Two Old Fools in Spain Again by Victoria Twead Read Free Book Online

said. “I’m going to look them up on the Internet. This is getting ridiculous.”
    I typed ‘moths in the kitchen’ and literally thousands of references jumped up. I picked one at random. Yes, that photograph was most definitely our moth. I read further.
     
    ‘Food moths, or pantry moths, are generally pale in colour and about 1 centimetre long. At first you may see only one or two individuals, but before long, they will multiply quickly. They can often be found in bags of bird seed or dried goods.’
     
    Yes, we’d discovered that to our cost. But we’d dealt with that, the chicken grain had been disposed of. I read on.
     
    ‘Food moths lay their eggs, which hatch into larvae and will then continue their life-cycle by weaving cocoons in any crevice they can find before emerging to start the cycle again.’
     
    Did we have food moths breeding somewhere in our kitchen? It seemed very likely. After all, we’d had a plague of them and a few could easily have sneaked into the house and started breeding. I wondered where they were hatching and read a little more.
     
    ‘You may notice tiny grubs swinging from thin threads from cupboard doors. You may see empty cocoons on the folds of paper bags and the corners of food packets or boxes. It is advisable to check your flour and cereal for clumps. Close examination will show that the clumps seem to be held together with little strands, like spiders’ webs...’
     
    My hand flew to my mouth in horror, just as an anguished howl rent the air. I abandoned the computer and ran to the kitchen, already pretty sure what I might find.
    “My muesli! They’ve been hatching in my muesli!”
    “The moths?”
    “Yes, of course, the blasted moths!” he shouted, his face a picture of disgust. “I’ve eaten two-thirds of that packet of muesli! I told you it was lumpy! Look at it, it’s crawling with the things!”
    I took the cereal bowl over to the light and examined it closely. Yes, there were the sticky clumps I’d just read about. And there were the tiny grubs, wriggling happily amongst the nuts and oats.
    All other plans were put aside that day as we systematically went through the cupboards throwing out all the boxes of cereal, bags of flour and packs of rice. Not until we’d washed down every shelf and vacuumed every crevice were we satisfied.
    Touch wood, the pantry moths haven’t returned.

    In the heart of summer, any casual visitor might be forgiven for imagining El Hoyo was a ghost town. The searing heat chased everybody inside, or under cover. Dogs were too hot to bark and lolled listlessly in the shade and cats hid in crumbling, disused buildings.
    Only when the sun had safely set did people venture outside again. At twilight, they promenaded up the hill. Cats mysteriously reappeared and the dogs barked at the cats. The old folk sat in the square and watched the children play while motorbikes buzzed up and down the streets.
    In our street, Papa Ufarte sat on his doorstep, quietly strumming his guitar, head bent low as he watched his fingers move over the strings. Granny Ufarte sat in her armchair in the street, dozing. The Ufarte children ran in and out of the house, squeezing past Papa Ufarte and his guitar.
    Gradually the music became louder and more insistent. Maribel, Lola and any visiting friends and relations emerged with chatter and chairs. Sometimes one or two of the guests brought guitars and the sound of flamenco and applause soon filled the street.
    The ladies chatted, called to each other and laughed. Inevitably toes and feet tapped, then hands were clapped, all in time to the rhythm. One by one, the ladies rose and so began the ancient Andalucian gypsy dance. With heads held proudly and arms high, they stamped and whirled with defiant, explosive steps. Joe and I often stole up to our roof terrace to admire the scene down below.
    All too soon, the sultry summer days began to shorten and it was September. Our boxes from Bahrain finally arrived,