Spanish Shilling

Behind the scenes, there are several far-right pressure groups besides some (but not all) of the leading judiciary. The key word these days to those far-right legal efforts is ‘lawfare’ (previously known as guerra jurídica). Many cases are taken on just to put pressure on certain groups – maybe pro-abortion agencies, or comedians or even puppeteers, or Podemos and their splinters (the Caso Neurona was finally binned last week after three years of gratuitous headlines about corruption in the halls of Podemos, the Pablo Iglesias PISA fake commission scandal and some twenty other creative claims against the party sometimes took years to be put to sleep).

In the shadows, there are various nefarious organisations ready to throw trumped-up accusations, which will provide newspaper space, extra (remunerative) work for the courts and perhaps notoriety for the judge (depending on his – we might say – common sense). Most of these groups are joined at the hip with Mother Church. There’s the Opus Dei of course (the Banco Popular was one of theirs), the divine Movimiento Católico Español (it sells Francoist and Nazi memorabilia to survive), the Sinister Mexican-headed El Yunque, the Hazte Oir (it drives buses around with pictures of children on the sides illustrating the difference between their two sexes, so that you know), the litigious anti-Gay Manos Limpias and then there’s the oxymoron which calls itself the Abogados Cristianos – the Christian Lawyers.

They all know that democracy inevitably has its cracks and its loopholes, and they can sometimes play their extreme politics in the courts – to try to erode the system from within.

Fronting them all are Vox and, when it suits them, the Partido Popular.

Right now, indeed, the PP is busy with its latest broadside on Pedro Sánchez and the presumed ‘high-street of corruption’ of his party (occurring now possibly because they inadvertently lost a political opportunity in their vote to allow prisoners, including ETA prisoners, to be released after a maximum of thirty years). There will be blood.

The Inquisition may have gone centuries ago, but the Church, the Army, the Bankers and the Establishment still hold on to power as they must.

While we patiently wait for the agonising inquiries, fake news, inventions and other material to be waded through in the peculiar case against the President’s wife (whatever it may be… give us time and we’ll find something), or the Caso Koldo and its relation of Pedro Sánchez, or the slightly unlikely story of bags of cash being left by senior PSOE members at head office, or the simmering stories of the President’s brother (dear me, we have been busy); let’s examine another case, which turns on the almost sacred status of a past president of Spain, José Maria Aznar.

A famous TV comedian called El Gran Wyoming put on a priestly outfit the other evening on his comedy show and produced a skit about how he is the pope of the Holy Aznariana Sect – which offended our friends over at the Christian Lawyers (they should technically have been in bed by then), so much so that they have produced a lawsuit against the comic. Wyoming was evidently surprised by this idiocy and he repeated his ‘High Mass’, with some extra flourishes, the following night. Wyoming also had a word for Judge Peinado (the judge in the case against Pedro Sánchez’ wife): ‘Get yourself ready, there’s another juicy case coming down the line…’

The comic could get as much as four years clink for offending the sensibilities of followers of the Christian faith – at least, the Old Testament ones.

Perhaps it’s time to put some of these more eccentric organisations out to dry.

The Brits have returned the Chagos Islands – or all except one (Diego Garcia) – to Mauritius and to the people who used to live there, the Chagossians. Or more likely, since they were unceremoniously chucked out back in 1969, to their descendants.  

While this item may not have made a major impact on the lives of the good people who inhabit the United Kingdom, it certainly has here in Spain, with the suggestion that, well, since you’re in the mood, what about handing back Gibraltar (and, sure, maybe the Falklands too while you are at it)?

The Telegraph – a British newspaper that leans solidly to the right – says ‘Keir Starmer has refused to rule out ending British control of Gibraltar and the Falklands, amid an ongoing backlash over his Chagos Islands deal’. Yes, The Telegraph and its more conservative ‘Sun never sets on the British Empire’ readers may well become excited about the Chagos Deal, and maybe for them it will become the Suez Crisis of the 21st Century.

Mind you, at a mean height of just four feet above sea-level, the Chagossians will need to roll up their trouser-legs, as it’ll likely all be underwater by 2050 thanks to Global Warming.

I’m vaguely fond of Gibraltar. I got married there to my American bride on the second attempt. Word had reached us as we were dickering with the judge that my father had suddenly died in Madrid, so we pleaded cause of absence and returned for another try a couple of weeks later. The judge, give him his due, let us have our wedding papers and sundry costs on his shilling, making our match one of the cheapest in history (one jolly night at the Holiday Inn). A year later, we went to Paris for the honeymoon.

