Cover image for Driving over lemons : an optimist in Spain
Driving over lemons : an optimist in Spain
Stewart, Chris, 1951-
Personal Author:
First Vintage Departures edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Vintage Books, 2001.

Physical Description:
v, 249 pages : illustrations, map ; 21 cm
General Note:
Originally published: New York : Pantheon Books, 1999.
Format :


Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Item Holds
DP302.A38 S74 1999C Adult Non-Fiction Non-Fiction Area

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nbsp; No sooner had Chris Stewart set eyes on El Valero than he handed over a check.nbsp; Now all he had to do was explain to Ana, his wife that they were the proud owners of an isolated sheep farm in the Alpujarra Mountains in Southern Spain.nbsp; That was the easy part.

Lush with olive, lemon, and almond groves, the farm lacks a few essentials--running water, electricity, an access road.nbsp; And then there's the problem of rapacious Pedro Romero, the previous owner who refuses to leave.nbsp; A perpetual optimist, whose skill as a sheepshearer provides an ideal entrée into his new community, Stewart alsonbsp;possesses an unflappable spirit that, we soon learn, nothing can diminish.nbsp; Wholly enchanted by the rugged terrain of the hillside and the people they meet along the way--among them farmers, including the ever-resourceful Domingo, other expatriates and artists--Chris and Ana Stewart build an enviable life, complete with a child and dogs, in a country far from home.

Author Notes

Chris Stewart lives in Spain with his wife, Ana, and daughter, Chloë.

From the Hardcover edition.

Reviews 3

Booklist Review

This is utterly charming: earthier than A Year in Provence, as besotted with a locale as Under the Tuscan Sun. Stewart, once a teenager with a band called Genesis before he was replaced by Phil Collins, bought El Valero in the mountains of southern Spain. He and his wife, Ana, had skills that included professional sheep shearing and organic farming, but transplanting themselves from England to Andalucia put them in the way of other learning experiences. It's hard to believe this is Stewart's first book: he writes so directly and with such disarming sweetness. Everything about the place is chronicled from the astonishing levels of dust, heat, and insect life to the very air, scented with wild rosemary and thyme, orange, lemon, and olive trees. There are good neighbors and bad, weird and wondrous fellow ex-pats, inscrutable local customs, and offhand local blessings. The description of the matanza, or pig killing, and the construction of a bridge that Stewart knows will eventually be swept away are extraordinary set pieces. His daughter is born and thrives; he keeps his sheep but gives up on the chickens; there are dog and cat stories and wild nature stories and some truly remarkable descriptions of meals. He's great company. --GraceAnne A. DeCandido

Publisher's Weekly Review

Stewart, a former drummer in Genesis, middle-aged travel writer and professional sheepshearer, never quite explains why he and his wife, Ana, decided to quit England 11 years ago for a dilapidated farm without electricity, water or even a road in Andaluc¡a, Spain. Perhaps the olives, almonds and rosemary had something to do with it. Stewart clearly has found contentment in his good place among a lovingly described collection of local farmers, New Age travelers, artists and the occasional Buddhist. His hilly farm is a harsher place than Peter Mayle's Provence or Frances Mayes's Tuscany, and the local cuisine far less appetizing, yet his unfailing good humor and invincible optimism carry him past obstacles that would send most readers scurrying for home. More than a travel book, this is a record of Stewart's slowly flourishing friendship with his neighbor, Domingo, and of how Stewart gradually sank roots deep into his beautiful Andaluc¡an hillside. A bestseller in England, this enchanting memoir is likely to prove popular in North America with both armchair travelers and readers who, while curious about the odd life choices others make, would just as soon give scorpions and clouds of flies a miss. (May) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

A former drummer for the rock group Genesis on his new life in Spain. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



