A Foot in Two Campos

57 - Two Campos - a Contrast

2013-05-23T17:34:23

Rural life in Shaftesbury, Dorset - the farming is milk, cheese and meat. Rural life in Colmenar, Málaga - the farming is almonds, olives, lemons, oranges, sunflowers, avocados, and honey.

A good long stint in Colmenar enabled me to participate, discover and explore, near and far. The Jerez horse-fair was an opportunity to stay a couple of nights at Vejer de la Frontera, a lovely town south of Jerez, ideally placed for the superb Cadiz beaches plus easy access to Jerez (where the hotels were fully-booked nine months ahead of the horse-fair).

Closer to home, exploration around the Montes de Málaga has been an eye-opener. You really wouldn't take the mountain road from Colmenar to Málaga if the intention was simply to get to Málaga - but for a slow meander through superb scenery, with lots of opportunities for woodland walking and spring flowers, it's an absolute cracker of a road. The Venta del Pinar for probably the best coffee for miles, the Eco-Museo out in the tree-covered hills, then on to the Hotel Humaina half way to Málaga, a fabulous place to stop, meet friends, enjoy the gardens and the interesting old building five kilometres off the mountain road.

La Semana de Cultura (culture week) in Colmenar was packed with large and small events, the art competition, a craft display, flamenco in the Casa Cultura, a theatre production, and an evening for the children to participate in 21st-century jousting, riding their bicycles as fast as possible and trying to hook a ribbon as they whizz past the rope, the ribbons streaming out like medieval knights' favours for the successful riders. No prizes, just the glow of participation for all and the glory of achievement for some.

Then a flight to England. Some time in Dorset. Packed with sociable coffees and girlie lunches. Planned walks in the Blackmore Vale curtailed by rain. Hours at the cottage table working through the heaps of post and admin. Trying to come off mailing lists is so much harder than getting onto them. Really, I am not interested in a private viewing of fire-damaged furniture and cannot work out how they got my name.

Sorting the details of closing down my business – a crucial step towards moving to Spain. HMRC (the tax department) turn out to be hugely helpful and manage to avoid patronising me. My accountant is retiring due to ill-health but has offered to keep me on for my final accounts and self-employed tax submission this summer.

Two days in London. The David Bowie exhibition at the V&A. Good coffee at a Turkish kiosk where I could reassure two Man City fans about Manuel Pellegrini (to their surprise). Drinks at the newly-revamped St Pancras Renaissance Hotel. Dinner at Searcy’s at the St Pancras Grand. Lovely to see old friends, but I really don't miss London. A good place to visit, but it's a relief to leave behind the crowds and the pressure and the apparent lack of consideration.

Back to Dorset. All around Shaftesbury the preparations are in full swing for the Shaftesbury Festival of Local Food, which I originally founded in 2005 and organised for the first five years. Since I handed the reins over to Charlie Turnbull of Turnbull's Café & Delicatessen, the local food festival has grown, and now merged with the music and arts festival and moved from the first May Bank Holiday to the second one to be bigger and better than ever - www.shaftesburyfestival.co.uk.

Signboards for the festival's edge-of-town car-parking and the Park'n'Ride are lost, searched for, and finally found in my shed. I contribute at a meeting about an ill-thought-through piece of art in the town centre. I see the recently re-elected County Councillor for Shaftesbury and congratulate him without sincerity - I voted by proxy but not for him. Small, local issues that bind you to a place, make it home. A home, not the only place to be called home.

The visits to England are brief. I worry that I expect my friends to adjust their timetables to fit in time with me. They reassure me. So far it seems to be working. Two lives, quite different, yet very much the same. In one, a town's culture week, a horse-fair, paella and flamenco dancers. In the other a town's music and art festival, a food quiz, local cheese-tasting and the David Bowie V&A exhibition. Both good. It's all about the balance between the two, and that will come right with time. Is slowly coming right.

This Week's Language Learning Point:

Why accents are so important, even from the very beginning …..

Mi papá tiene 47 años = My father is 47 years old.

Mi papa tiene 47 anos = My potato has 47 anuses.

And some teachers tell you accents don’t matter? Pffffff.

56 - Getting Into Hot Water

2013-05-16T16:41:43

It's taken me 54 years, but I've finally learned how to chill. How to really, properly, chill. And it's in the hot tub.

When I set it up, about four weeks ago, I knew I was going to get good use out of it. It was never going to be one of those things that gets used for a fortnight then becomes an expensive white elephant banished to the loft or the garage with the exercise bike, the foot massager and the leaf-blower. I've used a hot tub regularly, and it's always been a favourite sociable activity with friends, chatting and sharing drinks, maybe with music.

So as soon as Lorenzo, the builder, had confirmed that my top terrace was strong enough for it, I unpacked it, plugged it in, watched it inflate itself, filled it, and turned the heater on.

The first few nights, I experimented with what drinks to take up there (a long glass of semi-frozen horchata was surprisingly successful), and sat there in the bubbles sipping and gazing at the stars over the Axarquía mountains.

In the second week I experimented with ways to wedge a magazine on the control panel, played about with some solar lights, and wondered about plugging in some music.

At the start of the third week I got home one night much later than expected, and leapt into the tub without a drink and without a magazine. For a moment I considered getting out and going down two flights of stairs to the fridge. Instead, I leaned back in the hot bubbles, and felt them massaging my tired back muscles and stiff neck. I shut my eyes and sank lower into the water. As the tension left my body, my mind too began to relax. With my ears below the waterline, the sound of the 120 bubble-jets rushed around my head, chasing out the busy-ness and the imagined problems.

It's the 40 minutes of my day when nothing intrudes. Sometimes a smile flits across my face as odd thoughts and images float unbidden through my mind. A Skype catch-up with a friend overseas, a cartoon on that day's Facebook feed, a good memory of the day, a photo or a stimulating IM chat.

A chuckle, tonight, remembering a conversation with Alberto and Arturo in the bar in San Pedro. Switching to English I managed get Arturo to say that he enjoys "getting into hot water" before I gave in and explained to him that in English it has two meanings. It was revenge, albeit directed at the wrong person, for my inter-cambio session when Jose had almost manipulated me into the classic English mistake of saying "Estoy caliente" until I spotted his mischievous eyes and caught the half-grin on his face before falling into his trap.

But mostly, very few thoughts. The odd smile, the odd memory, then nothing. Gaze at the stars, or eyes closed and listen to the bubbles. I'm getting better at thinking less and less in the hot tub. Instead, I'm just chillin'. Just chillin' in the hot tub.

THIS WEEK’S LANGUAGE POINT:

We’re taught that adjectives go after the noun in Spanish, and of course that’s usually true – except when it doesn’t! Adjectives that describe size or quantity often go before the noun, as in gran hermano (big brother) and so do “first /second” as in la primera planta or el segundo plato. But the other time the adjectives goes first is for emphasis or when there’s a strong emotion, such as esta aislada ciudad (this isolated city), or un resonante exito (a resounding success) or in an epithet such as malditos Yanquis (damn Yankees!).

55 - A Blank Canvas

2013-05-09T15:31:28

A hundred artists descended on Colmenar earlier this month. From nothing, each created a finished painting within one single day. The photographs here were all taken that day.

So. It's the beginning. We have a blank canvas. All the options are available to us - we must make our choices.

First, where should we be? There is time to consider, time to explore different places, the choice does not have to be made straight away. We can start, get settled, then change our minds and move to a different location, searching for what feels right. Though it must be said, constant discontentment, constant changing, may not leave time for fruitful output. Eventually, a decision needs to be made. Time to settle, and then live with our choice.

Secondly, what outlook do we want? There are interesting corners to look into, shadows to peer into, trying to see what treasures are hidden in the gloom. Contrasts, light and shade, chiaroscuro. There are wide open spaces, great vistas. There are close-up views, a detail to study, a chance to concentrate on extraordinary perfection and small imperfections. Perhaps a combination - distance and detail in one, sunshine and shadow, the big view and the close-up.

We can stand in the same place, you and I, yet what we see is different. What I see is only what I see, nothing more. No inferences can be made. What you see is what you see.

So now we are settled and ready for the task ahead. The mind is prepared, we have what we need. Deep breath, and begin. We have chosen our viewpoint, we have chosen our palette.

A false start. No problem. It's early days, we can gloss over the mistake and start again with our blank canvas. Except the canvas isn't blank any more, even though it looks it. It is now covered with a thin veneer which acknowledges our earlier mistakes. Our skin becomes thicker and incorporates but never hides the past. The layers build up, each experience, each attempt, adding something to the finished article.

A re-think, more preparation, perhaps a slight shift to the side. Start again. Don't focus on what went wrong, make a fresh start.

Confidence grows. We can do this. With that confidence our actions become more sweeping, more decisive. We are clear on our overall direction and each step taken is a step towards our goal. Oh! Another mistake, but a small one. Study it. Look closely. What remedial action is needed? Not a disaster, no need to abandon everything, no need to start again. Think. Correct the error. Cover it up if needed. Absorb it. A combination of these. It's OK. Concentrate. Carry on. The eye and the mind are dragged back to the mistake. Stop it! Not productive. Move on. Look at the bigger picture.

Yes, it's coming together. We can be content with what we have done. Tempting to keep adding, adjusting, tweaking. But in the end, it's time to stop. Time to say "That's it. That's what I have done. Judge me on this, this is me."

And so the judges gather, as they always will. Comments are passed, sometimes favourable, sometimes not. There are winners, there are losers. Prizes are handed out. Such is life.

Who will decide if we are winners? Who will decide what the prize is? In truth, it's not the judges. It never is. So who then?It's possibly those who actively took part alongside us. Perhaps those close to us. Probably just ourselves though. Did we do our best? Are we developing, continuously improving what we do? Is that even necessary? Are we content with the choices we made and what we made of our choices?

In the end, contentment makes us winners, and regret makes us losers. Our choice.

