will take time and, according to Stefan, will involve serious excavation of the nearby roads, but he ominously insists there will be no problem which is enough to make my heart sink. No problema , indeed. Miraculously we now have a phone line in operation but it is temperamental and given to seizures in the middle of calls. I can only imagine it takes umbrage at certain topics of conversation and cuts us off mid-flow. I get up and walk over to the window that overlooks the field. Aha! Caught him. Small intermittent puffs, like smoke signals, are rising from the doorway of Alan's den, down in the field. I call this his abajo , which strictly speaking means 'down below'. Naively he thinks his daily puro smoking goes undetected, his lair being shielded by a conifer and two lemon trees.
  I potter down into the garden where Ollie, clad in shorts and a floppy brimmed hat, is pounding a battalion of ants with his small fists. Like most small boys he has an unsettling fascination with all things in the soil of a hairy, swift of limb, creepy-crawly kind.
  'Do you want to come into town?'
  He squints up at me from the grass. 'What on earth are you wearing?'
  This time, unlike my first and only ill-equipped attempt at walking along the track, I'm taking no chances. Today I'm kitted out like a proper walker, wearing sensible loafers and shorts. Sartorial elegance is not a priority.
  'What's wrong with it?' I ask a touch defensively.
  He shrugs his shoulders. 'Well, you look scruffy. In London you wear suits.'
  'Yes, well, I'd look pretty ridiculous wearing a suit in this heat. Besides I'd stick out like a sore thumb.'
  He sighs deeply. 'I hate this hat. I look like a girl.'
  'Don't be silly. It'll stop the sun burning you. So, do you want to come with me?'
  'I'm rather busy killing these ants.'
  'I'll buy you an ice cream.'
  He pauses and rises on his haunches. 'Are you driving there?'
  'Heavens, no. It's a lovely day for a walk.'
  He shakes his head. 'I'm not walking anywhere. I'll stay here with daddy.'
  'OK suit yourself.'
  He gives me a cryptic little smile. 'You're not scared to go all by yourself, are you?'
  'Scared? What on earth of?'
  He mumbles something and shakes his head dismissively, his interest diverted by the ant carnage around him. Maybe he knows something I don't.
  Alan is puffing on a beefy brown cigar as I appear silently round the door of his abajo and shriek, 'Caught you!'
  He nearly jumps out of his skin and vainly tries to dispel the clouds of acrid smoke with his arms.
  'Don't bother. You're only making it worse.'
  'My first one of the day,' he says lamely, choking on the fumes.
  'Hm⦠and what about the other four cigar stubs in that ashtray?' I point to the overflowing terracotta saucer by his computer.
  He knits his brows. 'Those are just old ones. I hope you don't think I've smoked them today?' He gives me a wounded look.
  'Actually I think you're a lousy liar but I'm in a hurry so haven't got time to prolong the discussion.'
  He seems relieved. 'Ah, you're off to HiBit. Can you remember to ask Antonia, the owner, about Ollie joining the local football club? Stefan says her brother, Felipe, is the chap in charge.'
  'Will do.'
  On my way out of the house, I pause to grab a handmade straw pannier from the kitchen, a new purchase from one of the mountain villages. Foolishly I imagine it might give me some kudos with the market stallholders who, so far, have found my linguistic combination of poor Spanish, mime and semaphore hugely entertaining.
  Walking down our rocky lane, without heels but with laptop and pannier in tow, is verging on the enjoyable were it not for the intense heat. On one side of me is a lofty but misshapen stone wall, distended in the centre by ancient bulging
  I potter down into the garden where Ollie, clad in shorts and a floppy brimmed hat, is pounding a battalion of ants with his small fists. Like most small boys he has an unsettling fascination with all things in the soil of a hairy, swift of limb, creepy-crawly kind.
  'Do you want to come into town?'
  He squints up at me from the grass. 'What on earth are you wearing?'
  This time, unlike my first and only ill-equipped attempt at walking along the track, I'm taking no chances. Today I'm kitted out like a proper walker, wearing sensible loafers and shorts. Sartorial elegance is not a priority.
  'What's wrong with it?' I ask a touch defensively.
  He shrugs his shoulders. 'Well, you look scruffy. In London you wear suits.'
  'Yes, well, I'd look pretty ridiculous wearing a suit in this heat. Besides I'd stick out like a sore thumb.'
  He sighs deeply. 'I hate this hat. I look like a girl.'
  'Don't be silly. It'll stop the sun burning you. So, do you want to come with me?'
  'I'm rather busy killing these ants.'
  'I'll buy you an ice cream.'
  He pauses and rises on his haunches. 'Are you driving there?'
  'Heavens, no. It's a lovely day for a walk.'
  He shakes his head. 'I'm not walking anywhere. I'll stay here with daddy.'
  'OK suit yourself.'
  He gives me a cryptic little smile. 'You're not scared to go all by yourself, are you?'
  'Scared? What on earth of?'
  He mumbles something and shakes his head dismissively, his interest diverted by the ant carnage around him. Maybe he knows something I don't.
  Alan is puffing on a beefy brown cigar as I appear silently round the door of his abajo and shriek, 'Caught you!'
  He nearly jumps out of his skin and vainly tries to dispel the clouds of acrid smoke with his arms.
  'Don't bother. You're only making it worse.'
  'My first one of the day,' he says lamely, choking on the fumes.
  'Hm⦠and what about the other four cigar stubs in that ashtray?' I point to the overflowing terracotta saucer by his computer.
  He knits his brows. 'Those are just old ones. I hope you don't think I've smoked them today?' He gives me a wounded look.
  'Actually I think you're a lousy liar but I'm in a hurry so haven't got time to prolong the discussion.'
  He seems relieved. 'Ah, you're off to HiBit. Can you remember to ask Antonia, the owner, about Ollie joining the local football club? Stefan says her brother, Felipe, is the chap in charge.'
  'Will do.'
  On my way out of the house, I pause to grab a handmade straw pannier from the kitchen, a new purchase from one of the mountain villages. Foolishly I imagine it might give me some kudos with the market stallholders who, so far, have found my linguistic combination of poor Spanish, mime and semaphore hugely entertaining.
  Walking down our rocky lane, without heels but with laptop and pannier in tow, is verging on the enjoyable were it not for the intense heat. On one side of me is a lofty but misshapen stone wall, distended in the centre by ancient bulging
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