Then, The Express brings us: ‘Gibraltar tries to calm fears it will be returned to Spain after UK and Chagos fiasco. The people of Gibraltar have been assured by their Government that Sir Keir Starmer's decision regarding the Chagos Island will not affect their future’.

I like Gibraltar. I mean, I don’t (it’s ghastly), but I like that it’s there. Some pink glitter for the map, a change of pace and the chance to see a British bobby talking in llanito. 

So, leave it alone. There are thirty four thousand Gibraltarians who want to remain British, but without going anywhere near the United Kingdom (ring any bells, Readers?). If the colony fell to Spain, then what would they do with the Gibraltarians?  Leave them there, but make them do this and that – or enjoin them to take out Tarjetas de Identidad Extranjera and deprive them of the vote? Maybe give the people living in nearby San Roque ‘back’ their properties. As Gibraltar en la Corazón says (back in 1704, the British possession of Gibraltar was only formalised nine years later at at the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713), ‘…It is easy to imagine that column of men and women dragging their belongings: some children, others elderly, heads bowed, stripped... 5,000 people walking towards the hermitage of San Roque, located a few kilometres away…’

Gibraltar View from San Roque

These days, it looks lovely.

Ah, decolonisation. Gibraltar is a British problem: let Whitehall build a nice camp on Salisbury Plain for them.

Some say, well why not just give the Rock to the Spanish and give Melilla and Ceuta to the Moroccans? Easy enough if you are living in somewhere like Albacete or Torquay.

There are of course, several differences. For one, there are 170,000 Spaniards in the two North African enclaves, and right now, Spanish politicians are busy squabbling about what to do with a handful of immigrant minors stuck in the Canary Isles (another territory that Morocco claims). Since they would likely not be treated favourably by the Moroccans, I doubt that they would want to stay and at the same time it would be hard to comfortably house 170,000 indignant colonos over here in Almería and Málaga.

The population of the Falkland Isles – whose inhabitants are even more British than the Gibraltarians (they’ve been there since the 1830s) – runs to about 3,700 souls. Wiki says that there are even a few llanitos living there. They probably would rather stay where they are, too (while we are here, I wonder where the exiled malvineros are living).

It’s all well and good righting ancient wrongs, but for every victor on the one hand, there has to be an eviction on the other.

The previous king of Spain, who abdicated in 2014 to give way to Felipe VI, is to publish his memoirs – evidently with the idea of presenting his side of the story. “I get the feeling”, he says, “that they are trying to rob me of my own history”. The book is being ghost-written by a French journalist and will be published early next year with the title: Reconciliación.

“My father always advised me not to write my memoirs. Kings do not confess, and even less so publicly”, says Juanca (his nickname in progressive circles).

It may not be such a good idea. One should always consider the reputation of The Firm.

Coincidentaly, a second story about Juan Carlos had also hit the news-stands last week: photos in a Dutch magazine of His Royal Highness in a clinch with a companion of the female persuasion called Bárbara Rey. (El Rey kissing La Rey). The relationship had been considered until now as an open secret.

The Bourbons (going back through the ages) have long enjoyed activities which have been quietly swept under the carpet: but Royalty is not as other people, and their peccadillos should be at best, unremembered. President Clinton might have got into hot water in his day for his extra-curricular activities and then there was Donald Trump and his shenanigans (and we shake our heads, even though some of us might have done the same, or worse), but our leaders, our shepherds, chosen as it were by God (or Franco maybe) must be kept to a higher standard.

Why, if it’s OK for His Nibs to cheat on his wife (and his subjects), then what about little me?

For this whole thing to work, the Royals must be revered by their subjects, since they are, and must be, an example to us all. One thinks of Elizabeth II or Spain’s Felipe VI and of course many others.

All said, it must be a strain – living such a virtuous life under the public eye at all times. One mistake or lapse in judgement, especially in these times of intrusive paparazzi, and one’s Royal reputation is in the dust.

Not that Juan Carlos didn’t have other reasons to upset the applecart – other lovers such as Corinne, other enthusiasms such as shooting elephants, and other vices including accepting bribes from foreign leaders. José Antonio Zarzalejos, former director of the ABC, once defined JC's behaviour with three words in the book about his son called ‘Felipe VI. Un rey en la adversidad’: greed, promiscuity and arrogance.

