What price a petunia?

Bugger, I thought to myself, looking out the kitchen window. The heavens had opened. A heavy curtain of grey rain hung outside. I needed to go Trevias and ditch a few chores.

“You’ll need to wear your rain coat,” Paul, always the practical, tells me. I sigh. He’s right, I admit, as I put on my quilted black anorak. There’s a chill in the air and I feel the height of rural fashion.

Somewhere over the motley collection of dilapidated farm buildings and rusting implements, the rain stops and the indigo sky turns cerulean. The temperature gauge in the car shows seventeen degrees. I sweat; it’s Paul’s fault.

In Trevias I try to look inconspicuous but how subtle can I look, dressed as a Michelin girl amongst my compatriots in an array of floral prints.

Letters posted and computer paper bought, I suggest coffee. Paul nods in agreement. He knows not to. Bar Esva beckons and we sit at the bar sipping our large frothy coffees and nibble our complimentary biscuits. Our ‘coffee chat’ covers a multitude of subjects bith deep and frivolous. An hour later we head for home.

Along our single lane track we meet Marie Cruz coming the other way. We sneak into a neighbours drive to let her through. She stops.

She’s going to the annual flower market in Aviles that afternoon, she tells us in Spanish. I’d gone with her last year and she invites me to tag along again. I accept.

“Chicas solo,” she tells Paul. That’s OK; he’s adept at occupying himself.

“A las tres,” she says, driving off. I can be ready by three o’clock.

Back at the house we have lunch. Salmon in a white wine sauce and a jacket potato. I freshen myself and change. Paul walks with me the hundred yards to my neighbour’s house. Minutes later we’re on the road. We collect Angeles, wife of Paco the postman. Marie Cruz drives like the demon and it’s not long before we’re in the village of Quintana to pick up two other ladies. Quintana is quaint and sleepy giving the impression it could be a Spanish Brigadoon. It well could be. I had been along the Querias road on many occasions, never notincing the turn off.

Like a bat out of hell, Marie Cruz heads for the autopista. It’s a dull glass and metal building. It’s raining again and dirty streaks stain the large windows. We pay our one euro admission and step into a mass of colour. A rainbow of blooms are cloaked by a dazzling array of greens. Our eyes are mesmerized. Our fingers gently caress the leaves and petals; a thousand different textures and shapes. Our noses delight in a fusion of aromas that float through the air. None of us resist. We leave with less euros than we started with and there is less space in the car boot than when we started. Marie Cruz knows a garden centre nearby and off we go.

I had meant to make note of the route but we are all chattering ten to the dozen. The rain is pouring down the windscreen and the wipers are ticking like a metronome. I’m lost. I don’t care. I’m not driving and I can’t navigate in Spanish. I’m just here for the ride

Another secret side turn leads us to the entrance. Everything is outside. We soon get cold and wet. It crosses my mind that sometimes Paul is right. I’d have welcomed my bulky anorak by then. I’m not going to tell him though. I’d never live it down. After some forty minutes our purses weigh even less. Their till is fuller and more room has been found in the boot of Marie Cruz’ car.

We’re weary and back in the car.

“El Corte Ingles o ParqueAstur?” Marie Cruz asks. Evidently it’s time for coffee. I don’t mind where we go. I’m just along for the fun of it and as long as there is a cup of coffee at the end of it. I just smile.

“ParqueAstur,” Angeles chirps from the back seat. Paco has asked her to change a shirt he’d bought there.

Alonso hits the road. Did I say Alonso? Sorry, I forgot its Marie Cruz driving.

The mall is busy but no one is in a hurry. I wonder why busy malls aren’t like this back in England. Here, shopping is a family affair and a social event. As with everything else Spanish, shopping is done with all the time in the world. We meander and window shop. Angeles swaps Paco’s shirt. Marie Cruz buys a pair of rat faced earings.

“For Eva,” she says. I wonder what made her buy them for her daughter. I daren’t ask.

We find a cafe and take coffee. The conversation flows. I’m two steps behind everything that is said as I try to understand all that is said and formulate my reply. They don’t mind. I’m trying. Many would agree with that!!

Energy restored we ‘do’ Carrefor. They have their spring line in and we all dream of what we’d like to purchase to furnish our terraces. I buy 2 packets of seeds. I’m tired. I want to go home. I can see Marie Cruz is tired too.

“Vanos,” she says and we go.

Its dark by now and the rain is heavier than it’s been all day. She heads back to the autopista Her right foot rests steadily on the accelerator. The needle stays on 120 kilometres. Her mobile rings. She answers. Her foot and speed never waiver. We steadily close on an oil tanker in front of us. She continues chatting to Eva. I stare ahead as if in a dream. We’re within two feet. With a practised ease, she goes into overtake. Still catching up with her daughter’s gossip, she stays with her overtake as we negotiate the juggernaut in front of the oil tanker. The autopista is curving too. I feel as if I’m in a bad dream yet I feel safe. The needle stays on 120 kilometres. Back in lane one, I let my eyes wander to the side. The whole of Aviles is lit up beneath us and I see the lights of the airport in the distance. Am I in heaven or is it just fairyland? It doesn’t matter. It’s beautiful. My mind wanders to similar scenes on trips gone by.

I see a signpost that says Quintana and realise we are almost home. For once Mary Cruz’ speed drops to a moderate five. She is admiring the frogs on the track; their gaudy colours are illuminated in her headlights. Then Carcedo. Angeles is home. I phone Paul. I ask if he can walk to Marie Cruz’ house. He does. We bid our farewells to our neighbour and friend as we head back along the track with our arms filled with horticultural delights.

It’s 9.20. I’m worn out. My eyelids are drooping. I want to go to sleep.

I must remember to ask Marie Cruz if we are going next year.