THIS WEEK’S LANGUAGE POINT:

I need to remember to use estuve to say I was somewhere in the past, rather than yo estaba which is the continuous tense. Why can’t I remember estuve? Is it because it’s irregular? Estuve en Marbella la semana pasada. I was in Marbella last week. Estuvimos en el bar hasta muy tarde. We were in the bar until very late.

54 - Going West

2013-05-02T13:44:08

I headed west last week. I didn't like it.

Not far west, I stayed within Málaga province. I'd already been further west and loved Huelva and Cadiz provinces - stunning coastline with some brilliant secluded beaches. And since choosing to settle in the Axarquía region I've obviously explored east of Málaga. But I had reached my ripe old age without ever visiting Marbella.

The opportunity arose when I was invited to a multi-national networking event in San Pedro de Alcántara. It was a chance to visit many places I'd heard of on the way. I drove through Mijas-Costa but didn't like it. I drove around Calahonda, Elviria and Rosario but didn't like them. I drove through Nueva Andalucía but didn’t like it. I didn’t get as far as Estepona. West of Málaga seems to me to be an endless strip of over-developed resorts and urbanisations.

There was one brief respite when I spotted a stretch of sea backed by dunes and pine forests. A pleasant walk through the naturaleza, half an hour on the beach, and then a drink at a beach bar cheered me up and offered a break from the endless urbanisations with their English bars.

At San Pedro de Alcántara I checked in, then found a quiet bar for a media-racion de calamaritos. The networking event was fun. People from 17 nations gathered, mingled, and separated inevitably into clusters. Six of us (two Spanish, one Portuguese, one Mexican, one Russian/Finnish, and me as the token Brit) headed off to find food. I love how an apparently unprepossessing backstreet bar can so often turn out to do the best food. We got to El Candil de San Pedro around midnight, and didn't leave till 2.30, and in between Alfonso brought us plate after plate of delicious hot and cold tapas including ensaladilla rusa, tortilla de espárragos, jamon, ensaladilla de tomate, cebolla y melva, salchichon, queso viejo, frutas secas y nueces, and finally his grandmother's secret recipe for salmorejo, with her special addition of chunks of fresh orange. With a juice, some water and a decent bottle of wine the bill between six of us came to a massive €41.

Next day was the chance for that first ever visit to Puerto Banus and Marbella. The first shock was having to PAY for street parking in Puerto Banus! Half the cars had blacked-out windows, and despite the cloudy day most people were wearing sunshades. There seemed to be two main groups of people - rich people in elegant clothes carrying miniature dogs, speaking German, Russian, Dutch and Italian, and several large gaggles of English girls in sprayed-on shorts and tight tops apparently visiting from The Only Way is Essex. Of course the main point of Puerto Banus is the ~~shops~~ - oops sorry, I mean the boats. It was nice to wander round the luxury yachts, especially because it appeared to be the week before some owners were due, so there was a lot of furious activity from muscled men stripped to the waist rubbing down woodwork, which was pleasantly diverting! Several tanning shops surprised me – why would one pay? The sun is widely available and free! Fake tans in a fake setting. To visit for an hour? Fine. And that was enough.

On to Marbella. The locals the night before had advised me to skip the sea-front and head for the old town, which was attractive with pretty backstreets, squares and castle walls. Accents were mostly English, American and French. La Plaza de los Naranjos was a highlight, as was spotting a prettily-decorated motor-scooter with a matching owner! Any town with quirky residents has an up-side!. A pleasant town but no big deal, then a glance in an estate-agent's window reminded me that this is meant to be the jewel of the Costa del Sol. A one-bedroomed flat with no sea views was €275,000. Presumably for the address. Up above the town I could see hints of some of the multi-million-euro mansions that apparently make Marbella so special. Overall, I didn't really get it.

Half an hour later I reached the city of Málaga. Stopped for a coffee, pleased to feel I was back in "my manor". Driving north up the A-45 then east into the hills, I passed the sign to enter the Axarquía. I felt a smile creep across my face. I guess I'm just an East-of-Málaga sort of person.

THIS WEEK’S LANGUAGE POINT:

In English we use the gerund (“-ing” form) after “thank you for”, as in “Thank you for calling me” and “Thank you for sending it to him”. But in Spanish we use the infinitive, not the -ing form, so it’s “Gracias por llamarme” and “Gracias por enviarselo.”

53 - First-World Problems

2013-04-25T09:57:34

"Oh you're SOOoooo lucky!" I get told that a lot. Of course I know I'm lucky. What's more, I remind myself every day. Probably every hour. But it's not because I live in two beautiful places and have the freedom to enjoy them. It's certainly not for the reasons most people mean when they say "Oh you're SOOoooo lucky!"

I was born, through none of my doing, into an ethnic group and a socio-economic group which rarely faces any form of discrimination, attack, or even pressure at any real level. The countries where I spend my time have democratic systems, social security systems, and health systems, all of which not only ensure that I am unlikely ever to be left totally starving and destitute, but more importantly ensure the same for everyone else (to a greater or lesser extent). I was not born in a country ravaged by war or starvation. I have chosen to be an immigrant in Spain, but my ethnicity, education, mobility and finances make that comfortable and unremarkable rather than the dangerous situation that faces many immigrants in many countries.

None of that is of my own making, and only a part was of my parents’ making. The wider systemic benefits which have cosseted me all my life are down to luck - the luck of being born in a good time and in a good place, to parents for whom the same was true. It could have been so different.

With that lucky beginning, the confidence and the work ethic instilled by my parents were able to blossom. After my father's premature death, my first job at the age of 17 was as a cub reporter on the Windsor, Slough & Eton Express. A year later an ethical stand-off (oh the sublime arrogance of an teenager with an emerging moral compass!) led to my resignation from journalism and a move to stage management in the London fringe then repertory theatre around the country, tours, and dance festivals. With the horrific arrival of the HIV pandemic I moved into the social care and support of people living with AIDS, then campaigning around broader social care issues, and eventually into 16 years of successful freelance charity consultancy. All of them have been jobs I enjoyed and which made me feel useful. It never occurred to me that I couldn't have a job I loved. It never occurred to me that I might have to do something I hated just to earn a pittance. Most of that comes from the luck of my birth in a developed 20thC western nation combined with the same luck my parents had in THEIR births, enabling them to pass on to me the education, assumptions, and work ethic that I was lucky enough to grow up with.

So everything is luck. The timing and geography of birth.

And mostly, the people who say "Oh you're SOOOooooo lucky!" are equally lucky. Mostly, they also come from a similar socio-economic group, and were born in western democracies with systems of social security and health provision. It is said that if you keep coins for parking in the car, and if there is a handful of change on a mantelpiece or in a drawer, you are amongst the richest 10% in the world - the rest cannot treat money with such casual contempt. You don't need a mansion, a plasma screen TV or a fancy Gaggia coffee-machine to prove wealth, just a pile of coins that you are rich enough not to need right now.

Everyone reading this has a computer. The majority are probably reading it on an iPad or a decent laptop. Most are in their own homes, from where they are not at risk of eviction. Most will eat well today. We are all rich, compared to half the world who will not eat well today. That alone makes us extraordinary lucky.

What else makes us feel lucky? Clearly family and friends. The people around us who enrich our lives so much. For many that includes animals too. Activities - for some it is their participation in sports, for others it is their art and creativity, the open air, walking in the hills, a rewarding job, reading, travelling, or growing food or beautiful flowers. Special moments when something is achieved.

"Oh you're SOOOoooo lucky!" Yes, I know. I remember that every time I wake, healthy enough to enjoy the countryside I see from the window, wealthy enough to put gasolino into the car and to explore Andalucía and my adopted country. I remember that every time I spend time in Dorset in my cosy cottage, lunching with dear friends, shopping at the farmers' market, and visiting London for friends and culture. I remember that every time a friend from the UK is able to jump on a plane and come out to see me. I remember that every time I turn on a tap and clean water comes out. I remember that every time I go to the Enchanted Place and remember my mother and all that she did for me, all that she made me.

I am so lucky. We all are. Just think how different life could have been for us if we had been born somewhere else, in different circumstances, without the riches we enjoy. Think of that when we are about to moan about a delayed flight, a traffic jam, a new bureaucratic form to fill in, an item out of stock in a shop, or when we lose internet access for a few hours. First-World Problems. So much of the world would love to experience our problems.

If you've read this far, thank you. Now, from you, three things that remind YOU how lucky you are.

52 - Inter-Cambio and Getting to Grips with Grammar

2013-04-18T18:17:59

It must be extraordinarily difficult to learn Spanish if you think you don't like learning languages, or if you hate grammar, or don't know what the English words are for different parts of speech. I'm very fortunate to find that I genuinely enjoy the grammatical building blocks of a language, and I love practising and improving my Spanish.

I went to my first Spanish lesson about 7 years ago. Dorset Adult Education, evening classes at the school just behind my house, taught by a Dutch woman. After the first, beginners' year, they didn't run an improvers' course, so my friend Hazel and I carried on meeting on the same night, at each other’s houses, and used the superb Michel Thomas CDs to work on grammar. With high motivation, and Michel Thomas' help, we sped along. In year three we felt we needed external guidance again, so drove 30 miles each way to Poole Adult Ed each week to do a GSCE class with the irascible Carlos, a Columbian man with a penchant for teaching slightly risqué vocabulary (though to be fair, he did get the WHOLE class though the exam). Year four and no classes to be found, so Hazel and I had a holiday in Sevilla and carried on with Michel Thomas' Advanced Course. Year five and still motivated, we searched for an advanced conversation class and found we had to drive 26 miles to Salisbury College each week where a very strange teacher (this time Bolivian) imposed her views on art or literature, preferring to get HER point across about an artist, rather than encouraging the flow of discussion amongst the students.

That summer I treated myself to a week-long intensive course in Madrid, coupled with a home-stay in a Spanish family's house. It was an exhausting week but incredibly valuable (and not overly-expensive), and I felt my language was more fluid at the end of it.

Here in Colmenar, as in most towns, the Ayuntamiento puts on free classes. But last year the funding came primarily from the health department, so we had to focus on health-related vocabulary, resulting in repetitive slide-shows of clinic reception areas and hospital departments. Also, the group-leader was not a teacher of Spanish-as-a-foreign-language and was unable to help with complex grammatical questions. A useful service for us immigrants, but it is inevitably difficult for any teacher to deal with a wide range of skill levels and sporadic attendance.

