Welcome to Casa Adora in rural Andalusia, where bilingual children stories Spanish come alive through the adventures of rescue greyhounds Issy and Poppy. Today, they’ll revisit an old friend — the ghost dog Glen — learn traditional Catalan songs from neighbour Rosa, and create their own Andalusian ditties. This tale celebrates language learning, cultural exchange, and playful storytelling for kids aged 6–12.

Featured languages: English, Spanish (Andaluz dialect), Catalan, Scottish dialect

Perfect for: Children learning Spanish, expat families, dog lovers, cultural education

Songs from Barcelona: A Tuesday Morning at Casa Adora

Courtyard at Casa Adora, Monte Lope Álvarez in rural Andalusia.

It was partly cloudy but rather warm.

Issy & Poppy were marching around the courtyard, their long greyhound legs moving in perfect comic synchronisation. Dad had taught them a ditty from his childhood in south London, and they were howling along enthusiastically.

🎶
Ginger, you're barmy,
He went to join the army,
Got knocked out by a bottle of stout,
Ginger, you're barmy.
🎶

Their howls reached a crescendo as Dad entered the courtyard with his mug of tea, an open packet of Garibaldis, plus his book - How to be Right.

Smiling, he said, "What's brought on the singing, girls?"

"Practising for Juanito!" Issy announced confidently.

"We want to get it perfect," Poppy added, her tail wagging nervously. "What if we forget the words?"

"You won't forget, Pops. You never do."

The howling had clearly carried beyond the courtyard walls. Rosa la Catalana appeared at the gate, wiping her hands on her apron, a broad smile on her face.

"¡Hola Phil! ¡Hola mis bellezas!" She crouched down as both greyhounds rushed over to her, their thin tails whipping back and forth. "What a racket you're making! I could hear you from my kitchen. ¿Qué pasa aquí?"

"We've been working on our repertoire," Dad said, scratching Poppy behind the ears. "Juan Enrique's son Juanito taught them this the other day."

"¿De verdad? Show me, show me!"

Dad sang, and right on cue, Issy and Poppy threw back their elegant heads and howled:

🎶
Juanito, Juanito, se cayó del burro,
Se le rompió el sombrero, y su camisa de churro.
Rió la vecina, gritó el gallo,
Juanito, Juanito, ¡qué gran fallo!
🎶

Translation:

Juanito, Juanito, fell off his donkey,
Broke his hat and his churro-patterned shirt.
The neighbour laughed, the rooster crowed,
Juanito, Juanito, what a blunder!

Rosa laughed, delighted. "¡Ay, qué maravilla! These two, Phil. They're special, ¿verdad?"

"They certainly think so." Dad gestured to the stone bench. "Cup of tea, Rosa? I've got the kettle on."

"No, no, gracias. I'm fine." Rosa settled onto the bench. "But these perras…" She stroked Issy's sleek head as both greyhounds arranged themselves at her feet, looking up adoringly. "They remind me so much of when I was young in Barcelona. Always noise, always something happening."

Dad sat down beside her, packet of Garibaldis in hand. He knew better than to interrupt when Rosa was in storytelling mode.

Rosa's Barcelona Childhood

Poppy nudged Rosa's knee gently with her nose. "Barcelona? That's where you're from, isn't it?"

"Sí, guapa. Such a big city. So different from here." She gestured at the peaceful courtyard, the olive trees visible in the distance. "When I was little - maybe seven or eight - we lived in an apartment building in Gràcia. You know what that is?"

"A neighbourhood?" Issy asked, matter-of-factly.

"¡Exacto! Very clever, Issy. Lots of narrow streets, tall buildings, people everywhere. Not like here where you can see for kilometres and the only traffic is Antonio Pavo's tractor." She smiled at the memory. "We had a tiny balcony. My mother would hang the washing out and it would drip on the people walking below. They would shake their fists and shout, but Mamá just waved and smiled."

"That sounds…" Poppy hesitated, "…very close together."

"It was, Poppy. Very close. But we loved it." Rosa scratched behind Poppy's ears reassuringly. "My sister Isabel and I, we were always singing in the streets. All the children did. We'd play in the plazas, jump rope, make up games."

"Why did your family move here?" Issy asked directly.

Rosa didn't mind the bluntness - she was used to Issy's style. "My parents owned olive groves here - my abuelo had left them to my father. Every summer we'd come down from Barcelona. Such a long journey in those days! We'd stay for all of August. I loved it. The space, the quiet, the stars at night. In Barcelona you couldn't see the stars like you can here, Phil. Too much light."

Dad nodded, munching a Garibaldi. "And then you stayed permanently?"

"When I was twenty-five. Thirty years ago now, can you believe it? My parents decided to move here to work the land properly. My father was tired of the city - too expensive, too crowded. He wanted to live like his father had done."

"And you met Paco here?" Poppy asked, her nervousness forgotten in the story.

