Turnips and a scapegoat - Chapter 3

The moment they stepped off the plane, England’s undeniably rich greenery did its best to win back their hearts, but their newfound passion was too strong. This wasn’t just wanderlust; it was a full-blown revolution of the heart. And revolutions, as everyone knows, require preparation.

First on their list was conquering the Spanish language, or at least dragging it into a friendly arm wrestle. They enrolled in a local Spanish class run by a wiry, elderly señora whose enthusiasm was matched only by her total disdain for their pronunciation. But Sebastian and Oliver were undeterred. They turned their tiny flat into a linguistic battleground, with sticky notes on every available surface. “Puerta” on the door, “Ventana” on the window, and a rather dubious “Máquina de hidratación” on the kettle.

One morning, as the sun cast a rare golden light across their kitchen, Oliver decided to test his latest phrase. “Sacar el pan de la tostadora,” he declared with a flourish, the words rolling off his tongue as if he’d been born under the Spanish sun. He stood by the toaster, waiting for it to pop, a mischievous grin on his face.

Sebastian, mid-squeeze of the last drops of life from his teabag, looked up, his brain lagging slightly behind his ears. “What? Oh! Right. Muy bien, sweetcheeks… errm… mi amor” he replied, chuckling at his own delayed reaction. The phrase was clumsy in his mouth, but the effort wasn’t lost on Oliver, who beamed at the small victory.

The language barrier, rather than intimidating, had become a source of endless amusement. They butchered grammar, mixed up tenses, and occasionally said things that would have made a native speaker choke on their cava. But every mistake was a laugh, every correction a reminder that they were in this together. 

Their friends and family watched this transformation with a mix of admiration and incredulity. “Are you sure about this?” their well-meaning friends would ask, their voices tinged with doubt. But Sebastian and Oliver would just smile knowingly, as if privy to a joke that no one else could quite understand.

One Sunday afternoon, as the last of the roast was being devoured and the remnants of Yorkshire pudding and gravy were being cleared away, Sebastian and Oliver were easing into the comfy armchairs in the sitting room of Oliver’s family home. 

Oliver’s mother, her hands deftly tidying away the last bits of the meal, looked up with a sudden spark of curiosity. “So, you two,” she said, her voice cutting through the post-roast haze, “have you got your visas sorted out yet?”

The question hung in the air like a bad stench. Sebastian and Oliver exchanged a look, their full bellies suddenly feeling as though they were stuffed with lead instead of roast beef and potatoes.

“Visas?” Oliver stammered.

Sebastian’s eyes widened as if he had just been told he was expected to perform a tap dance in front of a royal audience. “Oh, my bloody hell!” he exclaimed, his voice high-pitched and strained. “No! No, we totally didn’t think about that!”

Both of them slumped into their chairs, heads in their hands, looking like two bewildered numskulls who had forgotten the most important item on their to-do list.

Oliver’s mother patted his hand sympathetically. “You’ll figure it out, love. You always do.”

The seemingly simple task of obtaining visas morphed into a Kafkaesque ordeal. Brexit had wrought its chaotic influence, transforming what had once been a straightforward process into a convoluted maze of paperwork, legalese, and digital forms. It felt as if every form they filled out led to a new, even more bewildering form.

"I can’t believe it," Sebastian groaned one evening, pacing around their cramped living room like a caged tiger. "A few years ago, we would’ve been able to move with just a handshake and a smile. Now it’s like we’re trying to navigate the legal equivalent of a funhouse maze."

Oliver, hunched over a mountain of documents, looked up with a weary sigh. "And don’t get me started on this efing Brexit mess. I swear, if one more official asks for proof of residence for a place we haven’t even moved to yet, I’m going to lose it."

Every document requested seemed to spiral into a bureaucratic abyss. They were asked to provide evidence of their financial stability, proof of health insurance, and declarations of their intent to contribute positively to Spanish society - an ironic demand for two people who had been dreamily envisioning sun-drenched days and vibrant festivals, not grappling with the Spanish equivalent of Dante’s inferno.

It became an ongoing joke - when their spirits were flagging, they would imagine themselves presenting an "Emotional Distress" form to the visa office, complete with dramatic pleas and heartfelt letters about how much they missed simple pleasures like ordering tapas without a mountain of paperwork.

After months of stress, they finally received the golden ticket: their visas. The relief was palpable as if they had just climbed out of a deep, dark pit and were now squinting into the dazzling light of their new life.

For the first time in a long time, their spirits soared above the clouds of bureaucracy and uncertainty.

As the reality of Spain grew closer, their once cosy life in Dorking began to feel like a pair of shoes that were a size too small. They started shedding their possessions like throwing extra weight out of the basket of a hot air balloon; selling, donating, and discarding anything that wouldn’t fit in their new life.

The climax of this great purge came one Sunday morning at the local car boot sale. It was the kind of crisp, dewy morning that made Dorking look almost picturesque with Box Hill looming in the background and the smell of bacon sandwiches wafting over from the food stall, but they were far too distracted to notice. Their little stall was a jumble of mismatched memories—old books, barely-used kitchen gadgets, and the occasional piece of dubious décor that had somehow survived the previous purges.

Among the items was a bracelet, a chunky silver chain with a small charm inscribed with the date they had met. Oliver had given it to Sebastian as a meaningful gift, but Sebastian, with his particular aversion to jewellery, had never really taken to it. Now, as he placed it on the table, he felt a pang of guilt mixed with relief. Oliver noticed but said nothing, he tried to understand but couldn’t help but feel a little hurt.

Business was slow, with most of the locals more interested in browsing than buying. They were about to call it a day when a woman approached, eyeing the contents of their stall with mild interest.

“How much for the car?” she asked, her voice casual as she pointed at their battered old hatchback parked just behind them.

Sebastian and Oliver exchanged a bemused glance. “The car?” Oliver echoed, half-laughing. “Oh, it’s not for sale… We’re just selling the stuff inside.”

But the woman was serious, her expression unflinching. “No, I mean the car. How much?”

Sebastian blinked. They hadn’t even considered the car in their plans. It had been part of their life for so long that it seemed like an extension of themselves. But here was a stranger, ready to take it off their hands, and with it, another piece of their old life.

“Well,” Sebastian started, glancing at Oliver, who shrugged in a ‘why not?’ sort of way. “How about £1500?”

“Deal,” the woman replied without hesitation, pulling out a wad of cash from her bag. She didn’t even bother checking the car over, as if she knew that whatever it was, it was exactly what she needed. It felt surreal like the universe itself was conspiring to make their escape as smooth as possible.

As they handed over the keys, it hit them. This was it. No more driving down the familiar streets of Dorking, no more car park battles at Waitrose. Their roots had been pulled up, and with every step, they were closer to their new life.

The final days in Dorking were a blur of goodbyes and last-minute preparations. Each farewell was bittersweet, a reminder of the life they were leaving behind and the new one they were rushing towards. They questioned their sanity more than once - selling everything, learning a new language, moving to a village where turnip-throwing festivals were a thing. But their hearts, as unreliable as they might be, were steadfast.

Spain was waiting for them.