We're fortunate also to have Axalingua in the village. A professional language school run by los hermanos guapos Juan-Mi and Pepe, they offer English and French to Spanish people and Spanish to all the immigrants and tourists. A friend came to stay with me and attended a week-long intensive beginners' course, and rated it very highly. I have attended the fortnightly advanced conversation group and really enjoyed the fun yet rigorous teaching style, and want to attend more regularly.

More recently I have begun a one-to-one inter-cambio with José down in Torre del Mar. So far this is proving to be the best method for language improvement so far. We share the time, half on improving his English and half on improving my Spanish. Through conversation, we establish where each other’s weak points are, and then at the next lesson we each bring a prepared exercise designed to strengthen the vocabulary, grammar, or pronunciation issues identified. José has excellent vocabulary but wants to improve his pronunciation. I am a level or two below him in my Spanish, and he drills me on tenses, as well as helping me use a more natural and colloquial word-order. I'm very lucky to have found an inter-cambio who is as serious as I am, and as interested in getting the grammar right. Other Spanish friends are fantastically useful at correcting me and expanding my vocabulary but of course don't focus on whether we should be using the conditional or the pluperfect subjunctive at any given moment!

On top of that, I try to visit a bar several mornings a week (I know, it's a tough life!) to drink a coffee or juice and read Málaga Hoy, looking at the more formal constructions they use (ridiculously pompous might be another description!) and how it contrasts with chatting with José and others. I have Spanish telly in the lounge and try to watch the news a few times a week, and occasionally something like the Spanish "Quién Quiere Ser Millonario?" can be quite fun. My bedside clock-radio chats rapidly and incomprehensibly to me in Spanish as I fall asleep.

Out of all possible methods, I think my top recommendation for other British people in Spain would be to find a really good inter-cambio language partner (but no, I'm not sharing José!). Or a few private lessons at Axalingua to get you to the level where you can confidently join a class or conversation group. Plus I believe that the Michel Thomas CDs (the Foundation course and then the Advanced course) are unbeatable, whatever level you are. I still keep Advanced CD 4 in the car and just play it over and over, listening to the verb constructions and those awkward "should have", "could have", "would have", "might have" etc etc.

Oh there's an idea! José wants to practice contractions. I foresee a session on "could've" and "might've" coming on!

Deberíamos haber practicado más, entonces habríamos podido entenderlo. We should’ve practised more, then we’d’ve been able to understand it.

Si hubiera hecho los deberes, habría sabido como traducirlo. If I’d done my homework, I would’ve known how to translate it.

51 - Bedding In

2013-04-11T19:13:05

Springtime. My first Axarquía spring. A year since I came house-hunting in Colmenar. This week my white-van-man brought my final three boxes, some lamps, and the comfy leather chair from mum's bungalow.

Having got through my first winter I understand more about why Spanish people organise things differently in the cold season and move into a smaller part of their houses. So I'm slowly turning the downstairs bedroom into a study / winter room. I've got rid of the twin beds and have put in a lovely metal day-bed, comfortable as a sofa for me to lounge on for reading or writing, and a handy spare bed when needed. The sun streams in all year round, and it's a room that's easy to keep warm all day in winter. It's not finished yet but, as in all things, poco a poco, little by little. That room is my project. The leather chair is perfect in there, and the day-bed is really pretty.

Buying the day-bed didn't go entirely smoothly. I'd picked one in a Segunda Mano (second-hand shop) and paid for it, arranging delivery for a few days later. Then an hour later I saw a prettier one that I fell in love with in another shop - aaargh! I phoned the owner of the first shop, grovelled and apologised and asked if I could change my mind. He was pleasant, and said I could go straight back that morning and have my money back. Phew! But by the time I got there he too had changed his mind and would only offer me a credit note. By then of course I'd paid for the second day-bed. I argued (it's by far the best way of improving your language skills!), but got nowhere and left unhappily with the credit note.

A few days later I met up with my Spanish inter-cambio friend (we meet once or twice a week to help each other improve our language skills). He suggested I use the libro de reclamaciones (complaints book) and checked my draft for accuracy. I plucked up my courage and went back to the shop and submitted my first ever hoja de reclamación (complaint form). It's unlikely to work, because obviously the shop owner is now saying he never offered me the cash refund. Still, as always I turned the experience into an opportunity to practice the language, learning and using different vocabulary in different settings.

Springtime. My first Axarquía spring. The weather is very changeable. The morning walk to the bakery alternates between a sprint in a mackintosh and a glorious languorous stroll bathed in warm sunshine. Slowly unpacking books, putting up hooks and shelves, hanging my print of Zara McQueen’s painting of Castle Hill in Shaftesbury ….. home-making. Thinking about getting the top terrace right. Morning coffee in a bar, reading the Spanish newspaper. Some good beach days. Getting to know the wonderful city of Málaga. Meals in and out with friends. Language practice. Lunch at a chiringuito (beach cafe). An opportunity to think about how retirement might look and feel. Beginning to realise this might be what it looks like.

Liking it.

50 - Semana Santa - The Splendour and the Silence

2013-04-04T12:06:12

Changeable weather couldn't keep the penitents, the celebrants, the Nazarenos or the tourists away from Semana Santa. In every city, town and village in Spain, people turned out to see the richly-decorated floats and the cofradías (brotherhoods) carrying them.

I have yet to find an area of Spain that does not genuinely believe that their Semana Santa is by far and away the best. Surely they can't ALL be right?

Well maybe they can. They're all so different, yet they're all the same. A full year of preparation, culminating in this most special of weeks and an outpouring of religious (and non-religious) fervour. People crossing themselves and sobbing at the sight of the floats, their long wait finally rewarded.

In the city of Málaga, the largest of the enormous tronos (floats) needs 400 men to carry it. La Virgen del Rocío with her long train is one of the most splendid, while live doves were released to accompany Las Palomas. Hundreds of thousands of people lined the streets, and every day brought out different tronos, each one a favourite for many people. My photos don’t do justice so I’m crediting people who have done a much better job than I did – these pictures from Málaga are by Emma Munck.

Then in Colmenar Viernes Santo (Good Friday) dawned cloudy but dry. Villagers anxiously checked the sky throughout the day until it was time for the procession. All day a trickle of people filed past the two tronos in the cofradia headquarters. By 4pm the church was full for Mass. Then at 8pm the floats were ready to emerge. Silence fell outside as the huge doors were swung open and the band began its solemn march. The first float, Nuestro Padre Jesús Nazareno, followed, carried for the first time solely by women. Behind, María Santisima de los Dolores emerged, carried by the men of the village. As the procession made its way around the village and up to the church, a reverent silence fell in the streets, broken only by scattered applause and some quiet sobs, almost drowned out by the solemn drumming. Four and a half long hours later the tired women and men returned the tronos to their resting place for another year.

From high up here on the hill, we look down into the valley onto the neighbouring village of Riogordo. I tease my friends there, reminding them that we "look down on them" and that they "look up to Colmenar". I'm not sure I can ever use that line again. Because the most extraordinary experience of Semana Santa was watching "El Paso" in Riogordo, with 600 villagers taking part to act out the Easter story. How amazing for their village to put on such a huge dramatic event every year, and of such high quality. Taking over three hours, the story was acted out across a natural landscape of hillocks creating different areas for the scenes. The ex-stage manager in me couldn't help but be impressed with Judas' suicide (he fell dramatically, to hang from the tree apparently by his neck), and of course the crucifixion. The music was well-chosen and the central performances were given with passion, while the hundreds of “extras” took their roles seriously (though the occasional first-century villager did whip out an iPhone to grab a photo!). Again, my own photos paled beside Jo McCarthy-Matthews’ dramatic pictures so she gets the credit for the ones used here.

So perhaps everybody is right. For each city, town and village, their own traditional celebrations are the most important. The Malagueños KNOW that their Semana Santa is the best in Spain. The village of Colmenar KNOWS that whilst theirs is not the biggest it is still the best. And little Riogordo, tucked away in its Axarquía valley, is safe in the knowledge that nobody can ever look down on it again.

49 - Damn You, Joanna Lumley!

2013-03-28T11:37:43

The score is currently standing at Joanna Lumley 1 : Tamara Essex 0. But I'll even it up some day.

There was just one thing left on my Bucket List. And this month I set off to achieve that final "tick", on an evening flight from Bournemouth up to see the Northern Lights.

It was a Christmas / birthday / Easter / Hanukkah present all rolled into one for my friend Margaret, who has wanted to see the Northern Lights for years. I don't know how I'd managed to keep it a secret for the six months since I'd booked it. I'd told Margaret she had to keep the evening of March 26th free, and preferably not book an early meeting the following morning. She was intrigued, and begged to know what was planned. Indeed, she was so curious that she Googled the date, and discovered that boy-band One Direction were performing a little way along the south coast. She spent the next five months wondering how she could possibly look adequately grateful! Finally I had to tell her to bring a camera and her passport (I told her that security required a passport because I'd got us backstage passes to meet "the boys").

At the airport we were given a presentation on the stars and planets we would see. The astronomers, who would accompany us on the flight, explained that there had been 21 "Lights Flights" so far this season, and good views of "the wall of red" had been seen on 20 of those, a success rate of better than 95%. This is because on a land-based trip to see the Lights, there is a high risk of cloud cover, but on these flights we remain above the cloud so should get a good view as long as the lights are doing what they do to create those amazing walls of green and red. It’s all to do with magnetic polarity – I understood it when he explained it with PowerPoint but the finer details seem to have slipped my mind just now …….

On board there was a long explanation of how to ensure our cameras were set to not flash, and every bit of light from phones and cameras needed to be covered with black electrical tape. The cabin went dark. Even the wingtip lights went out. We all had to hold our cameras above our heads, and on the count of three we pressed the shutters. Not bad, just one person had one remaining orange focus light that needed covering with tape. Then we were in total blackout.

