appeared to be kissing or devouring, depending on your perspective. Toni and I wandered around the dark, claustrophobic rooms upstairs, with their grimy concrete floors and small window holes obscured by black iron grills. The rooms led one to the other across the top floor of the house like a series of empty dungeons whose prisoners had escaped. Alan, who had gone ahead of us, stood transfixed at a window in his own reverie, gazing through the bars out to the garden and field beyond.
  As we explored the various outhouses, we came across a table hewn out of old pine, its surface rough and dyed red, and sliced up as though Mad Max had been let loose on it. Several rusty instruments of torture, saws, knives and axes drooped from a lax piece of filthy rope overhead.
  'Is slaughter table, si ,' said Toni with mock solemnity. 'Many lives have ended here.'
  'Just humans, I hope?'
  'Mostly,' he grinned. 'But occasionally a pig or hen.'
  The basement held the greatest revelation. Left as it must have been for twenty odd years, the air smelt dank and sweet and white paint powdered on our clothes as they scraped the inner wall on the way down the dark, crumbling steps. Lining every wall were bottle upon bottle of hand pickled preserves: olives and onions, cucumbers and tomatoes, fruits and liqueurs, all intact in simple glass bottles, their contents outliving their elderly owners. Hanging down over our heads were row upon row of dried tomatoes, basil and rosemary, cracked and gnarled with age but still holding the colour and vague aroma of their kind.
  'This could make a great guest bedroom,' I mumbled to myself.
  'Or a tomb,' my Scotsman rejoined laconically.
  We stumbled back up into the main entrada , a dark hall with rank, mildewed walls and a pitted concrete floor.
  'We'll take it.'
  Toni examined his shoes and Alan looked at the Madonna for inspiration but she had already lost her head.
  In an effort at male solidarity, Toni frowned slightly. 'Senyor, is important you see shower and toilet first.'
  Alan growled almost imperceptibly. 'I didn't think there was a bathroom.'
  'No. Is no bathroom. They used garden.'
  We crept uncertainly behind him up the back garden to a wooden shelter covered with a dirty, rain-ravaged, pinstriped cotton curtain partially ripped off its wooden rod. It was hiding something grim within, I knew that much. A hole gaped at us from the ground. We had plumbed new lavatorial depths. And the shower?
  'Is green hose over back door. Goes from drain above so when rain falls you have shower.' Nice touch.
  'All mod cons,' Alan intoned dryly.
  'Well, we still want it,' I persisted.
  Alan fixed me with one of his cool gazes. 'Exactly which bank were you planning to raid?'
  'But it's so cheap, and think what you could do with all that land!'
  As a keen horticulturist, he had already sussed out the landscaping possibilities for himself so wasn't going to be seduced by the insincere sales spiel of an inexpert gardener like me who couldn't tell a hibiscus from a hydrangea.
  'Look, we're not buying a mule here! This is a house and we don't have the money.'
  'So you like it?' I beamed victoriously.
  'It's not a question of what I like. We came to Mallorca for a holiday, not a house.'
  'And ended up doing the reverse. That's the thrill.'
  'Anyway, what would we do with it?'
  'We'll think of something.'
  Toni shuffled outside the front door, too polite to interrupt a potential marital dispute. I followed him out moments later and told him that we were going to buy it. He raised his eyebrows slightly and stole a glance at my husband.
  'What would you do with her?' Alan said to Toni with an exasperated grin, offering his hands out wide in a gesture of defeat. 'There's only one thing for it.'
  And
  As we explored the various outhouses, we came across a table hewn out of old pine, its surface rough and dyed red, and sliced up as though Mad Max had been let loose on it. Several rusty instruments of torture, saws, knives and axes drooped from a lax piece of filthy rope overhead.
  'Is slaughter table, si ,' said Toni with mock solemnity. 'Many lives have ended here.'
  'Just humans, I hope?'
  'Mostly,' he grinned. 'But occasionally a pig or hen.'
  The basement held the greatest revelation. Left as it must have been for twenty odd years, the air smelt dank and sweet and white paint powdered on our clothes as they scraped the inner wall on the way down the dark, crumbling steps. Lining every wall were bottle upon bottle of hand pickled preserves: olives and onions, cucumbers and tomatoes, fruits and liqueurs, all intact in simple glass bottles, their contents outliving their elderly owners. Hanging down over our heads were row upon row of dried tomatoes, basil and rosemary, cracked and gnarled with age but still holding the colour and vague aroma of their kind.
  'This could make a great guest bedroom,' I mumbled to myself.
  'Or a tomb,' my Scotsman rejoined laconically.
  We stumbled back up into the main entrada , a dark hall with rank, mildewed walls and a pitted concrete floor.
  'We'll take it.'
  Toni examined his shoes and Alan looked at the Madonna for inspiration but she had already lost her head.
  In an effort at male solidarity, Toni frowned slightly. 'Senyor, is important you see shower and toilet first.'
  Alan growled almost imperceptibly. 'I didn't think there was a bathroom.'
  'No. Is no bathroom. They used garden.'
  We crept uncertainly behind him up the back garden to a wooden shelter covered with a dirty, rain-ravaged, pinstriped cotton curtain partially ripped off its wooden rod. It was hiding something grim within, I knew that much. A hole gaped at us from the ground. We had plumbed new lavatorial depths. And the shower?
  'Is green hose over back door. Goes from drain above so when rain falls you have shower.' Nice touch.
  'All mod cons,' Alan intoned dryly.
  'Well, we still want it,' I persisted.
  Alan fixed me with one of his cool gazes. 'Exactly which bank were you planning to raid?'
  'But it's so cheap, and think what you could do with all that land!'
  As a keen horticulturist, he had already sussed out the landscaping possibilities for himself so wasn't going to be seduced by the insincere sales spiel of an inexpert gardener like me who couldn't tell a hibiscus from a hydrangea.
  'Look, we're not buying a mule here! This is a house and we don't have the money.'
  'So you like it?' I beamed victoriously.
  'It's not a question of what I like. We came to Mallorca for a holiday, not a house.'
  'And ended up doing the reverse. That's the thrill.'
  'Anyway, what would we do with it?'
  'We'll think of something.'
  Toni shuffled outside the front door, too polite to interrupt a potential marital dispute. I followed him out moments later and told him that we were going to buy it. He raised his eyebrows slightly and stole a glance at my husband.
  'What would you do with her?' Alan said to Toni with an exasperated grin, offering his hands out wide in a gesture of defeat. 'There's only one thing for it.'
  And
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