Chapter 1 El Valero 'Well, this is no good, I don't want to live here!' I said as we drove along yet another tarmac road behind a row of whitewashed houses. 'I want to live in the mountains, for heaven's sake, not in the suburbs of some town in a valley.' 'Shut up and keep driving,' ordered Georgina, the woman sitting beside me. She lit another cigarette of strong black tobacco and bathed me in a cloud of smoke. I'd only met Georgina that afternoon but it hadn't taken her long to put me in my place. She was a confident young Englishwoman with a peculiarly Mediterranean way of seeming at ease with her surroundings. For the last ten years she had been living in the Alpujarras, the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, south of Granada, and she had carved out a niche for herself acting as an intermediary between the farmers who wanted to sell their cortijos in the hills and move to town, and the foreigners who wanted to buy them. It was a tough job but no one who saw her ironing out deals with the coarsest peasant or arguing water rights with the most stubborn bureaucrat could doubt she was the woman for it. If she had a weakness at all it was in her refusal to suffer fools and ditherers. 'Do you bully all your clients like this?' I protested. 'No, just you. Left here.' Obediently I turned the wheel and we shrugged off the last houses of Ã"rgiva, the market town where I'd been adopted by my agent. We bumped onto a dirt track and headed downhill towards the river. 'Where are the mountains?' I whined. Georgina ignored me and looked at the groves of oranges and olives on either side of the track. There were white houses covered in the scrags of last year's vines and decked with bright geraniums and bougainvillea; mules were ploughing; boiler-suited growers were bent bum-up amid perfect lines of vegetables; a palm tree shaded the road where hens were swimming in the dust. Dogs slept in the road in the shade; cats slept in the road in the sun. The creature with lowest priority on the road was the car. I stopped and backed up a bit to go round a lemon. 'Drive over lemons,' ordered Georgina. There were, it was true, a hell of a lot of lemons. They hurtled past, borne on a stream of water that bubbled nearby; in places the road was a mat of mashed fruit, and the earth beneath the trees was bright with fallen yellow orbs. I remembered a half-forgotten snatch of song, something about a lovelorn gypsy throwing lemons into the Great River until it turned to gold. The lemons, the creatures and the flowers warmed my heart a little. We drove on through a flat plain quilted with cabbages and beans, at the end of which loomed a little mountain. After dipping a banana grove, we turned sharp right up a steep hill with deep cuttings in the red rock. 'This looks more like it.' 'Just wait, we're not there yet.' Up and up we went, bend after bend, the river valley spread below us like an aerial print. On through a gorge and suddenly we burst into a new valley. The plain we had crossed disappeared utterly, hidden from sight by the mass of mountain, and drowned by the roaring of the river in the gorge below. Far below, beside the river, I caught sight of a little farm in a horseshoe-shaped valley, a derelict house on a cactus-covered crag, surrounded by unkempt fields and terraces of ancient olive trees. 'La Herradura,' Georgina announced. 'What about that, then?' 'Well, it's nice to dream but the pittance we've got to spend is hardly going to buy us a place like that.' 'With the money you've got to spend you could afford that place and have some left over to do it up.' 'I don't believe you. You can't possibly be serious.' I was incredulous because this was so far beyond my wildest hopes. I had come to Spain with a sum of money that would barely stretch to a garden shed in the south of England, expecting to buy at best a ruined house with perhaps a little patch of land. 'Well, there's no point in going any further. I'll have that one. Let's go down and see it.' We pulled the car off the road and tripped down a path. I was so overwhelmed with excitement and delight that I felt sick. I picked an orange from a tree, the first time I'd ever done that. It was quite the most disgusting orange I'd ever eaten. 'Sweet oranges,' said Georgina. 'They're mostly sweet oranges here - good for juice. And the old men with no teeth like them.' 'This is it, Georgina. It's paradise. I want it. I mean, I'll buy it now.' 'It's not a good idea to be too hasty in these matters. Let's go and have a look at some other places.' 