As we reached the site, just south of Iceland, the stars were extraordinary. With no distracting man-made light sources they seemed enormous, and ridiculously bright. The constellations and clusters we'd been told about were there, right outside the windows.

The astronomers pointed out all there was to see. But the real star of the show eluded us. The 22nd flight of the season became the second to fail to see the Northern Lights. We saw a bit of a red dusty tinge, and stared desperately at it, willing it to burst into the amazing light displays that greeted Joanna Lumley in that wonderful documentary. But the polarity refused to reverse itself (which is what would have kicked off the display) and eventually the pilot had to turn for home.

I genuinely enjoyed it, and just being up amongst the stars in a totally blacked-out plane was a great experience. But I still want to see the Northern Lights.

And one day I will.

So then it was back to Colmenar, where in my absence Laura had cleaned the smoke-damage from my walls and repainted the room a bright white. Except for the end wall. I missed out this time on the Northern Lights, but Laura has given me my own "wall of red".

48 - Soy Extranjera

2013-03-21T16:43:09

Soy extranjera. I am a stranger.

Soy extranjera en una tierra nueva. I am a stranger in a new land.

I am in Spain. I am not of Spain. I tread lightly, fearing to make a mark. I tread heavily, fearing to be disengaged.

The newspapers inform but they do not explain. They do not explain the private impact on my neighbours' lives. To me, the early almond blossom suggests a walk and a photograph, good or bad. To my neighbour it dictates the summer harvest and the winter's income, good or bad.

I hear and understand conversations in which I am involved. I hear but do not understand the rapid buzz all around me in which information is being exchanged, feelings shared, emotions glimpsed. Soy extranjera.

I read, ingest and consider all I can. My mind knows and understands the turmoil of 20^th-century history in my adopted homeland. My heart feels for the people, but my heart cannot feel what they feel. I understand why that family does not use that shop. I understand why that man does not visit that bar. I understand, I try to feel it, but I do not share that pain. I was not born with the experience of war, of tyranny, of neighbour turning on neighbour. Their experience is not my experience. Their history is not my history.

Their children grow up with the poetry of Lorca, and the writings of Cervantes, Márquez, Mendoza, and Carlos Ruiz Zafón. Not Shakespeare, Dickens, Enid Blyton or Winnie the Pooh. The universal experience of childhood is divided by twelve hundred miles and a different frame of reference. My heart enjoys but does not stir to the music that stirs their hearts. Soy extranjera.

I can adopt patterns of behaviour, later mealtimes, summer siestas. I can take part, be engaged, walk alongside my neighbours, cheer their sporting triumphs. I cannot walk in their shoes, I cannot live their lives, I cannot leave behind my own history, my own experience.

Expats, foreigners, immigrants. Just words for strangers. Just words for people who previously had been somewhere else. From somewhere else to here. And here we are, strangers in a foreign land, surrounded by people whose shared experience we do not share. Soy extranjera en una tierra nueva.

Over time conversation becomes easier. Groups and higher volume continue to exclude. The larger the crowd, the louder the conversation, the more the words run together and become no more than sounds, noise. A bubble forms around me and the noise creates a cocoon of silence in the middle of the swirl of language. In a foreign land it is easy to be alone in a crowd and allow the stream of words to wash past, unaware of nuances. I discover that this creates more time, more thinking time.

In the past, when I have had foreigners as neighbours, have I been as patient as my neighbours are here? Did I check they had candles in their first power-cut in a new country? Did I call round to explain the notice in the letter-box? As winter approached, did I ask if they knew where to get fuel? Did I offer food and drink in the chaos of their unpacking? Where I may have failed others in the past, my Spanish neighbours did not fail me. Soy extranjera, yet I have not been treated so. My questions have been answered kindly, they have educated the ignorant stranger. They do not understand what it is I do not understand - my lack of knowledge at times amuses them, and at times must appal them. But despite the yawning gaps, we rub along. We exchanged gifts on Kings' Day, the women and I share occasional morning coffee on the pavement in our dressing gowns, and now in a power-cut I too can offer candles and matches. Soy extranjera. I will always be the extranjera in our street. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Because this is home now. This country, this region, this village means the world to me.

I never believed it would be easy. I just knew it would be worth it.

47 - Fifty Shades of Grey

2013-03-12T10:53:24

I'm definitely a "cup half full" type of person. Just as well, really. I nearly burned my house down ..... but I didn't and I'm turning it to an opportunity.

It was pretty stupid, when all's said and done. I'd been storing some logs around the chimney of my estufa, to dry them, because Francisco had delivered them on a rainy day and it being my first delivery I was unprepared and had no cover for the heaped pallet in the patio. So a few armloads were lugged upstairs to dry around the warm chimney.

So each evening that I lit the wood-burner, I took a few logs off the carefully-arranged stack, and replaced them with more of the damp ones. It looked like a massive game of Jenga resting above the air-vents. What I hadn't worked out (duh!) was that the ones at the bottom of the criss-cross of logs weren't getting used. So four months on and they were dry. Definitely dry. Tinder dry.

Late February. Not using the estufa so much. But then the snow came, and I had friends popping in later in the afternoon. So I lit the wood-burner and the room began to warm up, ready for my visitors, and I looked forward to a cosy evening in afterwards. Ros called, they'd found the square with the fountain, and were waiting by the ayuntamiento. I chucked another of the big logs on and went out to meet them. We strolled round the outer edge of the village - my daily morning walk, the walk I take all my visitors on to show off the wonderful views. Ros and Gareth were fit and healthy so we took the slightly longer walk then cut back into the lanes and home.

Outside my neighbour's house, Isabelle called to me. Her brother Lorenzo was visiting, and I'd asked her to get him to pop in when he was next around. He's a builder, a proper one, and had re-built her entire house. I'd watched his work for my first four months in my house and he was a quick but skilled and careful worker, and I wanted him to quote me for damp-proofing and re-plastering the wall below the window that had some water damage. So my visitors and I, followed by Lorenzo, traipsed indoors. He inspected the problem wall and gave me an extraordinarily reasonable quote (mates' rates, for his sister's neighbour). I had one more question for him, about the top terrace, so we all filed upstairs.

It took me a moment to understand. There shouldn't be this much smoke. A glance towards the wood-burner explained everything. The last big log I'd put on had lit quickly and the flames had grown. A stray flame or even just a spark had flown out of the top vents and had caught the bone-dry logs on the top of the stove. The criss-cross of stored sticks was aflame! One had fallen - only a foot away from the sofa (which would of course have gone up in an instant). Lorenzo and I had got all the windows open and the smoke cleared rapidly. Gareth had gone down for water. I grabbed the rug which already had scorch marks and smothered the remaining logs. With the tongs we chucked the smouldering wood into the metal fire-bucket and took them outside, where Lorenzo hosed it down. Back indoors, now with cups of tea to calm us down (you can take the woman out of England but you can't take her away from her cup of tea in a crisis .....), we reminded ourselves of all the "could have" scenarios and our relief came out in laughing at how the neighbours must have enjoyed the extra warmth they were getting through the wall. Ros suggested that in future I shouldn't dry wood on top of the stove.

I shouldn't have left the dry wood stacked around the chimney, of course. And I shouldn't have gone out and left the fire. Lessons learned. The smell of smoke lingers to remind me.

No lasting damage. The TV aerial cable that ran along the floor behind the estufa was the only thing that needed replacing. Jose popped in, ran a new cable, and after hearing my tale he suggested that I shouldn't dry wood on top of the stove. That evening over spaghetti in front of a friend's wood-burner I recounted the story again (my Spanish getting more fluent with each re-telling). He suggested that I shouldn't dry wood on top of the stove.

No damage, but I now have a lounge tastefully decorated in fifty shades of grey.

While I'm back in the UK running training courses in Devon, Laura will be my life-saver. A young Spanish woman working three jobs and looking after her little boy, she is a painter and decorator with an eye for colour. Instead of just going for the usual blanco on all the walls, with Laura's encouragement I have bought a tin of dusky deep pink, terracotta, not quite red, paint. Just for the smallest wall behind the chimney. I daren't risk more colour just yet. Poco a poco - little by little.

Laura is in there now, cleaning off the fifty shades of grey, repainting the white walls, and giving me a brave splash of red on the end wall. Just in case I decide to set fire to my house again, I'm hoping the red will show the smoke stains less.

I can't wait to see it!

And I wonder how many EXTRA readers will have clicked on this blog post, just because of the title. Eh girls?

46 - Lluvia, nieve, viento y frio

2013-03-04T11:30:19

"Lluvia, nieve, viento y frio. El invierno mostrará mañana su lado más duro en la provincia." Malaga Hoy, 27 febrero 2013, the day before Andalucía Day. "Rain, snow, wind and cold. The winter will show its harder side in the province tomorrow."

Dawn on Feb 28. An auspicious day. The end of the pope's time in office, Andalucía Day, and snow in the village. The first of these passed me by entirely without impact. The other two mattered. Snow in the village! Yes we're high up at over 700 metres but usually the snow starts at 800. It settled in the square and on the cars, and the views of the surrounding mountains were stunning.

So the woodburner was lit, soup taken out of the freezer, and I hunkered down for a day indoors. Andalucía Day, normally a time of great celebration with music, dancing and free paella, appeared to be cancelled. "No hay dinero," the Ayuntamiento had told me. "Hay un crisis." But at least most people had the day off work and despite the weather could get together with extended families. By 10am cars were loaded and with much waving and shouting the neighbours slithered off on slippery roads for shared eating, drinking, and general merriment.

By mid-morning the sun was out and the distant views of La Maroma capped in sunlit snow were being captured by cameras from all directions. Facebook exploded with pictures of snow in Spain. Michael Soffe’s picture of the road near Antequera caused a flurry of panic amongst drivers.

I loved the contrast between Colmenar’s flower-covered hillsides and the snow on the surrounding mountains – what a difference a hundred metres or so makes! The goat on my regular circuit was staring at the snow with a baffled and disgruntled expression, but the fat golden chickens seemed to enjoy pecking at the small patches that had settled behind their feed trough. Despite Andalucía Day the bakery was open as normal in the morning, so after my walk I had warm fresh bread to take home.

