Turnips and a scapegoat - Chapter 2

Inspired by their encounter, Sebastian and Oliver decided to book a trip to Piornal. They had always seen themselves as adventurers of sorts, yet now, as their rental car wound its way up the serpentine roads of Extremadura, they felt a peculiar thrill that had nothing to do with the places they usually sought out and everything to do with the wild, untamed beauty that surrounded them.

They had arrived in early May when the region was at its most vibrant. Extremadura was a land where nature and history danced together in a kind of ancient, slow-motion waltz. The air was fragrant with the scent of blooming lavender and cistus, and the hillsides were painted in the cheerful yellows of broom bushes. Every twist and turn of the road revealed a new marvel: a line of whitewashed, red-roofed cottages nestled into the hillside like secret treasures; or a sudden burst of colour from a meadow thick with wildflowers, stretching away toward the horizon where mountains punctured the endless blue sky.

As they descended into the valley, the landscape opened up before them like a stage set for a play they had yet to learn the lines for. Here, the hills rolled gently, their slopes dotted with olive groves and shady pastures where goats grazed lazily, their bells the only sound interrupting the peace. In the distance, they could see the dark pine woods that clothed the higher reaches, offering a cool refuge from the sun's relentless embrace. Above it all, griffon vultures circled, their wings slicing through the sky like ancient, avian guardians of this timeless place.

It was all so different from the Surrey hills, where the green landscape was neatly trimmed and managed, where the fields were bordered by fences, and where the most exotic wildlife one was likely to encounter was an albino squirrel. Here, in Extremadura, there was a wildness that spoke to something deep within them - something that had been suffocating beneath the weight of routine and the dull hum of everyday life.

Their destination, Piornal, was a village tucked high into the folds of the mountains. The kind of place that seemed to exist more in legend than in reality, where the modern world had only just begun to scratch the surface of a much older way of life. The road narrowed as they approached, the buildings huddling together as if for warmth - as if it wasn’t hot enough. 

As they drove slowly through the village, they couldn’t help but notice the vibrant murals splashed across the walls, their colours bold and striking against the backdrop of the ancient stone. These paintings were nothing like the pastoral scenes or quaint village life they had expected. Instead, they depicted a wild, almost surreal celebration: masked figures with horns, clad in what looked like mediaeval armour. The images were chaotic, almost violent, but there was a palpable energy in them—a sense of tradition that ran deep in the veins of the town.

Oliver slowed to a stop as they passed of one of the murals, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you think this is all about?” he asked, gesturing to the painted chaos.

Sebastian shrugged, his gaze lingering on the fearsome figure at the centre of the mural - a man dressed in a bizarre costume, a mix of warrior and beast, his eyes peering out from behind a devilish mask. “I have no idea,” he admitted. “But it looks...intense.”

They continued their exploration, finding the same image repeated in different forms around the village. In one of the squares, they stumbled upon a sculpture that made the murals seem tame by comparison. It was a life-sized figure of the same man in a menacing almost African style elongated mask with huge rounded horns, this time sculpted in clay, his posture defiant, playing a drum, as if daring the world to challenge him. 

The sculpture was striking, to say the least, and it drew the attention of both men. But as intrigued as they were, they were equally hesitant to ask about it. Neither wanted to appear ignorant in front of the locals, especially when they were trying so hard to blend in. They exchanged a look, silently agreeing to avoid the subject for now.

“Must be some local festival,” Oliver said, trying to sound nonchalant. “We’ll figure it out later.”

It was then that they saw him - or rather, someone who looked uncannily like him.

The man was standing outside a small bar, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the world with a gaze that seemed to know more than it let on. He had the same dark, sparkling eyes, the same confident stance, and the same air of effortless charisma that had so captivated them in Waitrose. There was no mistaking it - this had to be the brother of their supermarket stranger.

"Oliver, look," Sebastian whispered, nudging his partner. "He looks just like Carlos."

Oliver nodded, a smile spreading across his face. "It must be him. What are the odds?"