Rosa's eyes lit up. "At the village fiesta, sí. He was born here, Monte Lope Álvarez born and bred. Third generation. He thought he was very handsome with his new motorbike." She laughed. "He wasn't wrong, actually. But more importantly, he made me laugh. And he showed me how beautiful this place really is. The olive groves, the mountains, the way the light falls in the evening. I stopped missing Barcelona quite so much."

Learning Catalan Songs

Issy let out a small whine. "Do you have songs from Barcelona?"

"Canciones? Of course! I'll teach you some from when I was little. Phil, you can help them learn."

"Go on then," Dad encouraged, opening his book but clearly not planning to read it.

Rosa closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. "This one. My mother used to sing this while she cooked. It's in Catalan, not Spanish - you know the difference, Phil?"

"I know it's the language of Catalunya, but that's about it."

"Catalan is our language, the language of the region. Different from Spanish - its own words, its own sound. Isabel and I spoke it at home with Mamá and Papá. Listen…"

🎶
El petit Pau va anar al mercat,
Va comprar peres i un bon formatge,
La veïna va dir: "Quin noi més llest!"
El petit Pau va somriure content.
🎶

Translation:

Little Pau went to the market,
Bought pears and some good cheese,
The neighbour said: "What a clever boy!"
Little Pau smiled happily.

Issy and Poppy both tilted their heads, listening intently.

"That's beautiful," Poppy said softly.

"Sing another?" Issy requested.

"This one we used to sing jumping rope in the street. All the girls in my building knew it. Isabel could jump for hours without stopping."

🎶
La Laia salta, salta sense parar,
Un, dos, tres, al ritme del mar,
Les onades pujen, les onades baixen,
La Laia salta, els seus peus mai es cansen!
🎶

Translation:

Laia jumps, jumps without stopping,
One, two, three, to the rhythm of the sea,
The waves rise, the waves fall,
Laia jumps, her feet never tire!

Issy's ears perked up. "The rhythm of the sea - that's because Barcelona's on the Mediterranean, isn't it?"

"¡Exacto! Very good, Issy. On summer days we'd take the bus to the beach - Barceloneta - and swim and play. The water was so blue, so calm. Isabel and I would build enormous sandcastles. Once we built one so big, a dog ran straight through it." Rosa laughed. "Isabel cried for an hour. She was only six."

"Poor Isabel," Poppy said sympathetically.

"Sí, pobrecita." Rosa stroked Poppy's head. "But we built another one, even bigger."

"One more song?" Issy asked hopefully.

"Vale, one more. This one is silly. My father used to sing it to make us laugh when we were grumpy."

🎶
En Jordi té un gat,
El gat té un barret,
El barret és blau,
I el gat diu meu-meu-meu!
Quan plou, quan plou,
El gat es fa un ou!
🎶

Translation:

Jordi has a cat,
The cat has a hat,
The hat is blue,
And the cat says meow-meow-meow!
When it rains, when it rains,
The cat curls up like an egg!

"A cat with a hat!" Poppy giggled. "That's ridiculous!"

"Ridículo, ¿no? But that's what made it fun. Sometimes songs don't have to make sense, they just have to make you smile." Rosa stood up, brushing down her apron. "Now I really must get back. I've got tomatoes to bottle and Paco will be in for lunch soon, wondering where I am."

"Thanks for the songs, Rosa," Dad said. "And the stories."

"De nada, Phil. Anytime." She looked down at Issy and Poppy, who had stood up, tails wagging. "You two, mis amores, you keep practising those songs, ¿vale? Next time I come, we'll teach you a duet."

Rosa paused at the gate. "You know, Phil, these two perras of yours - they remind me why I'm glad we moved here thirty years ago. In Barcelona, people don't have time to stop and sing songs in courtyards on a Tuesday morning. Here, we do. That's worth more than all the buzz in the world."

She waved and disappeared through the gate.

Creating an Andalusian Ditty

"Well, that was lovely, wasn't it?" Dad said.

"She's wonderful," Poppy said, settling back down.

"Right then," Issy announced. "Let's make that Spanish version for Juanito."

"What's stout in Spanish?" Poppy wondered aloud.

"No idea," Issy admitted. "Probably cerveza tostá in Andaluz."

Within a few minutes, with much howling and tail-wagging, they had created a new version:

🎶
Pepe, Pepe, tomó cerveza tostá,
Se le cayó el sombrero, ¡vaya posta!
El burro lo miró y dio un gran brinco,
Pepe, Pepe, ¡qué alboroto y qué chiquito!
🎶

Translation:

Pepe, Pepe, drank brown beer,
His hat fell off, oh what a cheer!
The donkey looked and gave a big hop,
Pepe, Pepe, what a fuss and what a flop!

Dad applauded. "Brilliant. Juanito will love that."

Scottish Memories and a Ghostly Visitor

The afternoon sun climbed higher. Dad settled into his book properly this time. Issy and Poppy curled up in the shade, their thin sides rising and falling peacefully.

