Caveat Emptor

Out in the campo, among the bedstead gates and the poppies, every day sees a new plot fenced off. I remember one smallish tract being fenced off four years ago, when I first came to C___. It would have been late summer, so no poppies at that time perhaps, just burned grass and dry soil. It starts with the chicken wire fencing. A few weeks later there’s the old bedstead converting public space into private access. Later still, it might be a couple of months, the first ramshackle building goes up.

This particular plot bypassed the house made of straw, but only just. The following March you might have thought pig number two had moved in. There was a building made of wood, though it apparently housed a horse: an equine of culture presumably, judging by the satellite dish. In common with all of these guerrilla property developments, at that stage rows of tomato plants surrounded the building. Of course, you might say this gives the lie to the TV addict horse, and you’d be right.

Not long after, generally, a swathe of tarmac goes from the bedstead down the side of the wooden shack and some of the tomato plants are sacrificed - and this place followed the schedule. Soon an old car appeared on the tarmac, in this case a very old Seat, but I have seen Renaults and Citroens too. What is sure is that none of them are likely to be insured, but since the person driving them won’t have a driving licence it doesn’t matter.

Come the following spring a slightly bigger blocky shape of concrete and brick appeared. There was no longer any evidence of a horse. But this time piles of agrochemicals sat outside the building, indicating a surplus too large to be contained in what obviously was a storage building. With a bigger, newer satellite dish. By the end of the Summer, bang on schedule, the bedstead gates had gone. The usual two concrete pillars and manually operated wrought iron gates appeared.

Last April, as expected, a large patio and an outdoor kitchen appeared. Building continued all summer. As October threatened rain, two or three illegal Sudacas – South American immigrants – painted the exterior. A beautiful store for agrochemicals, fit for a gentleman farmer, perhaps.

Yesterday, I passed the walled perimeter of the plot, smelled the chemicals of the pool. The orange and black sign on the gate said ‘Se Vende.’