I met with a fellow blogger in the afternoon, and her husband told of the snow they'd had in their village last year. "First snow in the village for twenty years!" the locals had gasped then. Snow had fallen for them too that morning. "Ooh, first snow in the village for thirty years!" gushed the locals. "Umm, apart from last year?" he pointed out. There is that tendency here, too. "It hasn't settled in the square for over ten years!" I was assured. Really? I'm sure John, the previous owner of Bar CO2, had mentioned snow in the square, and he wasn't here ten years ago.

Later Lorenzo (my neighbour's brother and a professional builder) popped in to quote for damp-proofing and re-plastering the wall that the estate agent had promised he was fixing. Since the road has been resurfaced the water is no longer routed directly onto my window-sill so the problem shouldn't arise again, but the damp that was so obvious when I viewed the house still needs to be sorted. Why does one ever think estate agents might suddenly turn out to be honest?

So in the end Andalucía Day was as irrelevant as the exit of the pope. But my friends and I enjoyed tapas at the Balcón de los Montes, the snow was pretty, and my home-made asparagus soup was delicious. The "harder side" of the winter was not as unbearable as the newspaper had made out.

45 - Thinking About Drinking

2013-02-28T11:20:29

You know when you're at a really good party and you're absolutely sloshed? I don't. I've never been drunk, not ever. I'm either that annoying friend who remembers the next day exactly what everybody did and said, or I'm that really useful friend who gives lifts home and remembers the next day where you left your car. So after a lifetime of abstinence I've now been able to compare the party atmospheres and the drinking behaviours in the UK and Spain - without any personal bias at all!

So much has already been said about the drinking culture in the UK, and little of it is in any way complimentary. Levels of consumption are in the news this week, with new research indicating that people may be consuming twice the levels they think. Along the Costas, the Brits are sadly famous for stag parties, hen parties, football nights in big-screen bars, and the debauched behaviour that so often follows. Of course it's not every Brit, not every hen or stag, and not every footie fan. But it leaves a taste, and sets a perception of our nation.

The usual comparison is with the French. Families sharing wine with children, sensible drinking from a young age, and no fixed closing time, thus avoiding the "last orders" rush. It's a widely-discussed model, and one that was highly influential in the decision to bring in flexible opening hours for bars in England.

Then there's Spain. Host to all those Benidorm stag parties, producer of all those wines, from the excellent down to the seriously rough, and another European country where children are introduced to alcohol earlier and within the extended family setting.

The story I want to tell is about NocheViejo, New Year's Eve 2012. A number of hotels and bars in Colmenar were doing parties, with food and festivities leading up to the TV pictures of Madrid for the all-important twelve strokes at midnight (of which more later), then music and dancing till the small hours. Having done a rather traditional British Christmas Day, I wanted to experience the full Spanish NocheViejo so booked a place at the Arco del Sol.

The flier listed a welcome drink of cava and canapés, then a 5-course meal with wine. Cava at midnight, plus twelve grapes (of which more later!), caldo in the small hours, and hot chocolate and churros before bed. Then the words that at first made no sense to me - Barra Libre (free bar). Cost for the whole lot, €35.

I arrived at about 8.30 and found the two Spanish couples I was sitting with. I refused the cava and went to the bar for a juice. Antonio brushed away my money. The place was heaving - about 140 people - I wondered if he was keeping a tab for everyone, or whether my juice was simply considered a substitute for the cava he knew I wasn't having.

After generous canapés and multiple topping-up of drinks, we moved through to the function room and found our table. For five of us, there were two bottles of red and two of white. When the waitress came to pour it out and I put my hand over my glass, she immediately asked what I would prefer, and brought more peach juice. In a jug, with a separate jug of ice-cubes.

The first two starter courses came. Vicente and Terese drank wine, Nati ordered beer and Juan asked for a bottle of sparkling water. The main course came. Half-glasses of wine were poured, I topped up my glass with peach juice and Nati joined me. Juan stayed on water.

A much-needed gap gave us all a chance to wander the room, spot other friends, and exchange good wishes. Some people had gone to the bar - a few were on beer, others were ordering juice and water. Back to the table for pudding. Bottles of dessert wine had appeared on the table. Terese had a glass of that, Nati ordered a second beer, Vicente took some of Juan's sparkling water, I topped up my juice. Only now did I fully understand that Barra Libre meant that ALL drinks, whatever they were, were included.

Midnight approached. The large-screen came to life and the Madrid party in the Puerto del Sol became the focus of our attention. Close-up of the clock. From under the tables appeared party bags - we donned masks and hats, and opened our individual bags of twelve grapes. Fresh glasses and a bottle of cava arrived on the table, with a glass half full of freshly-squeezed orange juice for me to add just a splash of cava to - very thoughtful! A sip from our glass to lubricate our throats, then we were ready for the midnight chimes.

BONG! Flick the first grape into our mouths, crush it quickly, no time to chew, and try to swallow - pips and all. BONG! Another one goes in, but combines with what's left of the first one - too much to swallow. BONG! This is impossible, I've got skin and pips clogging my teeth, and surreptitiously spit into a paper napkin. BONG! I'm behind, but gamely pop another in. Bleagh, nothing but pips in that one. Can't swallow. BONG! Oh it's ridiculous and I'm still removing pips when BONG! and another grape goes in. It feels the size of a melon. Thick skin too but BONG! and I can't get another in. Nati seems to be swallowing them whole. BONG! Terese is doing something with her front teeth, sort of mincing each one as it goes in. Doesn't she have any pips? BONG! I'm still chewing and picking bits of skin from between my teeth. BONG! Nati is laughing at me. Vicente struggles with a pip but coughs once and swallows it. BONG! I'm so far behind, my bag still seems nearly full. Last one coming up ..... BONG! There's a lot of laughter but somehow the Spanish all seem up-to-speed with this torture. As the final chime fades the rest of my table are laughing at me, their mouths annoyingly clear, their bags empty. I had managed to get eight into my mouth, but am still chewing while everyone else is clinking glasses, kissing, and wishing everyone a Feliz Año Nuevo and a Buen 2013. I join in the kissing, surreptitiously depositing pips and chewed bits of grapeskin on their shoulders as I splutter the traditional greeting. This has earned me just 8 months of good luck in 2013. Is extreme grape-swallowing taught in Spanish schools? Are there after-school intensive classes throughout December? Next year I'm pre-preparing my own grapes - small, green, seedless, and possibly already peeled.

Toasts all round, and five of us had drunk half a bottle of cava. We offered the remainder to the next table who were younger and sounded a little merry. They refused - they hadn't finished their own.

The New Year Cake came round. More cava was on a trolley for anyone who wanted it. The serious stuff from the bar was also wheeled in - all the spirits, a range of sherries, and some beers. It was staffed by one of the waiters but he was hardly under pressure. Four or five people strolled up for a glass of something. A larger number headed for the bar, returning with bottled water.

Music, dancing, chat, party poppers, streamers etc. Some people drifted home. There was a slow trickle of people at the spirits trolley, but with long gaps. The waiter wandered off. Vicente and Terese said their goodnights and headed upstairs to their hotel room.

At around 3.30am there was a surge towards the trolley. It reminded me of the "Last Orders" call. Ah, at last I was seeing the Spanish trying to take advantage of the Barra Libre! Nati grabbed me and pulled me quickly to join the rapidly-growing queue. But no, not alcohol - what had caused the rush was the arrival of cardboard cups of caldo, chicken stock to lower blood alcohol levels. I'd only had a sip of cava at midnight but took the caldo anyway. My first NocheViejo, I wasn't going to miss out on a single bit of this experience! The spirits trolley remained. Somebody asked for a small beer.

Finally the smell of hot chocolate filled the room. This was brought round to the tables with plates of churros for dunking. It was 4.30 in the morning. The waitress offered to take any last drinks orders. At another table an elderly lady asked for a shot of anis. She may have won the "Last One Drinking" award, except that what was most obvious about the evening was that nobody was competing, nobody was counting, nobody was comparing. The Free Bar had run from 8.30pm till 5am yet nobody was drunk, nobody was loud, nobody was out of control. Nobody had taken advantage.

I don't need to say much about how this might have played in yer average English bar. You can picture it for yourself. Competitive drinking followed (probably) by competitive vomiting. It's taken me till February to write up this event because I found it quite thought-provoking. I didn't want to write it while I was still in the mood of negative comparison. There's still a bit of that, obviously, but I wanted to focus mostly on the experience of my first Spanish new year. I made some good friends that night. I moved on from a year that had been difficult and into a new one which holds yet more changes for me. 2013 cannot have the sadnesses of 2012 but is not mapped out at all ..... it will unfold and bring many more new experiences.

I just wish I knew which eight months will be my lucky ones, and which ones I've doomed by not having been on the grape-swallowing course.

If You've Read Tamara's Blog - Please Vote!

2013-02-11T20:27:33

Dear Eye on Spain members / readers / friends!

This is a blatant plea for a moment of your time to vote for my blog, which has been nominated in the LexioPhiles Top 100 International eXchange and eXperience Blogs.

Just click on this link. You'll find A FOOT IN TWO CAMPOS near the top of the alphabetical list. Please click next to it to vote for it, then scroll down to the bottom and click VOTE.

http://www.lexiophiles.com/english/vote-for-your-favorite-ix13-blog

I'd be so chuffed to come reasonably high in this vote - so please spare me a click or two of your mouse to help me out!

Thanks :-)

Tamara

44 - Transitioning from Tourist

2013-02-07T15:55:15

Tourism. Travelling, experiencing, immersing, enjoying, looking in from the outside. A holiday, basically. So are we tourists in our own areas?

I’ve certainly felt like one for the last seven months since buying my home in Colmenar! I’ve been making the most of this wonderful land I live in and exploring Andalucía from east to west. The great cities of Málaga, Granada and Jerez have all been explored, along with beautiful mountainsides and stunning coastal areas (and of course the chiringuitos that dot the beaches!).