His fortune is estimated by Forbes as running to 2,000 million euros. He is leaving it all to his two daughters Elena and Cristina – Felipe wants nothing to do with it.

El Emerito moved to Abu Dhabi a few years back to keep himself out of the public eye, however he sometimes briefly returns to participate in regattas in Sanxenxo (Pontevedra).

His son ignores him on these occasions.

For the institution of Royalty to survive, it has to be without blemish. Now that may be hard to do; but there are only two answers to that, and Spain has been careful not to ask the public in any of its many official surveys, which they would prefer: a monarchy or a republic. It is strange to think that the obligation for a country to elect a system with a head of state is like throwing a coin to choose between pot luck and naked ambition.  

For those who yearn for a change in the Spanish government, there’s the problem of the leading opposition champion evidently not being the right person for the job.

The hard-to-pronounce (or spell) Alberto Núñez Feijóo had been the president of Galicia and was chosen to take over the leadership of the Partido Popular following the defenestration of Pablo Casado (for criticising on the television the behaviour of his colleague Isabel Díaz Ayuso during the pandemic). Since he can’t talk about the economy – which is doing surprisingly well (now that everyone has been obliged to pay their taxes), Feijóo must concentrate his relentless opposition on the actions of his rival and his crew, whether actually true or basely dreamed up by the innumerable fábricas de bulos which are endlessly circling the ship of state.

Feijóo (pronounce him fay-who) sort of won the election last year (he has the most seats), only he didn’t since he and his allies – the Vox and a couple of tiddlers – weren’t quite enough to win against the coalition of the PSOE and its partners to the left plus some nationalist parties from the north. ‘I could have been president’, he said at one point, if it wasn’t for his partnership with Vox, producing the jocular rejoinder of Pedro Sánchez in the Cortes with "That’s a very good one! Sr. Feijóo, you are not president because you do not want to be. In fact, you have even proclaimed that you are the first Spaniard to renounce being president of the Government when you could have been".

They’ve been at daggers drawn ever since, with Sánchez only last week complaining of Feijóo’s ‘vinegary’ and senseless opposition. Why, he will even go against the opinion of the PPE in Brussels in doomed attempts to pull down either Spain’s standing internationally, or Sanchez’ britches at home.

The party (and its supporters) is beginning to have second thoughts about the Galician (and his troubles back in his home region), his lack of constructive ideas ("When there is a problem with Morocco, the PP goes against the Government of Spain; if there is a problem with Algeria, the PP goes against the Government of Spain; if there is an issue in Venezuela, the PP goes against the Government of Spain; always against the Government of Spain and never in defence of the Spanish people" says a government minister with candour), and his recent performance over Venezuela, where his claim that Spain had plotted with the Caracas government to allow the disputed winner of their recent elections, Edmundo González, to seek asylum in Spain – was afterwards denied by the arch-conservative candidate Edmundo González himself.

Feijóo with Ayuso

Feijóo wouldn’t make much of a president anyway – he gabbles and doesn’t speak English – and waiting in the wings is the abovementioned Isabel Diáz Ayuso, who may be a handful with much baggage, but for some reason – she’s bulletproof. Pretty, too, like Meloni.

Talking of the Italian torpedo, Feijóo was over in Rome a week ago, to discuss immigration from the point of an ultra – however it panned out, Georgia Meloni wouldn’t say – and apart from a stolen snapshot, there’s no record of the summit anywhere in the Italian media.

Now we have the pre-budgets for 2025. The Conservative regions want more money from Central Government, but their colleagues in Parliament said they would be voting against the proposals this Thursday, which would include any increase for the regional autonomies (mostly under PP control). They have unlikely support from the Junts per Catalunya. On Tuesday, the government postponed the vote for another more propitious moment.

Pedro Sánchez certainly has problems to keep his majority, but the loosest of his allies – Junts per Catalunya (the exiled Puigdemont’s rabble) – know full well that they would get short shrift if the PP and its friends at Vox were to somehow take over the government.

So, maybe Sánchez and his reckless claim of three more years is not such a fantasy, and with Feijóo for his rival, he may be right.

As someone says: better a Frankenstein government than a Neanderthal one.  

