It was the face of my seven-year-old little girl Lisa, covered in angry mosquito bites, as she returned from a school sports class in the 40-degree heat that gave me my only wobble about having uprooted the family to Spain. In 1981 Los Boliches was still separated from Fuengirola by farmland.
Lisa and our nine-year-old son Marcus had been enrolled in the local English school. St Anthony’s College was at that time a ramshackle, whitewashed house next to the Shell petrol station.
On occasion pupils had to chase the rats from the classroom before lessons started. Being tiny, ‘Spanish tummy’ was a real issue and the tap water was not drinkable.
The coast was thriving but issues with administration and laws meant life could be a challenging mix of job hunting, queuing in the Town Hall with a mountain of confusing paperwork and waiting for the power and water to be restored. Jennifer and I watched with trepidation as the family adjusted to the new life abroad.
The children looked happy enough, after all the rat-catching before class was something of a novelty, and they soon loved days by the pool and on the beach. At night we all enjoyed late night walks along the busy Paseo. Jobs were secured, friends were soon made and life for all of us became one long happy Spanish summer of beaches, mountains, picnics, ferias and ventas.
Before Spain
At the age of 21, after becoming champion boxer of Fiji I had travelled to Merseyside and found work as a bus driver and later in Vauxhall’s. I met Jennifer and we married at her local church in the small village of Brombrough.
Being a mixed marriage my father-in-law refused to attend the wedding. Fortunately, her mum and brother came and the wedding went ahead. Marcus was born in 1971 and in 1974 Lisa completed the family.
Through hard work and determination we managed to buy a nice detached house in a prestigious area of the Wirral and had a new car every year. But strikes were rife and it wasn’t all smooth running.
I began to miss the warm weather of my South Seas upbringing and wanted more freedom for the children. I answered a job advert in property sales on the Costa del Sol and came to check out schools and find an apartment.
In those days in Spain it was difficult to find work and become a legal resident. Officially foreigners had to leave the country every three months. Fortunately a loophole in the Spanish law, exploited by all ex-pats, meant a return daytrip to Morocco secured that all-important passport stamp. Eventually, I leased a bar in Fuengirola and my wife found employment in real estate.
Our residencia and work permit were permanently granted.
Despite the early days of rat-catching, the children had a great education on the Coast with smaller classes, excellent teachers and a free and relaxed lifestyle. Marcus, now a music producer in Los Angeles, and Lisa who is a journalist in London wax lyrical about their idyllic upbringing on the Costa.
After 30 years Jennifer and I are now pensioners and still love everything this magnificent country has to offer. We would not even trade it for the paradise island of Fiji.