XESCU PRATS
The Ibiza that my grandfather knew T
he Ibiza that my grandfather knew was another Ibiza. When he was young, a hundred years ago, Ibizans faced a hard life of deprivation. They struggled day after day, shoulder to shoulder, to feed, clothe and care for their families. Disease and death were their daily company, accepted with resignation as part of the cycle of life. But in spite of all this, my grandfather was a happy man, a peasant who was always smiling and who lived in communion with nature. They tackled the scrubland by tearing up pines, roots and undergrowth to turn it into fertile land, where they planted their vegetables, rootcrops and fruit. To plough they
136 Las Dalias
struggled with an obstinate mule, using the stones they turned up to build paths through the hills. They cleared the woodland and used the twigs to make charcoal. From the branches they cut logs and carved furniture. Grandfather also went fishing, hunted, bred animals and gathered asparagus, mushrooms and honey. He made espadrilles with soles of esparto grass, wove baskets and extended his house, bit by bit, using lime and stone, when the family grew. In the nineteen-thirties, Jews and German intellectuals took refuge in his village. He offered them conversation, a glass of wine and a dish of olives. Then when the hippies appeared, with their customs from another world, he let them live in peace, giving them figs and almonds when they were hungry.