Turnips and a scapegoat - Chapter 4

Sebastian and Oliver arrived back in Extremadura with two suitcases and a dream so vivid it nearly popped like a soap bubble the moment they stepped off the plane. 

“Bloody hell, this is it,” Oliver whispered, his voice catching in his throat as they rounded yet another bend in the road, the village finally coming into view. 

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Sebastian said, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and anxiety. 

When they finally arrived in Piornal, it was like stepping into a parallel universe - similar to the one they remembered, but with enough differences to make them question their sanity. Gone was the jubilant welcoming committee that had greeted them the first time, replaced instead by an eerie silence. The streets, which had once felt like an embrace, now seemed colder, more indifferent, as if the village had forgotten all about the two Englishmen who had charmed it just a few months earlier.

October had draped Piornal in a cloak of early autumn, a season that had drained the vibrant greens of summer into muted shades of ochre and brown. The air had a crisp bite to it, carrying the scent of wood smoke and fallen leaves, the promise of winter lurking just beyond the horizon. 

“Are you sure this is the same place?” Oliver muttered as they made their way through the village, their suitcases dragging noisily on the uneven ground.

“I think so,” Sebastian replied, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. The once-cheerful villagers now peered at them from behind their lace curtains with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, their expressions unreadable. There were nods of recognition here and there, but they were fleeting, hesitant, as though the locals weren’t quite sure if they wanted to remember or forget the two foreigners who had once brought a little excitement to their sleepy village.

No one stopped to greet them, no one offered a smile, and for a brief, panicked moment, Sebastian wondered if they had made a terrible mistake.

“Maybe we should’ve stayed in Dorking,” Oliver whispered, half-joking, but with an edge of genuine concern.

“Too late now,” Sebastian replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Their new home was a rented flat a stone’s throw from the centre of the village, a stark contrast to the charming cottage they had stayed in during their first visit. The flat’s facade was stark white and corrugated, inside was simple, almost austere - whitewashed walls, a couple of mismatched chairs, and a bed that had seen better days. There was a window from which you could just about see the village square, where a few locals shuffled about their business, seemingly oblivious to the newcomers’ arrival.

“Well, it’s not exactly Buckingham Palace, but it’ll do,” Oliver said, setting down his suitcase with a resigned sigh. “Until we work out how to make any money we don’t have a choice but to keep our costs down.”

Sebastian nodded, more focused on the peculiar silence that seemed to settle over everything. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the village itself was holding its breath, waiting to see if these outsiders would stay or if they’d simply disappear back into whatever strange world they had come from.

Their unease began to thaw when they bumped into a familiar face outside the small café the following day. Javier - now insisting they call him Javi - was as friendly as ever, his smile warm enough to cut through the autumn chill. But there was something different about him too; he seemed busier, more harried, like a man with too many plates to spin.

“Welcome back, you two,” Javi said, clapping them on the shoulders. “How are you settling in?”

“Honestly, it’s been a bit of an adjustment,” Sebastian admitted, relieved to see someone who wasn’t peering at them from behind a curtain.

Javi chuckled. “I’m not surprised. Autumn here can be a little...intense. But don’t worry, the locals just need a bit of time. Treat them with respect, and they’ll warm up to you soon enough.”

Oliver gave a weak smile. “Well, we’ll do our best. Any tips on how to speed up the process?”

“Get involved,” Javi suggested. “Talk with the old men in the square. Show them you’re here to be part of the community, not just passing through. And don’t be afraid to try new things. The more you put in, the more you’ll get out of this place.”

Before they could ask more, Javi’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his expression shifting to one of mild annoyance. “Sorry, I’ve got to run. Work’s been crazy lately. But we’ll catch up properly soon, I promise.”

And with that, Javi was gone, leaving them standing on the pavement with more questions than answers.

Following Javi’s advice, they began to dip their toes into village life, though with more trepidation than they cared to admit. They started with card and chess games in the square, where a group of elderly men gathered each afternoon to pit their wits against each other in battles of quiet intensity. At first, they were hesitant to approach, worried they might be intruding on some sacred ritual, but the old men barely looked up when they did.

