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Strawberry Farmers Forever By morning the sun had returned to warm our bones. An elderly Dutch chap came over to talk, bringing two pots of tea, sugar buns and cheese. After strolling along the sparkling Mediterranean we left El Gordo at three, catching the ferry across the Rio Guadiana into Spain. When I boarded the ferry I said, "Obrigado," to the ticket taker. "You're in España now," he said. "It's 'gracious.'" Legally, I wasn't in Spain until halfway across the river, but I was in no position to argue with burly sailors. When we arrived in Spain everything had shut down for the midday siesta. The break began around twelve thirty and could last until around five thirty. We left town and headed for a green patch on our map, which indicated forest. It failed to materialize. Spain was more populated than Portugal. As darkness fell, we spotted an orchard by the road. Some peasants were across the road. On Sharon and Susan's insistence, I went to ask them for permission to camp. "No camping here. Camping hotel," they said, pointing back towards town. I told them I was going the other way, thanked them for their hospitality and pedalled off. A road by a patch of trees was marked private. We went down the road and came to a chain across the road. We turned back. A farmer's house was nearby. We went to the farmhouse. A matronly woman opened the door and eyed us suspiciously. I explained we were from Canada and cycling in Spain. Could we camp here? Without a word, she continued to look us up and down. Having Sharon and Susan sniffling in the background helped. She said she would go and ask the men. Returning, she led us to a field. The field looked as if it had been recently plowed. Sharon went to scout it out for grass and reasonable flatness. A man appeared and took us into his shed. He showed us a bed in one of the three rooms, and said we could sleep there. He patiently explained everything to us three times until we all nodded "Si" in unison. He gave us a key so we could lock the door. The owner was a small strawberry farmer with two million plants. He didn't offer us any samples-the fruit wasn't quite ready. Row on row of clear plastic sheltered green plants covered with tiny red dots, as if quarantined in miniature hot houses. I fell asleep dreaming of strawberries and shortcake. |
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