A tale of an orange woman

It’s good to be living in the land of the orange. 

Ready for picking, a tradition in Valencia

That’s orange, with a small ‘o’, not ‘Orange’ with a big one, as in William of Orange. There were about six of those Williams of Orange, just to avoid any confusion. And, for further clarity, their title, ‘Orange’, came from a little town in France that still has that name, though they were Dutchmen. Naturally. What did you expect? Logic and rationality in the ways of men?

Of course, if you’re English like me, the William of Orange that matters to you is the third of that name who, by pure coincidence, was also the third William to mount the English throne (and, in passing, the Scottish one, which was still technically separate back then) when he grabbed power. And the grab involved military force. So if he’s the important William of Orange for the English, he’s even more important for the Irish, because most of the fighting took place there and, like most fighting in Ireland, it was pretty deadly.

William was Protestant and in that bloodthirsty conflict, he led the Protestant side. Which is why a lot of Irish Protestants, especially in those six Ulster counties that remain part of the United Kingdom (for now: Brexit may change that before long), are called Orangemen.

What about an Orange woman, though? I suppose that could be a female Orangeman. Alternatively, she could be the famous – or possibly infamous – mistress of King Charles II, the “orange girl” Nell Gwynn. Such orange girls sold the fruit, among others, to theatre goers, and also assisted them, for a small fee, in getting messages to the actors or actresses backstage, not always for the kind of purposes on which the Church tends to smile.

Nell Gwynn
Not our orange woman

None of the above is in the least bit relevant to what this post is about. Except perhaps the words ‘orange’ and ‘woman’.

The woman in question was a member of the Nordic Walking group we’ve joined in Valencia. Her name is one of those wonderfully uplifting and religiously significant ones that the Spanish like to go in for: Ascensión. I presume that’s about the ascension to heaven of some divine person or another, probably the virgin Mary, since it’s a female name.

Ascensión in one of her fields outside Valencia, 
on the horizon behind her

When we gave her a lift the other day, I wondered whether that turned our car into an ‘ascensor’ – as something that was carrying Ascensión – which, in a slightly curious way, is the Spanish word for the other kind of lift. I thought that was an amusing play on words, but I wasn’t sure it would work for anyone I shared it with. I mean, it would mean little even to fellow English speakers from across the Atlantic, for whom the first kind of lift is generally a ride, and the second kind an elevator.

As for trying it in Spanish, my experience with puns in that language hasn’t been encouraging. Some who have got used to me now give me a kind of weary, knowing smile, as if to say, “yes, I that’s a pun you’ve come up with and because I’m friendly, I’m acknowledging the fact, but don’t expect an uproarious response, like actual laughter”. Most Spaniards, though, just look at me blankly and change the subject.

It seems that Spaniards don’t appreciate my punning wit quite as much as my English-speaking friends. Among them, of course, it’s a much sought-after and warmly admired aspect of my character. Right? 

Right?

The reason we gave Ascensión a lift is that she invited us out to her alquería. Now, that’s a word I like. That initial ‘al’ tells you it’s Arabic, dating from the time when most of Spain was under Moorish rule, and indeed it’s from the word in that language for a farmstead – which is what it means in Spanish too.

So now at last we’ve reached the word ‘orange’ to go along with the ‘woman’, who was Ascensión. Because her alquería is set in orange groves, and she grows and sells the fruit as a small addition to her income. The income’s small because the sector’s taken a terrible competitive blow from North Africa, just across the water, with its cheaper products.

But Valencia, as well as being a region of rice, of wine and (at one time) of silk, is an orange-growing area of long tradition. The oranges are excellent. So being invited to Ascensión’s place to collect as many as we wanted to pick, was a dream come true. We filled a crate, and as a result we now have excellent fresh orange juice, or simply fresh oranges to eat, pretty much every day. With the promise that, once the crate is empty, we can fill it again.

The crate of oranges we picked at Ascensión's alquería

Nothing to do with William. Nothing to do with Protestant Ulstermen. Nothing to do with Nell Gwynn. 

Our orange woman is Ascensión, and it’s a privilege to have met her.