Sebastian, who had always been better at thinking ahead, was the first to join in. His opponent - a grizzled man with a face like a dried prune and eyes sharp enough to cut glass - barely acknowledged his presence, moving his pieces with the kind of practised precision that spoke of decades of experience. Sebastian lost quickly and often, but each time he returned, he felt a little more welcome. The old men began to offer small nods of approval, their eyes less guarded.

Oliver, less skilled at chess but determined not to be left out, tried his hand as well, though his approach was more about charm than strategy. He joked with the men in his broken Spanish, managing to win them over more with his good humour than his skill at their games. Eventually, they began to respond, offering tips and advice, though often in the form of gruff grunts and cryptic mutterings.

Sebastian found an old classical guitar in a dusty corner of their flat, its strings slightly out of tune but still capable of producing a sweet, mellow sound. He had always been a decent player, and now, with time on his hands, he began to practice more seriously. One afternoon, he brought the guitar to the square, playing softly as the games went on. The old men listened without comment, but their silence felt approving rather than indifferent.

As the days passed, the villagers started to warm to them. They were invited to try the local moonshine - aguardiente - that could strip paint off walls but somehow went down smoothly with the right company. An old woman with a face like a crumpled paper bag handed them slices of her homemade goat cheese, a peculiar concoction that was sharp, salty, and oddly delicious.

Their initial fears that they had made a terrible mistake began to dissipate, replaced by a growing sense of belonging. Piornal was starting to feel like home, though in a way that was different from anywhere they had ever lived before. It was a place that required patience, where acceptance wasn’t given freely but earned through small, daily acts of connection.

The turning point came during a picnic at a natural pool hidden deep in the mountains, a place where the water was so clear and cold it felt like being reborn with every dip. They had been invited by a few of the villagers they had begun to befriend, including the old men from the square and the woman who had gifted them the goat cheese.

It was a beautiful autumn day, the sun shining brightly but with a gentleness that spoke of the season’s waning strength. The air was filled with the scent of pine and earth, the rustling of leaves the only sound apart from their laughter.

As they sat by the pool, eating bread and cheese, drinking wine that tasted of the land, Oliver struck up a conversation with one of the older men, a wiry fellow who seemed to have seen it all and lived to tell the tale. The man’s trousers were rolled up to his knees, revealing legs that were surprisingly muscular for someone of his age.

Oliver, eager to practice his Spanish, tried to engage in conversation about the man’s missing glasses, which had somehow fallen into the pool earlier.

“¡Qué pena tan grande!” Oliver exclaimed in a loud voice, trying to express sympathy. But the words didn’t come out quite right. Instead of pity, he had expressed something else entirely.

The old man’s eyes widened, and the group fell into a sudden, stunned silence.

Sebastian, sensing that something was amiss, looked around, only to see the shocked expressions on everyone’s faces.

“What did he say?” Sebastian asked, though he was already starting to guess.

“He said, ‘What a big penis!’” one of the villagers finally managed to explain, stifling a laugh.

Oliver’s face turned a deep shade of crimson as the realisation hit him. He tried to explain, gesturing wildly, but his efforts only seemed to make things worse. Laughter erupted, the kind that comes from deep in the belly, and the more Oliver tried to dig himself out of the hole, the deeper he sank.

Finally, Javi, who had managed to join them at the last minute, came to the rescue. Laughing so hard he could barely stand, he gave Oliver a playful shove, sending him tumbling into the freezing water. The shock of the cold was immediate, but it did the trick, silencing Oliver’s protests and turning the laughter from mocking to joyful.

Sebastian leaned over the edge, grinning down at his drenched partner. “Looks like you’ve made quite the impression.”

Oliver, sputtering and dripping wet, could only laugh along with everyone else. “Well, at least they’ll remember me.”

The laughter that filled the mountainside that day was the final piece of the puzzle. From that moment on, the villagers didn’t just tolerate them; they embraced them.