'I don't want to see anywhere else. I want to live here, and anyway I'm your client. Surely we do what I want, not what you want!' We drove off, further into the valley, and Georgina took me to see a stone ruin that was slowly slithering down a hill towards a precipice. It was surrounded by rotting cactus, and groves of dead trees covered the dismal hill around it. A poisonous spring oozed from a clump of thorns at the bottom of the property. 'Hell no, what did you want me to see that place for?' 'It has its good points.' 'It has the advantage of being a long way from the nearest golf course, but more than that I cannot see.' We moved on to look at a concrete blockhouse, a battery chicken shed, a filthy hovel infested with bats, and a sort of cave littered with turds and old bits of newspaper. 'I don't want to see any more of this sort of thing. Let's go back to La Herradura.' So we did, and I sat on a warm stone in the riverbed, dreaming one of those rare dreams that suddenly start to materialise around you, until Georgina intruded. 'I know it's very nice, Chris, but there are problems with La Herradura. It's owned by a number of people, and they don't all want to sell - and one of those who doesn't want to sell has access to a room he owns right plumb in the middle of the house. That could be inconvenient if not downright disagreeable. And then there's the matter of the water . . . ' Her words faded as we both turned our heads to catch a snatch of song rolling towards us along the riverbed. I made out the words 'frog' and 'crystal glasses' but the rest was lost in a gruff baritone. From behind a rock came a red goat with only one horn. It eyed us up for a moment, then performed that trick that has so endeared the goat to mankind since the beginnings of time, the simultaneous belch and fart. 'Clever the way they do that, isn't it?' Georgina ignored this observation. 'The man you see approaching us now,' she announced in an urgent whisper, 'is the owner of the place across the river - and I think that he may want to sell it.' Following the one-horned goat came a huge man with a red bristly face, sitting astride a horse. He was doing the singing, presumably to amuse himself while he supervised the goat and its several companions, who included a couple of cows, a kid, a grubby sheep and a pair of dogs. He stopped, lurched forward in his saddle and surveyed us from beneath a filthy cotton beach-hat. With an oath he halted his entourage. 'Hola, buenas tardes. Would you be Pedro Romero, he who owns the farm across the river?' began Georgina. The man grunted. 'I've heard you may want to sell it.' 'Maybe I do.' 'Then we want to come and see it.' 'When?' 'Tomorrow morning.' 'I'll be there.' 'How do we get there?' There followed a long-winded explanation of which I could only catch the odd reference to trees, brambles and stones. All rather unnecessary, I thought, as we were looking at the farm not half a mile away. 'This foreigner wants to buy the place?' He leered at me, assessing my worth. 'Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't.' 'Till tomorrow, then.' 'Till tomorrow.' With which the little procession jangled its way back down the river. Romero had stopped singing and appeared lost in thought. I watched entranced as the lowering sun lit the little clouds of golden dust raised by the animals' feet. 'I know a thing or two about this business,' Georgina said, 'and that farm is definitely worth a look. It's called El Valero.' u Georgina considered me thoughtfully as we drank a morning coffee together before setting out for the valley. 'Listen, you're to keep quiet unless I prompt you. Leave the talking to me.' 'Alright. But hang on. Have we actually established that I want to buy El Valero? I was under the impression, if you'll forgive me, that I wanted La Herradura.' Georgina looked me squarely in the eye. 'I've given the matter some thought, and I've decided that El Valero and you are well suited. You'll see when we get there.' We drove to the valley in warm January sunshine. The farmers were working their fields of vegetables, the dogs and cats had returned to their allotted places in the road. It looked familiar this time. As we passed La Herradura, I looked down at it wistfully, and then with some misgivings at the place across the river. After a while the road gave out completely, and we took our shoes off and waded through the river, which was knee-deep and fast-running in places, not to say cold. 'This is a hell of a way to get to a place,' I shouted, 'if you'll excuse my saying so.' We climbed up a bank by eucalyptus trees and across a field, and from there followed a narrow path through terraces shot with flowers and shaded by oranges, lemons and olives. Clear runnels of water flowed here and there, tumbling down stony falls and spreading to water terraces of fruit trees and vegetables. The path stepped across a stream and curled up through a grove of blossoming almonds. Georgina turned and smiled at me. 