I am not a fan of road trips. Never have been, ever since I was a kid back in the ‘70s. You know the drill: three squabbling siblings crammed into a tiny car for hours, elbows jostling, seat belts an afterthought. The radio? Banned. Dad was driving. Talking? Also banned. Mum needed silence to navigate with an oversized, life-threatening fold-out map that blocked most of the windscreen. Naturally, we always got lost. Taking refuge in lorry lay-bys where the tartan thermos of lukewarm tea would appear, accompanied by stinky egg-and-cress sandwiches and Mum’s rock cakes. Emphasis on the rock.

Lord Muck, on the other hand, loves a road trip. Discovering new places. Meeting new people. So last weekend, we set off for Mojacar in Almeria. A beautiful, whitewashed pueblo, once an old Moorish settlement and now one of the most visited villages in Spain. And all was going well – until his Lordship took a “shortcut” through a vast expanse of olive groves brimming with rustic charm and, as it turned out, rapidly deteriorating roads. The tarmac disappeared. Then the gravel. Soon,

we were crawling along what could only be described as a track. No houses. No people. No mobile signal. SatNav gave up entirely. But just like my father all those years ago, Lord Muck exuded complete confidence in his ability to get us to our destination. 

Then we saw them. A sea of white goats surrounded us on all sides. 500+. Adorable, I thought. How very Spanish. Then, out of nowhere, three hellhounds appeared. Mastíns. Spanish livestock guardian dogs, bred for one purpose: to protect their herd. And in their eyes, we – a suspicious-looking white car – were now clearly part of it. Dog One positioned himself at the front bumper. Dog Two flanked us on his left. Dog Three took up the right. Barking. Growling. Teeth bared. Every time we tried to inch forward, they herded us back. And with sheer drops on either side of the track, there was no way to outmanoeuvre them. “Right,” said Lord Muck, ever the strategist. “I’ll reverse.” Ah. Tiny issue. The large goat herd was now directly behind us. So there we were. Trapped. By a thousand hooves and three hellhounds determined to ensure we remained honorary goats forever. 

An hour passed. The dogs finally lay down. Lord Muck saw his moment. He tapped the accelerator.  All three dogs sprang to their feet, ready to shove us back into line. Plan B. Lord Muck reached for the door handle, thinking maybe he could shoo them away. The instant the door opened a crack, three sets of snapping, hungry jaws lunged up at him. He swiftly reconsidered. Another hour on and with night closing in, I thought, “This is it. This is where we die. Starving to death because I failed to pack a thermos and egg-and-cress sandwiches.” Then, salvation. A whistle. Another. And suddenly, just like that, the hellhounds were gone. A weathered old goatherd, sunhat tilted, staff in hand. He gave us a toothless grin, waved his dogs aside with a flick of his wrist, and, without a word, turned back along the road.

We didn’t hesitate. We fled. But as we zoomed around the corner, Lord Muck screeched to a halt. Dead end. Nothing for it but to turn around and re-take our rightful place back in the herd. And pray that the goatherd had packed egg-and-cress sandwiches…

Postcards from Andalucía, Lady Muck Style

By Catherine Saunders  /  Read more at www.ladymuck.style