The Woodcutters' Revenge

For a little over a week now, woodcutters have been clearing a piece of land near the molino. I can't say I like them: they make a lot of noise, they tear up the already muddy paths, and, oh yes, they're cutting down a bunch of innocent trees.

So when they ill-advisedly decided to drive their big trunk-hauler down the teeny overgrown path that empties into the clearing where we park, only to find the exit blocked by our parked car, I practiced a bit of eco-terrorism on them. First, I pretended like I wasn't home and therefore unavailable to move said car. After about thirty minutes of that, I opened the door and let the by now enraged Levon out, who terrified them for about 30 seconds until he became distracted by a toy. And then I yelled at them a bit, about erosion, and our crumbling fence, and how they path was ours and they didn't have permission to drive down it. (This last bit was something of a fib, but I figured they didn't know otherwise. I was right) They yelled right back, but I felt I had made my point.

I was no more forgiving the next day when I twice found them blocking the road out of the molino; the second time I even threated to file a denuncia, which as far as I can tell, is the ultimate threat in Spain. Soon after, they were keeping to the side of the road, and scowling unhappily at me every time I drove by.

At the end of that same week, the guy from Digital +, our satellite tv provider, showed up to fix our suddenly misbehaving reception. He fiddled for a while with the box, then fiddled some more with the dish, then called me outside. "You want to know your problem?" he asked. I nodded resignedly. He pointed up to a tall patch of eucalyptus trees growing behind the house. "You gotta cut'em down."