A week has passed since the three of us arrived at Fran’s finca, where we have been invited to adopt, temporarily, the lifestyle to which she has committed herself permanently. And while it has not been difficult to grasp the practicalities of living together, the subtle relationship challenges that arise when several households merge present more of a challenge. Neither flat-share nor kibbutz, but with elements of both, our domestic situation tests our willingness to be flexible.
Not that we spend our days agonising over such things: there is little time left for that on a smallholding deep in the campo, where chores such as fetching firewood, carrying buckets of water, tending animals, encouraging crops and fixing infrastructure take up a large part of the day. There is also a low-level, preoccupying anxiety about sufficiency of water and electricity, neither of which is sourced from the mains supply. Freedom from the corporates comes at a price, one that Catalans themselves seem not to be prepared to pay, since they have sold their fincas to ex-pats and moved on-grid. We have already met some of the new owners, a motley collection of adventurers with different backstories. One couple rubbed me up the wrong way when, over coffee, they set about haranguing us with their anti-vax views and far-fetched conspiracy theories. The fact that they also believe that there is a God and He has a purpose indicates, to me at least, that they are inclined to gullibility. I might have dismissed them as crazy people, but they are neighbours and, as such, not just community, but a resource to be nurtured, as we were to find out.
Our big project here is helping in the construction of a donkey shed. The infrastructure, a wooden frame with a tin roof and walls of baled straw, is already complete. Our task is to render the straw with several layers of clay, using no mechanical aids, since our taskmaster, Fran, is intent on doing this the traditional way. The first step in the process is to break down the lumpy clay (there are five tons of it) and mix it with water to the consistency of a slip. The slip is then slapped onto the bales and worked in by hand. The second coat (yes, we have to do it all over again) will include sand and rabbit droppings in the mix. This is back-breaking, finger numbing, tedious work so, after a couple of hours, Stefano and I began to look for ways to ease the burden, taking turns at each task and hunting around for tools that might speed things up. There were mutinous murmurings about mechanical mixers, but Fran was immovable. Instead, in keeping with the principles of self-sufficiency and mutual support, she had arranged for a gang of neighbours to come over and help out on Wednesday. They would include a young man from Manchester, a middle-aged man from Devon, two women – one half of a South African couple and one half of a French couple – and the conspiracy theorists, who hail from Essex.
In the event, any concerns I had about another encounter with crazies proved ill-founded. All the volunteers were friendly, cheerful and willing (I suppose there was some tallying of favours involved) and the result was impressive. By mid- afternoon, the walls were entirely coated, inside and out. The zealots did not raise their pet subjects – although one of them pointedly said a hasty grace before she tucked into lunch – and social intercourse with the others, some of whom came back later for supper, helped to dispel any minor, latent tensions that might have been building within our little band of five.
The finca dwellers I have met are all urban refugees. It’s a significant lifestyle exchange but they seem to love it. I would be interested to know how the former finca owners are faring, having fled in the opposite direction.
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