Driving Over Lemons

Driving Over Lemons

Genesis Drummer’s Driving Over Lemons Adapted

It is an engaging story about an outsider from England and want-to-be farmer who buys a run down farm and through hard work, optimism, and a sense of humor builds a working farm in the Alpujarra region of Spain. When something doesn’t work or is destroyed by nature, he just picks himself up and starts over. It is an easy, enjoyable, and fast read/5(K).

1 day ago · Driving Over Lemons – a celebrated summer read for over two decades, which has sold over two million copies worldwide – is set for the screen, as the book goes into development as a returning comedy drama series. The adaptation will be a UK-Spanish co-production between Seven Seas Films, Tin Hat Film and TV Productions Ltd and La Pepa PC.

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(Driving Over Lemons Trilogy #1) by Chris Stewart · Rating details · 15, ratings · reviews No sooner had Chris Stewart set eyes on El Valero than he handed over a check. 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/5().

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About Driving Over Lemons No sooner had Chris Stewart set eyes on El Valero than he handed over a check. 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. That was the easy part. Lush with olive, lemon, and almond groves, the farm lacks a few

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The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society: From the author of Driving Over Lemons (Lemons Trilogy Book 3) Chris Stewart out of 5 stars () Kindle Edition. $ Next Customers who bought this item also bought. 1 of 1 Start over 1 of 1. Previous A Parrot in the Pepper Tree: A Sequel to Driving Over Lemons (Lemons /5(K).

Driving Over Lemons

Excerpt El Valero ‘Well, this is no good, I don’t want to live here! 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. If she had a weakness at all it was in her refusal to suffer fools and ditherers. Left here. We bumped onto a dirt track and headed downhill towards the river.

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. 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.

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. 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. You can’t possibly be serious.

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