It always seem to me strange that people, using old dusty stories, yearn to take your land, or your city, or your home… and make it theirs.

Historical examples abound, right enough – from Gibraltar to Palestine; from Comanche Territory to The Ukraine; from Belize to uh, Olivenza.

There’s always somebody waving an old document, or maybe a rusty key. My great-great-great grandfather used to live here and then the government threw us all out and now look, we want it back.

The Moors have claims to Córdoba, the Moroccans want Melilla and the 1,200,000 Miami Cubans are the cause of the sixty-six year old US blockade against Havana.

If they come in and take over, will they let me stay? Is there someone with a better claim to my farm because of an old deed, or a tradition of what’s written in someone’s Good Book?

The Moriscos lost their properties in Sixteenth Century Spain and were obliged to head off to North Africa – where none of them had ever been before.

The true gibraltareños living in San Roque, worrying all day long about getting their rock back.

Those who had to flee from their homes thanks to the Spanish Civil War, still living grumpily in France or Germany.

Refugees the world over: war, greed and politics.

Then, if that’s not bad enough, it must also be very trying for the folk who live in a house to know that the bank wants it – because of monetary considerations (the rent, the mortgage, the new tower block that someone plans to build on the same site).

But we were talking about Olivenza.

Olivenza, also known as Olivença, is, says Wiki ‘a town in south-western Spain, close to the Portugal–Spain border. It is a municipality belonging to the province of Badajoz, and to the wider autonomous community of Extremadura’. It was Portuguese for a long time, but it was ceded by treaty to Spain in 1801 following a squabble. Presumably the locally defeated Portuguese burghers have been talking of little else since then, Bless them, fingering their old iron keys and maybe a contract or two.

Maybe there’re a few well-oiled flintlocks in a chest somewhere in the attic held just in case. Two hundred and twenty years is but a moment in time, right?

And those 12,000 Spanish oliventinos who live there now? What to do with them – give them Portuguese identity cards and build a few flats? They’d rapidly become a nuisance.

See, Nuno Melo, the current Portuguese Minister of Defence (that’s to say: the man in charge of the Portuguese army) is now claiming Olivenza (or Olivença) because you know: the treaty/schmeaty.

For España for once, the shoe is on the other foot.   

By the way, some idiot from the Vox party stole a breeze-block from Gibraltar in 2014 and it’s now taking pride of place in the foyer of that party’s head office in Madrid.

The Gibraltarians want it back.

Maybe the Portuguese could help…

......

Some notes on Olivenza:

‘The treaty by which Spain may have to return a stolen town to Portugal’ says El Huff Post. A treaty signed in 1297 between the Kings of Castille and Portugal cedes Olivenza to the Portuguese. A second treaty, during the Napoleonic Wars, gives Olivenza back to Spain in 1801. 

"The girls of Olivenza are not like the others, because they are daughters of Spain and granddaughters of Portugal," goes the popular song from Extremadura.

‘The Spanish town claimed by Portugal is considered by the CIA to be an area of ​​international dispute’ says El Economista here.

‘The mayor of the town of Olivenza in Badajoz, Manuel José González Andrade, urges the Minister of National Defence of Portugal, Nuno Melo, to abandon "speeches that raise walls and cause divisions"’ says 20Minutos here.

‘Nobody in Olivenza wants to hear about its annexation to Portugal: "We are 'typical Spanish'"’ says El Confidencial here.

The Spanish are generally an easy-going people, happy to be a little early, or more likely, a fraction late for an appointment. They will – and this is part of their charm – round things upwards: an extra dollop on your ice-cream or a shrimp on your tapa.

Only the statisticians will be prone to the sin of exactness, of putting a number down to several decimal points. They would probably get fired if they said something like ‘half of the customers were satisfied’ rather than ‘49.27% admitted to being pleased’.

Well, they use a comma where we use a point, so it would be: ‘49,27 per cent’.

That’s out of a hundred (although only 99 people were there, plus a small dachshund).

Our bean-counter, working for the INE – the Instituto Nacional de Estadísticas – is paid to be exact, but his numbers will not make sense to anyone except another accountant. He might claim that ‘85,056,528 foreign visitors visited Spain in 2023’, where a mathematician would probably say ‘85,060,000 foreign visitors’ and a journalist would lead with ‘something over eighty-five million visitors’. 

Who is going to remember, or even read properly, that first number from the INE?