'What do you think?' 'You know what I think - I've never seen anything like it!' 'Here's the house.' 'House?! It looks like a whole village. I can't buy a village.' A couple of houses with some stables and goat-pens, chicken-runs and store-rooms, were spread at different levels on a great steep rock. Beneath this complex a hose dribbled feebly into a rusty oil-drum by a pomegranate tree. Pedro Romero stood beside what was either a house or a stable, rubbing his hands and grinning. 'Ha! You've come. Sit down and drink wine, eat meat!' We sat on low chairs with our knees up by our ears, and enjoyed the spectacle of two dogs copulating enthusiastically in the centre of the circle made by the seats. I didn't know whether it would be appropriate to offer some ribald comment upon this activity, or to pretend that it was not happening. Georgina glowered at me and I kept quiet as agreed. A wizened wisp of a woman appeared, Romero's wife, Maria, and at an imperious gesture from the man of the house dispensed brown wine from a plastic Coca-Cola bottle and thumped a fatty lump of ham down on the box that served for a table. The sun shone down, flies buzzed. We drank the wine and ate the ham and considered the amorous activities of the dogs in an increasingly vinous stupor. Georgina and Romero talked animatedly about neighbours and boundaries and water and rates and rights while I rocked back and forth on my chair and grinned vacuously. The dogs were quiet now as a result of being stuck together, looking bashfully in opposite directions, wishing perhaps that they'd never started the whole wretched business. The wine and the ham came and went, and I nodded off, then opened a heavy-lidded eye as Georgina poked me in the ribs. 'Slap this into his hand as if you mean it.' She passed me a fat wad of peseta notes of large denomination. 'You're now the happy owner of El Valero and that's the señal - the deposit.' It really was no use arguing with Georgina so I did as she said and bought the place. There was a deal of backslapping, handshaking and grinning all round. 'It was a gift at that price,' lamented Romero and his wife. 'We're ruined, really we've given our home away . . . you've bought a paradise for pennies, but what could we do?' I almost began to offer them more money but Georgina shot me a silencing look, and so, for a little under five million pesetas (£25,000, more or less), I had bought a farm that I would have hardly dared look at over the fence before. In a matter of minutes I was transformed from an itinerant sheep-shearer and tenant of a tied cottage beneath an airport landing path in Sussex, into the owner of a mountain farm in AndalucÃ?a. This would take some getting used to. u Barely able to contain my excitement I drove to the nearest bar to phone Ana, my wife, in England - and there pulled up short. How exactly was I going to explain to her what I had just done? I shuffled the coins about on the table and looked for inspiration at the dregs in my wineglass. Strictly speaking, my brief had been to check out certain places in AndalucÃ?a and look at the possibility of buying a house and plot of land where together we could carve out a future. I couldn't help but feel that I had somewhat overstepped the mark. There comes a tide in the affairs of men, of course . . . but would Ana see it in quite that light? She didn't. But then, in her position, neither probably would I. However, fortunately for us both, Ana has never been one for recriminations, and she soon shifted into that cautious line of enquiry that doctors employ after arriving at the scene of an accident. 'How far is it from the nearest road?' was her first question. It was a relief to be dealing with the practicalities. 'Oh, it's just about the distance from the cottage to the piggery.' I tried to imagine Ana looking across the Sussex farmyard. 'And that's not far, is it? I mean it's not very far to the piggery . . . No, there's no running water . . . wait, I tell a lie - there's a babbling hosepipe tied to an oil-drum about twenty metres below the house.' I talked at length of the scarlet geranium petals floating on the water of the drum, of the gentle beasts stooping to drink, and of the bright flowers that carpeted the ground around this lovely pool. But Ana was not to be side-tracked. Excerpted from Driving over Lemons: An Optimist in Spain by Chris Stewart All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.