Fiestas, Arab baths, cathedral concerts, carnival, and the Formula 1 testing at the Circuito de Jerez. Everything a good tourist should experience! I have, and I pronounce them unmissable, one and all.

For another couple of months I am going backwards and forward between Colmenar and Dorset to fulfil work commitments. I’m taking too many flights and increasing my carbon footprint. I suppose that because my work diary has limited each amount of time spent in Spain, it has meant that each period of time here has felt like a holiday – in between “real” life which takes place when I’m working.

It’s not as if I’ve JUST been having fun and enjoying myself. There’s been lots of little things to do on the house, and today I’ve been waiting for the carpenter to come back to finish planing some doors. But I’m sure that this desire to visit lots of places and do all the touristy things is partly because while there is still work to return to in the UK, it feels as though I’m staying in a holiday home rather than a home.

And however often I explain to my neighbours about having to work in the UK, there is still a general air of confusion about my living arrangements. “Are you here?” is always the first question on my return, repeated by several different households. I think that as long as the answer can only be “Yes, but I must go back in X weeks”, they will see me as a tourist. And so will I.

43 - The Bucket List

2013-01-22T14:50:56

I admit that a year ago I hadn’t even heard of the phrase “Bucket List” and even had to ask what it meant. Of course once it was patiently explained to me that it meant “Things to Do Before you Kick the Bucket”, it was blindingly obvious, but the phrase had previously passed me by. One good friend has a Bucket List. She’s doing quite well at ticking things off it, but also seems to add things at a frightening rate, so I’m not sure how that will work.

So for a few months the only thing on my Bucket List was ….. umm ….. to make a Bucket List. Trouble was, I quite genuinely couldn’t think of anything to put on it. This got me to thinking about the nature of contentment, happiness, completeness, and all that kind of thing.

Obviously the big thing on my Bucket List for a while has been to have my own little corner of paradise in Spain, and since achieving that last summer I have been resoundingly, overwhelmingly, radiantly, and rather annoyingly, happy. Happiness tinged, of course, with the loss of my mother after I had begun the purchase, and the sadness that she would never see my Axarquía home.

And that’s a massive item to have ticked off. I’ve been saving up for almost ten years to make it possible (which means it’s mildly annoying when people say “Oh aren’t you lucky!” as though I woke up one morning with the deeds to a house unexpectedly on the doormat).

I wonder if the number of items on people’s Bucket Lists says something about their level of contentment? Or, perhaps harshly, about their capacity for contentment? It seems to me there’s a fairly obvious correlation between a list of things unachieved, and a niggling feeling of discontent. And reading one of the ex-pat forums on the internet, there is quite a number of people who HAVE achieved what might be on many other people’s Bucket Lists, ie to live in Spain (or the foreign country of their choice), yet remain very discontent with it. They appear to have very long Bucket Lists, consisting of (1) change Spanish bureaucracy to be more like the UK; (2) change the Spanish language to be more like the UK; (3) change Spanish laws to be identical to the UK; (4) change everything about Spain to be more like the UK, except the weather.

Then this weekend I listened to a young woman called Helen Fawkes on Radio 4. She is a journalist, now writing a blog called “living with cancer” at http://helenfawkes.wordpress.com . She doesn’t call hers a Bucket List – she calls it a List for Living. I like that. It’s about shaping our lives to how we want to live them, hopefully for quite a long time, rather than about ticking things off so we can head happily towards our graves!

So I’d like to hear what’s on other people’s Lists for Living. This will hardly be scientific, but it would be interesting to see whether people who have made the move to their chosen “paradise” have fewer items on their Lists for Living.

As for me, I have just one item left on mine, and all being well that one will have a tick beside it by the end of 2013. When it has, I shall write about it. Until then ….. I’m keeping it quiet!

42 - How Many 5s Make 21?

2013-01-17T17:03:20

There are seven houses in my little street. Possibly six. Maybe even eight. It’s a bit hard to tell with Spanish families living next door to each other ….. or just in a different part of the same house. Anyway, I’ve always reckoned there are seven. I think.

So it always seemed slightly odd that mine was number 21. It’s not even as though I’m on the corner of the bigger road. I’m half way up one side of a cul-de-sac. Still, the escritura (deeds to the property) and the catastral (similar to the land registry) and the bills from the ayuntamiento (town hall) all say 21 so it must be right. Who am I to argue?

Except that nobody else in the street has a high number. In fact, out of the six remaining properties (or thereabouts), three of them are number five. When I was expecting a parcel, I left a note on the front door asking the delivery people to put it in to number 5 (opposite) or number 5 (adjacent)! They actually put it in to number 3 (further up the hill) but never mind.

I have tried asking the neighbours about the numbering. They mostly just laugh. They don’t seem bothered, so why should I be?

Then I bought a car from a proper car salesroom. No problem, they put down my address as number 21. That’s what’s on my NIE (foreigner’s identification document). Then they wanted to see my Padrón (registration at the town hall). No problem, I’ve got that, I got it when I moved in, back in July. No, they need one issued within the last three months. Fine, I can get an up-to-date one from the town hall. I took the old one in. Salvi explained that the one I had was the one to confirm my water supply to that address, not the one that confirms that I live there. That should have been issued at the same time by his colleague Antonia, but wasn’t. No problem, the file (amazingly) still had the full set of paperwork that needed to be supplied, so I took it to the next desk and gave it to Antonia.

“Yes that’s all fine”, she said, “but there isn’t a number 21 in your street.” I showed her that the town hall sent all my bills and correspondence to number 21, and that the water Padrón issued by the town hall was for number 21. “Yes that’s all fine”, she said, “but there isn’t a number 21 in your street.” I showed her that the escritura and the catastral were for number 21. “Yes that’s all fine”, she said, “but there isn’t a number 21 in your street.”

There was a danger of this beginning to become repetitive. I asked her what number she thought I was. She said she’d go and look and make a decision. Next day, Antonia said that I was number 1. She was also going to explain to number 5 next door that they are actually number 3 (good luck with that!).

So she then proceeded to issue me with a Padrón certificate at number 1. All other documents relating to my house call it number 21. Fortunately the car salesroom either didn’t notice or didn’t care that my Padrón had a different house number from that which I had given them. I’m hoping that any other Spanish officials that look at my documentation will be so used to mis-matching house numbers that they won’t care either.

The postman doesn’t look at the numbers, he knows where everyone lives. The number 21 over my front door is staying. I might write number 1 on my letter-box though, just for Antonia.

41 - One Lovely Blog award

2013-01-07T18:32:35

I would like to thank the wonderful Anne Orchard for kindly nominating me for this blog award. As a relatively new blogger I do feel honoured.

Like most of these blog-hopping things, there are rules which I’ve been asked to pass on, so here they are …….

The Rules:
Thank the person who nominated you (obviously!);
Add the “One Lovely Blog Award” image to your post;
Share 7 things about you;
Pass the award on to seven nominees;
Include this set of rules;
Inform your nominees by posting a comment on their blogs.

So here we go …..

Seven Things About Me

1. I’ve been freelancing for 20 years as a trainer and consultant for charities …….

2. ……. but I’m going to retire at the end of March 2013 (hurrah!);

3. I share my time between the two loveliest places in the world – Shaftesbury in Dorset, and Colmenar in the Axarquía region of Málaga in Spain;

4. I’m pedantic about grammar, apostrophes and spelling and believe that all writers should be too (ooh that sets me up – hope I haven’t got any wrong in this post!);

5. I sing second alto (that’s the low women’s part), have sung frequently in the Royal Albert Hall and the Festival Hall in London, and have now also performed in Moreno’s Bar in Puente Don Manuel;

6. I’m pretty sure my politics have remained the same for the last 30 years – it’s the Labour Party that has changed, not me;

7. The two little Spanish girls in the house next door thing I’m completely barmy, so they worked it out pretty quickly.

And now not “One Lovely Blog” but SEVEN that I’d like to introduce to you:

Tapas in Málaga: Michael Soffe is the fount of all knowledge about Málaga, and although he is a brand-new blogger I just know that this will be a blog worth following (just wait for the acerbic wit to begin emerging!). “From Tutus and Toronto to Tapas” http://tapasinmalaga.wordpress.com/

East of Málaga: Marianne is one of those wonderfully-encouraging women that enable you to do more than you thought you could. She takes superb pictures around the Axarquía región for her blog: http://eastofmalaga.net/

Annie McDowall is one of those multi-talented people too nice to dislike! Her first novel “Charity Begins with Murder” http://amzn.to/RBYRwH is a great murder-mystery set in a small London charity. Her blog is more focussed on her coaching work and is always worth a read. http://beanstalkcoaching.wordpress.com/

Arguing Over Olives: This is a “tell it how it really is” blog about moving to Spain. Eggcup writes with no holds barred and doesn’t dress it up as “living the dream”. Sometimes tough to read but always honest. http://www.eyeonspain.com/blogs/olives.aspx

“About Writing, Life, and “Writing About Life”: Anne Orchard writes informatively about writing, and always with humility and compassion. Her book “Their Cancer – Your Journey” helps carers deal with their situation and is written from her own experience of caring for her mother. http://anneorchardwriter.wordpress.com/

“Andalucia Explorer” is written by Rachel Webb, who must feel like I’m her stalker, because every time she writes about somewhere I turn up there a couple of days later! She knows the area well and inspires me to visit new places. http://andaluciaexplorer.blogspot.com.es/

La Rosilla: The multi-talented Lynsey Drake cooks, entertains, and writes, all of which would be annoying except she’s so nice! http://larosilla.info/2012/12/

So those are my seven, in no particular order. I hope you’ll enjoy hopping over to a few of them – I’m sure you’ll agree with me that they are all highly deserving of the “One Lovely Blog” award!

40 - Waitressing in Granada!

2013-01-05T13:07:48

I didn’t mean to end up as a camarera (waitress) when I headed off to Granada, but that’s how my day ended.

It had started in the more usual way. I drove to Loja and hopped on the train to Granada as I wasn’t sure how easy parking would be in the city. Granada station is surprisingly small and nondescript, totally lacking in maps or tourist information.