Secondly, of course, despite being exact, it is hopelessly misleading and wrong. Did they count the people in transit through the airport to another foreign destination? How about the cruise ship passengers, or the people who drove across the border from Portugal? What about the ones who stayed… or live here as foreign residents?

It’s a useful figure to draw political conclusions maybe, or to contrast with the year before or after, but not much beyond concluding what we already knew: a whole lot of tourists.  

Our favourite example of this anal delight in myopically clicking away at the abacus next to a flickering candle comes from a Canary Islands newspaper: ‘In July this year Lanzarote recorded just over 275,363 tourists according to the Lanzarote Data Centre’.  

A confusingly exact figure, although the article suggests maybe they missed one somewhere…

But hey, at least they couldn’t drive there.

The problem then, is not the exactitude of the numbers fielded by the statisticians, but the error that they can easily make, which in turn breeds false results. Otherwise, why bother to add them up anyway?

A town’s population is based on its padrón: its official census. That doesn’t mean that it’s right, what with long-term visitors, people who are registered in one town but living in another (for a variety of reasons), sundry vote-stuffing activities, foreigners who either aren’t on the padrón, or maybe have moved away without taking their names off the list. 

Let’s be fair though – the information is provided painstakingly and to the last level of accuracy, as is to be expected. On the other hand, there’s the concept of ‘garbage in, garbage out’, where the numbers are just plain wrong, due to false information, or corners cut. Take the Spanish fiscal information, the Gross Domestic Product – used, says Wiki, ‘to measure the economic health of a country or region’, and thus very important for comparison, European funding, reputation and so on.

From elDiario.es we read ‘The main official indicator of the Spanish economy, the GDP figure, is wrong. The National Institute of Statistics (INE) has been measuring it incorrectly for at least three years. At best, we are talking about a huge negligence, the most serious in the history of Spanish statistics, the one that will cost us the most…’

The title to this story is ‘The most expensive statistical error in history’. Not good. The methodology which may have worked in the past is now obsolete – there are simply more useful figures available.

Another headline says: ‘Official statistics admit a deviation of 32,480 million euros in the Spanish GDP. The INE carries out the largest revision in its history and corrects upwards, for the third time, the growth data of the Spanish economy in 2021’. Naturally, the lower figures for 2021 (following on from the Pandemic) paved the way at the time for opposition attacks on the Government: “These are your green shoots? This is where we came out stronger?”…and so on.

A sober report from The Corner says ‘The main change that has caused this increase in the volume of GDP is mainly due to the incorporation of the information derived from the new Population and Housing Census 2021, which has led to an increase in the number of inhabitants and, therefore, this has an impact on GDP…’

Sometimes, a journalist may need to go to the INE page. It’s hard to find the information one is looking for on this complicated site when one visits there and also, at least with the Firefox web-browser, when we do, we get a sinister ‘Warning: Potential Security Risk Ahead’ which is a bit off-putting.

They need to not only buck up their ideas, but also their Internet presence.

Thus many news-sites will make up their own numbers, based perhaps on their experience, their politics, or perhaps on other more-or-less reliable sources.  

…

Note: The Europeans use a different mathematical nomenclature from the Americans and British. The Google translation of ‘32.480 millones de euros’ correctly reads – for Anglo readers – as ‘32.48 billion’. This is to do with ‘the long and short scale’, a confusion one doesn’t want to make.

Just to be clear, a Spanish billón (a ‘thousand million’ or 10⁹) is the same as an American million million (that’s to say, a trillion).

Silly? Hey, they still use Fahrenheit.

One of the questions now being asked, now the local fiestas, celebrations, concerts, rallies, expositions and sporting events are largely over, is this:

Who exactly do they benefit?

The apocryphal story from the mid-sixties is told of my mother stomping down to the main square from our apartment by the church wearing her slippers, dressing gown and a hand bag – with which she slugged the mayor shouting ‘turn the music down, I’m trying to sleep’. 

In those days, there’d be a few strings of bunting, a local pop band, the bar doing a brisk trade, and the old deaf-and-dumb lady, la muda, selling cigarettes (single, or a half- or full pack), along with Bazooka Joe bubble-gum and wax matches, cerillas from a tray hanging from her shoulders. The families would dance together – small children up to the oldest grannies, all holding hands and bobbing around. There were songs like La Chica Ye Ye or the grisly Las flechas del Amor…

Brandy was three cents a tot. A small glass of a kind of red wine which would make one’s teeth rot was even cheaper.

