Driving Over Lemons: An Optimist in Andalucia [Paperback]

All Provenced out? Then head further south this year, to the breathtaking mountainous climes of Andalucia. Just don't be squeamish about driving over lemons.

Chris Stewart, skilled sheep-shearer and sometime Genesis drummer, took one look at the Alpujarr´s, the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, and decided that's where he wanted to be. This is the story of his adventures coming to terms with the terrain, the lifestyle and, of course, the locals, who possess all the rugged, homespun charm you'd expect. Stewart soon discovers all the hidden foibles of his bargain purchase, and spends the following year(rendered here in detail) installing the little luxuries of life like, say, water.

However, just when you're worrying that all this might degenerate into a rose-tinted "Englishman finds nature" idyll, Chris's wife enters the fray. Nonsense-free, straight-talking and relentlessly unsentimental, Ada should be a required resource for all travel writers. Ada gets bored with the fake machismo of pig-killing, Ada sees through the selfless "help" of the natives, Ada calls a peasant a peasant. With her on board, Stewart has the perfect counterbalance to his declared optimism, and Driving Over Lemons becomes a loving but clear-sighted encomium, economically and wittily written, to a wonderful part of the world. --Alan Stewart --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

All Provenced out? Then head further south, to the breathtaking mountainous climes of Andalucia. Just don't be squeamish about driving over lemons. Chris Stewart, skilled sheep-shearer and sometime Genesis drummer, took one look at the Alpujarrás, the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, and decided that's where he wanted to be. This is the story of his adventures coming to terms with the terrain, the lifestyle and, of course, the locals, who possess all the rugged, homespun charm you'd expect. Stewart soon discovers all the hidden foibles of his bargain purchase, and spends the following year (rendered here in detail) installing the little luxuries of life like, say, water.

However, just when you're worrying that all this might degenerate into a rose-tinted Englishman-finds-nature idyll, Chris's wife enters the fray. Nonsense-free, straight-talking and relentlessly unsentimental, Ada should be a required resource for all travel writers. Ada gets bored with the fake machismo of pig-killing, Ada sees through the selfless "help" of the natives, Ada calls a peasant a peasant. With her on board, Stewart has the perfect counterbalance to his declared optimism, and Driving over Lemons becomes a loving but clear-sighted encomium, economically and wittily written, to a wonderful part of the world. --Alan Stewart --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

"When an author is as modest and humorous as this, his story cannot be told too often." Elizabeth Buchan, The Times "Exquisite... in Driving Over Lemons the anecdote flourishes once more." Penelope Lively, The Daily Telegraph" --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

"An exquisite account of his life as a rustic sheep-farmer. The book, Driving Over Lemons, is so darn good that he is already being talked of within the publishing industry as the new Peter Mayle" --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

"A book that is bound to become a literary hit." --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

"A lyrical portrait of a couple integrating themselves in a traditional community in the Alpujarra mountains of Andalucia, one of Europe's most beautiful regions. Stewart's writing conveys his amiability . . .he has a particularly good ear for dialogue --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

"I warmed to him. A man who buys a shack on the wrong side of a river on a barren mountainside in Andalucia, persuades his wife to take part in this folly and then sets up shop as the local sheep-shearer has to be respected. In Driving Over Lemons, the anecdote flourishes once more. . . Stewart's briskly robust style and lack of pretension keep the book rolling along." --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

"When an author is as modest and humorous as this, it is a story that cannot be told too often. . .a quiet, sincere narration of putting his money where his mouth is. After all, fame and fortune beckoned in Genesis, and, no doubt, a mansion in Esher. Instead , on a hot night the family walk up to the pool in the river, set the candles on the rocks and slip into the water for a moonlit swim. No choice really." --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

"In chronicling the mood swings of a life less ordinary, the game Stewart has produced a delicious slice of rural verit, a book that serves as a more realistic and slightly funkier version of Peter Mayle's rather twee (in comparison) A Year in Provence. . . .Stewart went to Spain with no money and no cultural hang-ups and became a working farmer. . . a marvellous read throughout". --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

