A TASTE OF HOSPITALITY

 

A TASTE OF HOSPITALITY

On Saturday while on a car journey, to Morazán in Southern Spain. 

We crossed fertile red plains and past the dreaded plastic-covered fields under cultivation. We wound our way in and out of small villages and on occasion got lost due of course to navigator error, and not driver disobedience.

We climbed steeply into lightly wooded hillsides. I find it very hard to understand the Spanish water situation as most rivers we came across were dry even in the hills. When does it rain in Spain?

The views were spectacular the higher we went, and on occasions, I had to have the tourist photo session, Though David Bailey I am not!

There was hardly any traffic and it was approaching 2 pm when we were beginning to be anxious about a lunch stop. Appearing on cue just over the horizon in a valley, nestling in a bend was a restaurant tucked in front of two pink-coloured houses. 

Looking around for its possible clientele, we were surprised to see only about two or three small farmhouses and an isolated church.

Upon entering the restaurant, there was the owner of a shorter version of Victor Mature behind the bar and sitting on bar stools were two men. One of them looked like a local farmer. 

The other was a passing motorcyclist dressed to kill in very colourful motorbike leather trousers with a matching jacket draped over the back of the stool. He had all the trappings and stories of the big bike man.

The owner came over in welcome and shook our hands and handed us the menu written in Spanish.

My husband managed to help us through to a delicious lunch which included home-cured and hung ham, a Spanish Specialty. We refused the wine and settled for water as locally brewed wine can have quite a lethal effect and we had quite a way to go yet on our journey.

We were entertained by the TV, with an American martial arts adventure with Spanish subtitles and numerous commercials. It did not, however, detract from the real-life three ways Spanish conversation being relayed within earshot. 

As the wine flowed the tales grew in colour and complexity from the men at the bar. We sat enthralled, with the added pleasure of real-time views out of the windows, and the homemade food.

At one stage we thought the motorcyclist was about to leave, as he stood up, donned his colourful leather jacket buttoned it up to the neck and picked up his helmet. He reached out to shake the bar owner’s hand when the owner said something.

He ducked down below the bar and appeared a second or two later holding a glass, brimming with ruby red wine. He handed it to the Motor Cyclist who gave his thanks and promptly sat down again. 

With real ceremony, he supped the wine rolling it around his palate and giving a speech of appreciation. Cigarettes were offered and accepted and all resumed as before. Then another glass appeared.

We eventually finished our tasty meal, paid up shook hands with the owner and left the motorcyclist now into his third glass of wine and his jacket all done up ready for the road. Once outside 

I said to my husband ‘Where is his bike? We had to laugh as we were expecting a big powerful machine. There it stood a small Put, Put. 

Yet he had every right to consider it his pride and joy. I was a little worried as to the condition he might be in to drive anything when he finally left the restaurant's free hospitality. 

So we hurried off to be well ahead of him, in case his Put-Put, turned out to be a jet-propelled rocket.

2023 © Penny Wobbly of WobblingPen

Photo: Pixabay License