In town I was leapt upon by a member of the Unidad de Policía Turística (Tourist Police Unit) and leaflets and maps thrust into my hand. We had one of those useful but frustrating conversations, in which I wanted to speak Spanish and he wanted to speak English. Though my refusal to reply in English led to him trying French and a bit of German on me too, which was impressive!

He pointed me towards the Ayuntamiento (town hall) where I wanted to view the belén (nativity scene). The belenes in Málaga had been varied and beautiful, but in Granada they take things even more seriously, with several competition categories, over a hundred entries, and prizes awarded. Overall first prize went to the Archivo Museo de San Juan de Dios.

As planned, my tour of the belenes ended at the start of the river walk along Carrero del Darro, a beautiful walk at the foot of both the Alhambra and the Albaicín area. Lunch was at the very good Ruta del Azafrán restaurant with views across the river up to the Alhambra. If there were prizes for having really chic loos, this would be the winner!

From there the climb up through the winding lanes of the Albaicín was straightforward, insofar as any walk through this barrio can be. One guidebook had said it was best to abandon the map and just head upwards, turning left and right as the mood takes you – and this worked well, leading me into corners I might not otherwise have found (the tourist office suggested the route around the edge – far duller!).

I found a wonderful market-place with a great coffee shop, went up to the famous viewpoint at Plaza San Nicolas, listened to excellent street musicians, photographed the Alhambra and the snow-covered Sierra Nevada, and felt thoroughly touristy!

Feeling the need for an evening drink and tapas while waiting for the sun to go down, I headed back into the alleyways. Among the countless tapas bars, some touristy, some studenty, I’d earlier spotted Restaurante Manuel Torcuato, and had planned to return. It took a bit of finding again but was well worth it. Friendly, and serving delicious tapas from a good chalkboard list at good prices.

After a delicious plate of boquerones plus a tapas bowl of the house special stew I tried to catch the waiter’s attention for my bill. He was tied up explaining to a Japanese family with two young children that the dancing didn’t start for another hour, by pointing at a clock and counting minutes. They wanted to eat, but though I suspect the waiter understood quite a lot of English, the family spoke only limited and heavily-accented English and the conversation was going nowhere. With several Spanish customers at the bar beginning to look uncharacteristically impatient, I offered my services as a translator. Delighted, the waiter thrust his pen and order-book at me and rushed off to complete the bar orders.

“My” customers understood nothing of the menu, and found it hard to explain what sort of food they liked. In the end I cobbled together a menu it seemed both adults would like, with the children picking at the three dishes we had eventually chosen. The waiter still tied up at the bar, I took the order to the kitchen hatch and called it through, asking that the family would get all their dishes at the same time, even though one was a tapas, one a starter, and one a main meal. I also asked for two small plates for the children.

The family then insisted on buying me a drink. They also tried to pay for my meal but the waiter said there was no charge. Hmmm …. this waitressing lark could be quite beneficial!

Finally I got away and climbed back to San Nicolas for the night-time views across to the Alhambra. Stunning. The walk back to the station was pleasant under the city’s Christmas lights. A truly memorable start to 2013, and definitely a city to return to, again and again.

39 - Thank You, Spanish Government!

2012-12-28T14:31:52

It all seems a bit one-sided so far. I keep getting presents from the Spanish Government, and I barely seem to have contributed anything to them yet. My latest gift from them was €2.000 off my new car.

The sad part was saying goodbye to the ancient old SEAT Ibiza I’d bought on arrival, which now turned out to be worth double what I’d paid thanks to the government’s scrappage scheme known here as Plan PIVE, whereby if it was destroyed and traded in for a new or nearly-new car, I got €2.000 discount. So when the clutch went last week it seemed like providence and I headed for the showrooms to see what deal I could negotiate.

After some heavy negotiation sessions (fantastic for practicing Spanish – I should have paid them for the lessons!), I settled on a 5-month old SEAT Mii with just 150km on the clock. I got the guarantee extended, a further price reduction, and a sat-nav thrown in. It’s sweet, small, and shiny and red!

In addition the Diputación de Málaga (province-wide government) has given me a shiny new red pavement to match the car. When I moved into the house in July the road was pretty dire. It’s been chaotic for two months but we now have red pavements, grey paving in the road, a new staircase up the steep bit, and new flat areas for the neighbours to sit out on in summer. Although inevitably noisy and dirty, the workmen have remained polite and helpful throughout, never leaving me without a bridge across the mud to get in and out, and patiently stopping work whenever one of the residents needed to squeeze out past the digger. See Blog 31 and 32.

In terms of presents I should include the town trip to Málaga, paid for by Colmenar Ayuntamiento (town hall). A fascinating day out in November for 50 residents including several museum visits and an excellent lunch, all paid for out of council funds. Plus of course, for me, a 12-hour Spanish intensive course and some new friends made amongst my Spanish neighbours.

The final present from the government was last night’s superb free concert in Málaga Cathedral. El Jóven Orquesta Barroca de Andalucía and el Coro de Ópera de Málaga (the Andalucían Baroque Youth Orchestra and the Málaga Opera Chorus) performed “The Messiah” in the stunning cathedral setting – a wonderful Christmas experience.

So the scales are at the moment definitely tipping in my favour. Okay there was a chunk of purchase tax on my house, and IVA (the Spanish equivalent of VAT) on absolutely everything, but I’m pretty sure that the score so far is Tamara 1: Spanish Government 0. But in 2013 I shall spend more time here, will become fiscally resident and at last begin to contribute something more back to the country that has already given me so much.

38 - A Spang-ly Spang-lish Christmas

2012-12-25T19:29:29

Traditions from home and abroad mingled this year, and new traditions began as old ones were put away. The warm sun made this a very different Christmas from those of previous years, plus a new village, new neighbours, and the first Christmas in 54 years without Mum.

The elves on the window-sill are as old as I am, and the porcelain choristers too. But the Santa hanging from a rope tied to my balcony is new, and the candles in every room are there as much in case of power cuts as for any seasonal purpose.

A first for me was buying a ticket for the El Gordo lottery, and watching the TV programme on Saturday morning to see if my neighbours and I were all to be rich. The system of distributing tickets around the country generally means that luck falls not just individually but on a whole village. This time it was not to be us, but hearing the schoolchildren singing out the numbers and the prizes was a bizarre experience.

Singing carols with the Alegría Singers felt like old times and reminded me of my time with Goldsmiths Choral Union, performing at the Albert Hall every Christmas. This year the venue was a little different, but Moreno’s Bar in Puente Don Manuel gave us mince pies for our efforts, which had never happened at the Albert Hall!

Going out for a Christmas morning walk is a revived tradition – throughout the 80s and 90s Mum and I were in the habit of taking a three- or four-night hotel break for Christmas, and with no cooking responsibilities would always don walking boots and cover five or six miles before lunch (with Mum’s hip-flask charged with whisky!). So it felt like an old tradition to pull on the boots this year, though it made a change to be out at Christmas in a light jumper rather than wrapped in seven layers against a cold biting wind.

And as the now-familiar path took me towards the Enchanted Place, a surprise – yesterday’s very hot sun plus some night-time drizzle had combined to bring out the first of the almond blossom (surely earlier than usual?). Very symbolic ..... new beginnings, the cycle of life, turning the corner towards a new season. A delightful and unexpected bonus, and despite the analogies fighting for space in my mind, it made the walk a happy one, not a sad one.

After my walk it was back home to open presents and to raise a toast to Mum. The last few Christmases had been tough for her as she became frailer, but a picture of her in her dressing gown opening her presents last year will always be a special one. Her appetite had largely gone so Christmas lunch consisted of just a few tempting morsels - a sliver of smoked salmon, a couple of prawns, and a mouthful of a favourite locally-made game pie.

So my Christmas lunch at Bar CO2 was a return to an old tradition I’d missed for several years. As English as it could be. Proper Christmas dinner with crackers and hats, but with the Spanish square outside, the fountain and the Ayuntamiento (town hall).

Christmas lights, different yet the same. Nativity scenes, different yet the same. A Christmas walk, different yet the same. Spanish and English cultures, mixing. So many things completely different, which over time will become normal. A Spang-lish Christmas. Every tradition had to begin somewhere, once upon a time. Today is the first Christmas of the rest of your life - happy Christmas everyone.

37 - Gold, Frankincense and Wensleydale (Nativity scenes, Wallace & Gromit-style!)

2012-12-22T12:32:53

So. First Christmas in Spain. It seems to me there are three ways of doing this – (1) try to import all English customs and do it as Englishly as possible; (2) try to do it completely Spanishly and be a bit confused throughout; or (3) try to do it as Spanishly as possible but with just a couple of familiar things in order to remember what day it is. I went for number three.

And it wouldn’t be Christmas in Málaga without a trip to see the Christmas lights (brilliantly designed by Grupo Ximenez from Puente Genil) and a tour of the belenes (nativity scenes).

I’d made a note of a couple of unmissable belenes, and then a very helpful woman in the Oficina de Turismo added a few more, mentioning in particular one which she thought I would find especially fun. My tour began in an orderly queue outside Málaga Ayuntamiento (town hall). Well we were bound to be orderly, there was me and four elderly ladies, and six police officers. Though the police presence became more understandable as opening time approached and the hordes arrived (including a loud singing lady who burst into impromptu wailing while a school party clapped along in time).

The belén was stunning. On a large scale, incredibly detailed, and beautifully executed. The large crowd shuffled by good-naturedly, with a few more outbursts from the singing lady. Having visited belenes in Barcelona, I looked out for the rather rude caganer, but this particular political tradition is mainly restricted to Catalunya so was nowhere to be seen.

Then on to Málaga cathedral, with an attractive wire sculpture scene outside the main entrance. Inside were three life-size scenes, dramatically-lit to emphasise the contrasting gloom, the intense colours, and the simple story.

Outside on the roundabout at the foot of Calle Larios was a rustic belén. Nearby in the main Oficina de Turismo they had gone with a maritime theme and built the whole belén in a fishing boat. Rather beautiful (or should that be “boatiful”?).