Every few weeks yet another book in which the author has bought a rustic idyll in Tuscany/France/Spain lands in our office. . .but it's rare for one to stand out from the pack. . ..Stewart manages to carve out a life and a good book. It's all told in a fresh and funny way and without recourse to over-dramatization. The story of shearing another farmer's sheep, and leaving pom-poms on their tails, in itself makes the book worth buying. Open a bottle of wine, nibble some olives and enjoy. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

At seventeen, Chris Stewart retired as the drummer of Genesis and launched a career as a sheep-shearer and travel writer. He has no regrets about this. Had he become a big-time rock star he might never have moved with his wife Ana to a remote mountain farm in Andalucia. Nor forged the friendship of a lifetime with his resourceful peasant neighbor, Domingo, nor watched his baby daughter Chloe grow and thrive there. Fate does sometimes seem to know what it's up to. Driving Over Lemons is funny, insightful, and charms form beginning to end. --This text refers to the Audio CD edition.

Who Wants To Be A Rock Star?
At age seventeen Chris retired as drummer of Genesis and launched a career as a sheep shearer and travel writer. he has no regrets about this. Had he become a big name rock star he might never have moved with his wife Ana to a remote mountain farm in Andalucía. nor forged the friendship of a lifetime with his resourceful peasant neighbour Domingo... nor watched his baby daughter Chloë grow and thrive there... nor written this book. Fate does sometimes seem to know what it’s up to. Driving Over Lemons is that rare thing: a funny, insightful book that charms you from the first page to the last... and one that makes running a peasant farm in Spain seem like a distinctly good move. Chris transports us to Las Alpujarras, an oddball region south of Granada, and into a series of misadventures with an engaging cast of peasant farmers and shepherds, New Age travellers and ex-pats. The hero of the piece, however, is the farm that he and Ana bought - El Valero, a patch of mountain studded with olive, almond and lemon groves, sited on the wrong side of a river, with no access road, water supply or electricity. Could life offer much better than that? --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

"Chris Stewart is one of life's bold originals." The Independent Meet Chris Stewart, the eternal optimist. A man who flies to Spain, sees a peasant farm on the wrong side of the river and, with scarcely a second thought, hands over a cash deposit. And then finds he has acquired not just the farm, but the farmer, too, who has no intention of leaving. Not to mention the lack of running water, electricity or even a bridge. It would be enough to send most people straight back home. But Chris and his wife Ana are made of stronger stuff - and besides, they have sunk all their savings into their farm, El Valero, and buying a flock of sheep. So there is no turning back. Life gets tough, but it also gets good. Driving Over Lemons is that rare thing - a funny, insightful book that charms you from the first sun-lit page to the last. And one that makes running an Andalucian mountain farm seem like a half-decent career move. It has been a major bestseller in both Britain and Spain. This Anniversary Edition of Driving Over Lemons includes an extensive author interview with Chris Stewart, bringing events up to date at El Valero. Book One of The Driving Over Lemons trilogy --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

Chris Stewart shot to fame with Driving Over Lemons (9780956003805) - Sort Of Books' launch title in 1999. Funny, insightful and real, the book told the story of how he bought a peasant farm on the wrong side of the river, with its previous owner still resident. It became an international bestseller and with its sequels - A Parrot in the Pepper Tree and The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society - it has sold more than a million copies in the UK alone. Chris prepared for life on his Spanish mountain farm with jobs of doubtful relevance. He was the original drummer in Genesis (he played on the first album), then joined a circus, learnt how to shear sheep, went to China to write the Rough Guide, gained a pilot's license in Los Angeles, and completed a course in French cooking. Three Ways to Capsize a Boat fills in his lost years as a yacht skipper in the Greek islands. Despite the extraordinary success of his books, Chris, his wife Ana, and their daughter Chloë, continue to live on their farm, with their numerous dogs, cats, chickens, sheep and misanthropic parrot. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

(From Chapter 1.)

Chris introduces Ana, to El Valero, the impossibly remote and ramshackle farm in the mountains of Andaluca that he's just bought on an impulse. The incumbent farmer, Pedro Romero and his wife, Maria, have invited them both to spend a night as their guest.

