy wife: he will now try it again, a fuerza de leña. (With a stick.) Said Gregorio, as be went: 3 or 4 blows with a stick would settle the matter. Don't buy any, more donkeys. If you want one next year, borrow it from me. The question of the saddle is unsettled. The gipsy will have to force it from Josefina. Perhaps not, if she is buying a donkey from him. The washerwoman said: 'We need a donkey; we've fetched two loads of water today. But if you can't saddle the animal, are you to feed it and keep it to look at?' At one point the door of the corral fell down once more, and the pig started eating it. After writing this I went outside and had the satisfaction of seeing the gitano at an exciting moment of wrestling with the donkey and saddle. The animal lashed out, but he held on and managed to get the tailpiece over the tail. Later a quick flick got the tail over the tailpiece, and the job was done. Certainly it was strenuous. – In 3 days, he said, the animal will be docile again. He had to hang on to the bridle with one hand, and tighten the tailpiece with the other hand and his teeth. He told his wife to keep well away. [Page 470] Afterwards, joined by Emilio, we all sat and looked at it for a long time. It was given figs to make it docile; but I too had done that. To succeed, he had put a proper bridle and muzzle on it; and tied the girth before he attempted the tailpiece, so that the donkey could not throw off the saddle, which is what none of us had done. And having done this, as he said: 'The donkey thought: "This man knows more than I do." The torero must be more astute than the bull. With donkeys, I am equal to El Cordobés.' The English cock, scratching near its hooves, was unlucky enough to get one set on him. He was damaged, but how badly is not yet known. (He disappeared.) Donkeys are somewhat a mystery to everybody. Mine now seems mild enough. You can stroke its muzzle and ears, but they go back if you stroke its haunches. The gipsy was in the bar telling tales of his youth. I caught only one sentence: – So I left Sorbas and came to Vera with 15 mules . . . When he left, a curious conversation between two drunks about the burra: – Why so badtempered yesterday and today so mild? – Cosas de gitanos; and it's cost him 3,000 pesetas. The donkey could still make trouble, seeing the feeling towards the gipsies. But who pays attention to what two drunks say? All the other drunks. A donkey may be amiable when you scratch its ears, but difficult when you saddle it for work. [Page 471] I walked uphill from Bedar on the stony road. The evening to settle. I thought: I'll go to the next corner. A most astonishing view! On the left, the sunset; in front and to the right, ranges of purple hills stretching to the horizon. I looked at this in wonder till I heard hooves approaching, and left the road. It was a small boy bareback on a large mule, shouting, trotting, sliding, galloping. I thought humbly of my donkey ride. – Buenas tardes, he said with clear enunciation as he passed. I laughed. In a second he was round a corner of the road, and I continued to gaze into the sunset. [Page 480] I have learnt much in this 3 months.
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