They were different times. The only visitors would be family who had emigrated to Barcelona or France or Germany. I remember a family known as los marseilleses, who would come for a few days around that time in their Citröen Ami, look down their noses at their country-cousins, and then disappear again.  

There’s the World Day of the Tourist coming up in late September (when they’ve all gone home again), but in our town, neither this nor the non-existent Day of the Foreign Resident are pencilled in. No celebration as such, even if we are here all year long putting money into the economy. Mind you – I think there’s another Saint’s day which pops up around then.

These days, as we’ve all seen (only too vividly) the fiestas are a joy for the shop-keepers who will obligingly stay open until late, but there’s not much pleasure for the locals. Even if one does attend, and has a pricey beer at the metal chiringuito raised in the square (next to the deafening dance-band), who ya gonna talk too? Who ya gonna dance with? So, what with the visitors all enjoying their last few days of the holidays, the instant traditions taking up the usual parking spaces (medieval market anyone?), the far-from cheap drinks and tapas or the ride on the roundabout, I’ll take vanilla.

They’ve even extended them an extra day or two, since one can never have enough fun.

In the old days, maybe a neighbour owned a black and white TV and would kindly leave his window open for the curious, at least for the football game, but now everyone has a huge flat-screen with a hundred channels and a fridge full of beer. Why go out, say the vecinos, when one can be dazzled at home for free?

It comes down to this – a local event can be for the local people, or, if it’s the summer and you are in one of Spain’s ‘Most Beautiful Villages’, then it’s for the business-folk and the tourists. The visitors will all have to sleep somewhere – and for that we have the Airbnb hosts and the hotels, all rubbing their hands.

The Residents don’t stay in them; and for that matter, they don’t buy souvenirs either – making us very disappointing as customers.

And if we do need to drive into the centre to join the festivities and see the fireworks, where can we park that's not a half-hour walk away?

So if something is a bit expensive, yet perceived as cheap by the tourists, then that’s the price of a fiesta without the people it is meant to be for (and, one way or another, who paid for the music and the bunting).

Or who knows? Perhaps we are just getting old.

Meanwhile, and sad to relate, there’s no one left prepared to stomp down to the fiesta at three in the morning, waving her handbag, to tell the mayor to go and pull the effing plug.

Each week I write Business over Tapas and send it out to subscribers. It comes with plenty of useful news about life in Spain, and a well thought-out editorial. I've lived here for most of my life and edited several newspapers, both in English and Spanish, between 1985 and 2008. 

But sometimes, there's not much to write about...

...

August has just about made its apologies and left, bringing us Welcome September – which is the best month of them all. The weather (should be) perfect, warm but not killer-hot. The sea will be just right and there’ll finally be some room on the beach.

The subject of la turismofobia will be dropped (at least until next year) and the children will all be back in school.

For journalists and hacks, there’s the renewed prospect of writing about Spanish politics – that effervescent mixture of insults, betrayals and some occasional improvements (or at least, changes) in our lives.

And then the autumn slowly creeps towards us, bringing a freshness to the air and the garden. We can go for walks once again in the campo or along the paseo marítimo. Maybe drop in somewhere for a beer, where the barman remembers our name and is once again pleased to see us.

September is a good moment to start new adventures, and maybe pause to see what the others are writing about:

So, here’s the intro over at that new costa magazine ‘Spain By Jingo’:

Welcome to our coolest month, September, where it’s blissfully hot and groovy.

We enjoyed the thrash during the summer, but now thankfully, they’ve all rushed home again, leaving us to enjoy the peace and pick up the pieces.

We hope you enjoyed our local fiesta last week. We had a go on the dodgem-cars, which reminded us a lot of the roundabout along the beach in front of the hotel.

Seriously though, here in Spain we drive on the right.

In this exciting edition, with some brand-new advertisers for you to meet, we have Beryl’s nail extensions on P.9 and also three and a half ways to cook a chicken with Gillie on the same page (Ok, Ok, the full-page advert from an offshore financial adviser that was going to go there fell through at the last moment – we think he got arrested. We pulled his article too, just in case…).

Peter Grubshall is back with the riveting story of his move to Spain with ‘From Gloucester to the Costa’.