The scent of flowers gave way to that of dung and goats. 'This is the house,' I announced, indicating the murky outline with my arm, but Ana's reply was drowned by the yelping and snarling of the dogs. A door burst open and an ogreish voice cursed into the night.

'Our host,' I explained.

The door slammed shut again as we approached. I knocked and waited. The dogs growled and snarled around our knees. Once more the door opened and there stood Romero, with tiny Maria tucked behind his bulk. 'Welcome,' he beamed.

'This is my wife, Ana.'

'Good looking wife,' said Romero, looking her up and down with a lecherous glint.

'How young you are and how lovely!' enthused Maria, kissing her. 'Come in, come in.'

We entered the room, Romero dealt a deft boot to the dogs sniffing our bags and closing the door behind us.

The sitting room at El Valero was small and square and completely whitewashed but for the shiny cement floor. It contained a black plastic sofa facing two wooden chairs and a round table with a television. By way of decoration there was a plastic doll's cutlery set hanging on one wall, and a picture of Christ cut from a magazine on another. That was it - and there wasn't a speck of dust. A dim bare bulb hung in the middle, feebly illuminating the scene. We were ushered to the sofa.

'No, no!' I protested in my rather stilted Spanish. 'We cannot sit on the only comfortable chair; we must sit on the hard wood.'

'Alright,' said Romero and slumped down on the sofa, the better to leer at Ana. Ana got up and ratched about in her bag, pulling out an expensive tin of shortbread biscuits and handing it to Maria. Maria looked baffled and handed it to Romero. We all looked at one another in acute embarrassment, except for Romero who was busy prising the lid off the tin. He pulled out a biscuit, considered it, and bit off a corner.

'Arrgh! I can't eat that. Tastes of cheese!'

'They're very popular in England, we thought you'd like them.'

'No, we don't.' Romero grinned amiably.

Maria took the tin and put it in a dark store room nearby. They would put a nice finish on the pigs, those Harrods Tartan-tinned Highland Shortbreads.
We sat in silence for a bit, looking at each other.

Maria was the first to crack. 'Welcome to our humble home,' she said for the second time. 'It's very poor and very dirty but we're very poor people so what can we do?' She spread her hands and looked mournful.

'No no, it's wonderful, beautiful - and immaculately clean.' I nodded at Ana, indicating that she should agree. She smiled at Maria.

'We got lost, couldn't find the way across the valley,' I said to Romero, hoping in vain that Ana would continue the conversation I had started so considerately for her about the cleanliness - or otherwise - of houses.

'Of course you did. You didn't know the way,' replied Romero, showing little sympathy and not much inclination to continue this line of conversation.

More silence. I coughed and pinched my leg, then grinned at everyone in turn. Romero grunted and lumbered over to the television and turned it on. The light bulb dimmed. A raucous hissing filled the room, and something akin to the sound of massed frogs croaking in a distant pool. Eventually a blizzard appeared on the screen with shadows moving simultaneously up and down and from side to side. Romero moved to one side so we could all watch the screen, and raised his head quizzically, inviting our admiration.

'It's a fine television,' I offered hastily. 'Incredible that you can have a television all the way out here. Hah! The wonders of the twentieth century!' But nobody was listening to me; they were all engrossed by the programme - whatever on earth it was.

Romero returned to the sofa and we watched the indecipherable nonsense on the screen for five minutes or so. I've known some long five minutes in my time but this outlasted them all. Then Romero got up and flicked a switch to change the channel. Another blizzard, more shadows accompanied by distant batrachian croakings, indefinably different. We all settled down to watch this new extravaganza.

Another five long minutes and Romero had had enough of the second programme, so he got up and switched over again.

'Marvellous,' I said. 'Absolutely marvellous. Tell me, how many programmes can you get on that incredible apparatus?'

'Oh just the two,' he said deprecatingly. 'This is the first one again.'

And so we sat, the four of us, captivated by whatever scene was unravelling before us, occasionally nodding or grinning at one another in approval, until finally Romero got up and switched the wretched thing off.
'Well, that's enough of that,' I grinned. 'I'm not saying that I don't enjoy TV . . . but really it's no substitute for the - er - for the sweet milk of good conversation . . . is it?'

A thick silence ensued. I felt like a dead pig in a tea-room. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.