After a comfortable silence, Dad looked up from his book.

"You know, Rosa talking about her childhood reminded me of mine. Well, my summer holidays anyway."

"Oh?" Issy's ears pricked up immediately.

"Where?" Poppy asked, curious despite her natural caution.

"Scotland. A town called Montrose in Angus. My gran lived there. Every summer, my parents would put me on the train and off I'd go for six weeks."

"Six weeks?" Poppy sounded alarmed. "On your own?"

"I was fine, Pops. Eight years old and thought I was terribly grown-up." Dad smiled at the memory. "The train guard and ticket collector knew they had a young un on board - Mum always made sure of that. Plus I had a pack of jam sandwiches and a bottle of Corona pop. I was set." "Montrose was… well, it was nothing like south London. Or here, for that matter. Cold, even in summer. The North Sea wind would cut right through you. But the beaches went on forever, and the sky was enormous."

"Did you have songs there?" Issy asked, always practical about gathering information.

"Oh yes. Scottish songs. Want to hear one?"

Both greyhounds sat up attentively.

Dad cleared his throat and began:

🎶
The pipers play, the pipers play,
From Montrose tae Edinburgh way,
The sheep all run, the dogs all bark,
The pipes are playin' in the park!
🎶

As the last note faded, something remarkable happened.

The air shimmered slightly near the olive tree. Both Issy and Poppy's heads turned toward it, tails wagging.

A dog materialised - a sheepdog, border collie cross, with one ear up and one ear down, and the most mischievous eyes imaginable.

"Glen!" both greyhounds said together, delighted.

"Hello, lassies!" Glen's tail wagged furiously. He looked at Dad with affection, then back at the greyhounds, speaking in the thickest Scottish accent imaginable:

"Yer Dad taught me cricket, so I taught him the pipes. Gave up on him though - hopeless, he was. Absolutely hopeless."

"I wasn't that bad!" Dad protested mildly.

And then Glen did something neither of us expected — he dipped his head, gave Issy and Poppy a gentle wag of approval, and slowly began to fade. First his paws, then his tail, then his soft green glow… until he drifted away like Scotch mist, here one moment and gone the next.

"It's always nice when Glen visits," Poppy said, settling back down.

"He was Mrs Lindsay's dog," Dad explained, though the girls knew the story. "Granny's next door neighbour in Montrose. But he was mine for six weeks every summer. Best dog I ever knew - until he died when I was fifteen. He always did love the bagpipes. Appears sometimes when they're mentioned. Never stays long."

"He said you were hopeless," Issy pointed out matter-of-factly.

"Yes, well." Dad picked up his book again. "He's not entirely wrong. I was dreadful at the bagpipes. Gave Gran terrible headaches. Glen would howl along - I thought he was joining in, but looking back, I think he was protesting."

"He seemed nice," Poppy said, relaxing now that the ghost had gone.

"He was. Best dog I ever knew. Before you two, of course."

"Of course," both greyhounds agreed in unison.

From somewhere in the olive groves, they could hear Antonio Pavo's tractor.

All was well at Casa Adora.

Glossary: Spanish, Catalan & Scottish Terms

¡Hola! - Hello!

mis bellezas - my beauties

¿Qué pasa aquí? - What's happening here?

¿De verdad? - Really?

¡Ay, qué maravilla! - Oh, how wonderful!

¿verdad? - right? / isn't it?

gracias - thank you

perras - female dogs (affectionate)

Sí - Yes

guapa - beautiful/lovely (feminine)

¡Exacto! - Exactly!

Mamá - Mum

abuelo - grandfather

Canciones - songs

pobrecita - poor little thing (feminine)

Vale - OK/Alright

Ridículo, ¿no? - Ridiculous, isn't it?

De nada - You're welcome

mis amores - my loves

¿vale? - OK?/Alright?

cerveza tostá - brown/dark beer (Andalusian dialect)

tae - to (Scottish)

About This Story

This adventure celebrates multilingual learning, cultural exchange, and the power of storytelling to connect generations and communities. Issy and Poppy's language skills reflect the reality of many expat pets in Spain - they adapt, learn, and become bridges between cultures.

Author's Note for Grown-Ups: Yes, Antonio Pavo does indeed have a tractor. No, Phil never did master the bagpipes. And yes, ghost dogs are absolutely real if you believe in them hard enough. Or if you mention bagpipes in rural Andalusia on a Tuesday morning.

Have your own bilingual pet stories or family songs to share? Leave a comment below! Issy & Poppy would love to hear from you.

This story is part of the Issy & Poppy: Kids Edition collection — bilingual adventures with Issy and Poppy in Andalucía. You can explore the whole collection in the Kids Edition Hub.
Esta historia forma parte de la colección Issy & Poppy: Kids Edition — aventuras bilingües con Issy y Poppy en Andalucía. Descubre toda la colección en el Kids Edition Hub.

Footnote: AI images, my stories — The Flexible Chef.