They parked the car and approached the man, who looked up as they neared, his expression shifting from one of mild curiosity to a broad, welcoming grin.

"¡Hola! ¿Estáis perdidos?" The voice rang out with the same warm timbre they remembered from their encounter in Dorking. Although he clearly wasn’t Carlos, the resemblance was too striking to ignore.

Both Oliver and Sebastian had been brushing up on their rusty, schoolboy Spanish, and while they could grasp the basics, neither felt entirely confident speaking it. But Oliver, ever the quick one to respond, grinned back. "Not lost, no. We’re actually here because of your brother. We met him back in England - he told us about Piornal, and we thought we’d come see it for ourselves."

The man’s grin widened. "Carlos? You met Carlos? ¡Qué pequeño es el mundo! I am Javier. Carlos is my older brother." He extended his hand, which they shook warmly. His English, embarrassingly flawless, put them both to shame. "What a surprise! If Carlos sent you here, you must be our guests. Cancel whatever plans you’ve made. You’ll stay with us and see the real Spain - the one tourists never find."

Sebastian and Oliver exchanged a glance, feeling that familiar tingle of serendipity. "Are you sure?" Sebastian asked, a hint of caution in his voice. "We wouldn’t want to impose."

"¡Ya basta!" Javier waved the idea away with a flourish. "In Extremadura, guests are family. Come, let me show you where you’ll stay."

And just like that, they were enveloped into the heart of Javier’s world. He led them through the village, where the narrow streets wound like ancient rivers between the houses, every step seemingly steeped in history. 

The houses themselves were simple yet charming, their ancient stone walls peppered with lichen, the occasional lizard darted across their surfaces. Stray cats lazed in the sun, their sleek bodies stretched out on warm stone steps. Every so often, a villager would pause in their conversation to greet them with a nod or a smile. Here, being a foreigner carried the allure of celebrity - a notion that thrilled Oliver but left Sebastian feeling slightly awkward as if he were being mistaken for someone he was not. He smiled, trying to convince himself as much as to appear friendly to those who held his gaze.

Javier’s home was a modest but beautiful place, tucked away at the edge of the village where the land began to rise toward the mountains. Inside, it was cool and dim, with thick walls that kept the heat of the day at bay. A faint scent of olives and rosemary hung in the air, mingling with the aroma of something delicious simmering on the stove.

"This is where you’ll stay," Javier said, showing them to a cosy room with two single beds and a view of the valley below. "My mother will be thrilled to meet you - she loves visitors, and anyone who knows Carlos is a friend to us."

As they settled in, Sebastian and Oliver couldn’t help but feel as though they had stepped into a different world - a world where time moved more slowly, where the pressures of their former life seemed distant and unimportant. Here, they were free to breathe, to think, to dream. It was a feeling they hadn’t realised they’d been missing until now.

That evening, they gathered with Javier’s family around a large wooden table in the garden, the air filled with the scent of grilling meat and the sound of laughter. Javier’s mother, a small, lively woman with bright eyes, fussed over them as if they were her own sons, plying them with more food and wine than they could possibly consume.

As the stars began to emerge in the clear night sky, Oliver leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face. "This is incredible," he murmured to Sebastian. "I can’t believe we’re really here."

Sebastian nodded, his eyes on the distant mountains, their snow-capped peaks glowing softly in the moonlight. "It’s like a dream," he said, "but it feels more real than anything back home."

Oliver reached for his hand under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Do you think Carlos knew what he was doing when he sent us here?"

"Maybe," Sebastian replied with a grin. "Or maybe we just finally listened to the universe for once. That sky is sooo clear! Is that the Milky Way?"

Whatever the case, they both knew that something had shifted, something profound and irreversible. Dorking didn’t hold a light to this place. They wanted to leave it behind, not just physically but emotionally, too. Here, in this timeless place, they could imagine a new rhythm, one that felt more in tune with who they really were.

And so, as the night deepened and the last of the wine was poured, Sebastian and Oliver found themselves wondering not just about the next few days, but about a life that might await them in this land of sunlight and secrets.