Then on to the “wild card”, located in the Sala de Exposiciones del Archivo Municipal. Nearby, so no distance to walk to, and the lady in Turismo had emphasised that I must be sure not to miss it.

The first four I’d seen couldn’t have been more different. Or so I thought. I was about to see the most bizarre belén. It was made entirely from Plasticene (Plastilina in Spanish). It was a strange juxtaposition of a solemn religious scene, with characters apparently out of Wallace and Gromit. Joseph (who did bear a more-than-passing resemblance to Wallace) had a look on his face as though he was hoping one of the three Kings was bearing Wensleydale cheese.

After this it was late enough that the Christmas lights were about to be turned on, so I returned to Plaza de la Constitución just in time. You know you’re still a Spanish “newbie” when you still find it odd to take in one single view including an ancient Moorish roof, palm trees, garish Christmas lights, oranges on the branches, and a massive blow-up Santa.

Strolling down Calle Larios I was dragged into a coffee shop by the four sweet old Spanish ladies I’d befriended in the queue outside the ayuntamiento. They hadn’t known about the other belenes so I’d written them a list, and apparently they’d been following me around all evening. They insisted that I finish my evening with them over a coffee and cake. How could I refuse?

36 - So Many Bars .....

2012-12-18T13:27:18

I’ve always been a “completer”. When I start something I like to finish it. So it didn’t take much psycho-analysis to work out that when presented with a card with a box for each of fourteen participating tapas bars to visit, I wasn’t going to leave a single box unstamped. And we had just Sunday to do it.

As part of Colmenar’s Fiesta del Mosto y la Chacina, each bar would provide a speciality tapas of their own choice, and a drink, and then the all-important stamp on the card. My friends Steve and Linda set off with me as we walked out to the Arco del Sol on the edge of Colmenar. We were Antonio’s first “Ruta de Tapas” stamp-collectors, and after we had enjoyed queso viejo with our drinks the ink was fresh as our cards were duly stamped.

On to Venta de Colmenar. This “speed-dating” type of pub-crawl was introducing me to bars that from the outside had not appealed. Venta de Colmenar was a good example. Unprepossessing, adjacent to the small industrial estate, yet friendly and welcoming, and serving a tasty tapas of callos (well we weren’t likely to get through the day without sampling tripe!).

Out to tick off the other two “outliers”, Hotel Balcon de los Montes (lovely home-cured ham) and Restaurant Belén (migas – except they’d run out so we decided to return later).

Next, to Bar Tele-Club (callos, or tripe, again) which was another unattractive building hiding a pleasant bar with friendly staff making time to chat despite the crowds. The same went for Peña Flamenco (tomate frito con morcilla). With six stamps we were well on our way.

Almost adjacent we dived into El Ventorro (morcilla con tomate again) and Mesón El Pilar where Miguel didn’t mind serving a second round of tapas when I realised we’d eaten it before photographing it! Our next stop was Bodegas José Molino, where Pepe showed off his fine wines with justifiable pride. The great barrels filled a long tunnel, while a bright rear patio served as a temporary art gallery. A different experience, and our ninth stamp.

Bar Los Pepes (asaduras con tomate) and the place was rocking. Music and bodies filled the bar and nobody else looked like they were bothering to collect stamps any more, but after a bit of searching the wooden stamp and inkpad were found with a smile.

With completion within sight we sprinted back up the hill for a return visit to Restaurant Belén. Still no tapas so we had a drink and got our stamps anyway. Then back down to the centre and to Dutch-run Bar Bartola. Round the corner to Bar CO2 (by this time, late afternoon, we’d given up expecting tapas, but were served with some sausage with our drinks anyway. Linda had dropped out of the Ruta a few bars before and had settled in CO2 to read. Staying put was more tempting than the climb up to our final two bars so Steve and I set off with the finishing line well within our grasp.

Bar Diego was one I’d glanced into but had assumed (wrongly) that it wasn’t particularly welcoming to a single foreign female. In fact the son of the owners was welcoming, and served the most delicious tapas of the day (aliño de espárragos), a hot dish of egg, breadcrumbs, and mostly asparagus. It was so delicious we dived into it and scraped the dishes clean before remembering the photo. Yet again, a further portion was supplied generously and good-humouredly despite our (almost genuine) protests. With the football on, and a relaxed family atmosphere, it was hard to drag ourselves away but we had one final call to make.

Taberna de las Flores at the top of my hill provided our final drink of the evening, plus a worrying moment when it appeared the inkpad had been lost. But all was well and the fourteenth space on the card was duly filled. Shortly after 8pm, having started nine hours earlier, we returned to the big tent where the whole thing had begun, but it was deserted and we were clearly too late to hand in our completed cards. If anybody else had completed the tour, they would have needed to do it without any slow, relaxed enjoyment of their surroundings. We didn’t even know what the prize had been.

Steve and I looked at each other, totally content, knowing that the best prize had already been won by us – our completed cards could be retained as a reminder of a truly excellent fiesta, some good bars discovered, and some good friends made.

35 - A Foot in Two Campos at Christmas

2012-12-09T17:16:27

Christmas plays well in Dorset market towns, especially Shaftesbury. The stone parish church and the charming town hall sit comfortably at the centre of lights and celebrations during late-night shopping. Santa, elves, the Shaftesbury Town Silver Band, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and the community choir carolling in the crisp winter evening. It's Christmas in Dorset and all's right with the world.

Except that I'm staring at a bag, sized to within a millimetre of Easyjet's rigorous cabin allowance. I'm packing a few presents and cards I've been given, a few presents and cards I'm giving, a china teapot, some Wensleydale cheese and my black choir outfit which inexplicably includes a reindeer headdress. Closing the door on the cosy thatched cottage which has hosted my last eleven Christmases and all the traditions of decorating that go with that. Leaving behind the boxes of Christmas stuff, all labelled - front porch, little lounge, big lounge. Everything had its pre-determined place. Instead, heading for Spain and the slightly daunting task of beginning a new set of Christmas traditions. The unknown. Nothing has a pre-determined place, including me.

It's sunny in Spain, right? Expats dine outside all year round, and then in the winter when the evenings turn slightly chilly they slip on a cardigan for a last drink on the terrace before sitting cosily indoors watching Strictly Come Dancing, right? And all the while, friends and family back in the UK quietly agree with Government suggestions that the Winter Fuel Payment shouldn't be paid to Brits in Spain. Wrong. The days are bright and often sunny, lovely for crisp winter walks, but when the sun drops over the mountains the temperature plummets. Friends complain that their wood-burning stoves are guzzling fuel faster than a steam train. The tiled floors, though strewn with rugs, are chilly. We wear two pairs of socks, even in bed. Power cuts are frequent and tend to affect the whole village (and, according to addicts of "Strictly", occur most often on Saturday evenings).

So the wood-burner will be the focal point for the Spanish winter and therefore for my first Spanish Christmas. I found a tiny 1ft tinsel tree in the drawer of the bureau delivered from Dorset, and I have some baubles. And of course I have a vast supply of candles, in preparation for the power-cuts. I am missing the ingredients to build a belén, the nativity scene that should take pride of place somewhere in my house. I have some ancient elves, passed down from my German grandmother, that could just about pass as shepherds. I have some green raffia paper. I could build something on the window ledge, to show willing. I can skip most of the normally-required characters, but I probably need some sort of stable-type contraption as the centrepiece.

Christmas-shops. Will there be Christmas-shops? A December visit to Barcelona some years ago seemed to include Christmas-shops. Certainly there were shops selling caganers, the great Catalan "up yours" to whichever political figure is out of favour (this year it's Rajoy, of course). Perhaps December needs to include a trip to see the Málaga lights, and a day out in Granada. One of those will surely provide a small wooden stable?

My final dilemma is whether to give Ana and Julia, the little girls next door, their bags of chocolate coins on Christmas Day (the traditional, though historically incorrect, day of present-giving in the UK), or on Kings' Day (the traditional, and of course more logical, day of present-giving in Spain). I am leaning towards Christmas Day, which for them is not a special day, so I can explain how Christmas is done in the UK.

In the meantime, I have some time to explore how Christmas is done in Spain.

34 - The Enchanted Place

2012-12-02T21:57:48

“Christopher Robin was going away.” Possibly the most tear-jerking words in the whole canon of children’s literature. The opening line of “The House at Pooh Corner” - chapter ten “In Which Christopher Robin and Pooh Come to an Enchanted Place and We Leave Them There.”

It makes tough reading, even for grown-ups.

They walked on, thinking of This and That, and by-and-by they came to an enchanted place on the very top of the forest ….. Sitting there they could see the whole world spread out until it reached the sky, and whatever there was all the world over was with them.

“Pooh, when I’m – you know ….. will you come up here sometimes?” “Just me?” “Yes, Pooh.” “Will you be here too?” “Yes, Pooh, I will be really. I promise I will be, Pooh.” “That’s good,” said Pooh.

For many of us of a certain age, the age of people who took O-levels, wore hot-pants and watched “Follyfoot”, chapter ten was our first experience of separation and loss. Christopher Robin was going away. Somehow though, he had promised, he would always be there. Somehow though, if we go to the enchanted place, we will always find him there.

I found the enchanted place by accident, about six weeks ago. And like the best enchanted places, it’s close and very easy to get to. I went for a long walk on the day that would have been my mother’s birthday (Blog 28 - Reflecting). Maybe my heart and mind were more open to the enchantment, but whatever it was, when I stepped round a corner and saw the perfection of the spot, the framing of the view, the mountains and the valley, all viewed through the almond trees, I knew I had found my enchanted place. “The whole world spread out until it reached the sky.” For no reason and for every reason the tears flowed.

And at that moment a question I had been struggling with was answered. I don’t need to bring my mother’s ashes out to Spain. The lemon tree that I planted for her is there on the patio so I can give her a smile each morning. And when I want to, I can go up there sometimes to the enchanted place. “Will you be here too?” Yes, I will be really. I promise I will be.”

“That’s good.”