With our fiendish quiz on P.14 (all about Your Favourite Country) and our guide to useful words in Spanish in the Back, we are sure you’ll have a fab month.

Andy and Lucía.

...

(I leave you wondering - what is your favourite country?)

Churning through the media articles every day to find material for my weekly bulletin about Spain, I often find pieces which are designed to make the reader go past the title and into the text – surrounded as it is with advertisements, pop-ups and, of course, the EU’s insistence on asking us if it’s OK to place cookies on our phone every bloody time.

Then along comes the text that says: ‘We notice you’re using an ad-blocker…’

Damn right I am.

But despite all this, yes, I have decided that I want to read about ‘We’ve Found the Best Village in Spain’. So, open the stupid link, already!

This is called click-bait, when they don’t tell you the very vital thing you wanted to see in the headline, which is why you have to click into the story. Usually, they’ll get around to the subject in hand in the third or fourth paragraph, after you have hurdled a long diatribe about Spain’s wonderful unknown and unspoiled pueblos, a couple of adverts for shoes, shirts, or a merry cruise to Norway and an insistent request to subscribe.

The problem often being that – I guess if enough people read the article – which may have started out life somewhere else (Google has an uncanny trait of rumbling unoriginal material) then when you take the plunge and finally arrive at the destination itself, at least for lunch and a look-see, it’s going to be full of fellow-readers and, well, sorry to tell you, but – thanks to the recent media-exposure – You May Need to Book!

Annoying for those who bought a place there some years previously, precisely because it was off the beaten track.

These ‘beautiful’ or ‘best kept secret’ articles are easy to write (thanks Wikipedia!) and they fill a space. How many times have you seen a picture of that street covered by a huge rock in Setenil de las Bodegas (Cádiz) or that embarrassing pueblo in Málaga they painted blue?

Right now, there are endless stories of ‘a pretty village in Spain where they want to ban tourists’. Above all apparently, the ones who take ‘selfies’, according to one gloomy home-owner. Often called ‘The little Mykonos’ (by absolutely nobody except copy-editors, I suspect), the village – Binibeca Vell – is in fact a 1972 urbanisation on the edge of San Luís in Menorca. And it’s probably not looking its best after the heavy rains last week.

See, it gets full of visitors, which is no doubt a treat for the local souvenir shop, but it is kind of a nuisance for everybody else.

There may be lots of money in tourism, but it doesn’t get spread around as fairly as it might.

The alternative is to tell the locals to stay inside so as not to inconvenience the cruise-ship trippers (as happened on the Greek island of Santorini the other day), or close the local bar (as reported in a pueblo in Galicia – ‘We don’t want any Madrid tourists here giving themselves airs’, explained the owner in garbled Galician). A fellow from Barcelona says that in his city, ‘We don’t walk in a straight line any more, we dodge’. Over in Santiago de Compostela, the locals complain about the pilgrims – ‘it’s like Easter every day of the year’.

How about Peñiscola, in Castellón? Eight thousand people live there, and there are 25 visitors for every resident. ‘Excuse me, coming through…’ (My own Mojácar is in sixth place according to the media report).

No doubt the city fathers would prefer wealthy tourists – the ones who spend and tip lavishly – while not so much the other kind, who drink a few beers and are sick in the fabled village gardens. Or, worse still, the ones who spray-paint an esteemed foreign resident’s eleven million dollar home. But, sad to say, you can’t really have the one kind of visitor without the other, unless there’s a fellow in a uniform at the gate. Also – wealthy people don’t necessarily behave themselves better.

Tourism is either packing as many sights into a short vacation as one can (‘If this is Tuesday, this must be Belgium’) or spending the holiday in one single place, usually to relax and get pissed. Both have their merits and – evidently – their issues.

But, don’t we have a right to two holidays away each year? (We can except us foreign residents in this instance, with a car-trip across Spain or a weekend in a Parador. For one thing, we don’t tend to travel in packs).

The point is this: would Spanish tourists suddenly come to your town in the UK or Germany and behave in the same way – and if they (by some miracle) they did – how would you feel? A thousand drunken Spaniards in Hatfield (dubbed as ‘The Most Boring Town in England’) wearing Gibraltar Español tee-shirts and singing loudly and tunelessly as Henry over at The Red Lion gleefully fills them up with more drinks.  

So remember, as you scan the blogs and news-sites for fresh and interesting places to visit:

‘Your vacation spot is somebody else’s home’.