By Alice Evans
In Majorca when I was younger, my family and I experienced a very odd and nightmarish event. Our villa was surrounded by farmland, which was picturesque yet powerfully smelly. This was a tiny part of the problem though.
After an afternoon excursion, our hire car purred into the drive, and due to the sickly heat inside the non-air-conditioned car, my siblings and I gambolled our way around the side of the villa, straight to the swimming pool.
Alas, what we found there rather hastily suffocated our previous appetites for a leisurely swim. An extremely unfortunate sheep had, against the better judgement of the rest of its meandering flock, entertained the idea of a blissfully refreshing dip. We feasted our eyes on a floating, bloated ewe, frozen in its final moments of helpless fluster.
My primary research can confirm that hooves are no substitute for flippers. Worst of all, in order to relieve ourselves of said sheep, my dad proceeded to knock on the door of several farms in the vicinity.
Since we had neglected to bring a Spanish dictionary, my wonderful father began to re-enact the sheep’s final moments in his imagination. He majestically combined baaing, gurgling and a furiously mimed sheepy-paddle, followed by a melodramatic death. Unsurprisingly the bemused Majorcan farmer was left feeling distinctly out of his depth. Just like his sheep.
Illustration: Mariam Hayat