Spanish Shilling

In Spain, "Una familia, una casa" has become a prominent political slogan and debate topic spearheaded by left-wing politicians, most notably Gabriel Rufián. The thrust, backed (more or less) by the Spanish Constitution, is that every family should have a home. This, many would argue, should come before profit, especially in the guise of the ‘Vulture Funds’ – who tend to buy entire blocks of apartments in their endless search for a buck.

The Vulture Funds (often but not always foreign carrion-eaters) may aim to increase rental-prices or add some slap-dash repairs and seek fresh tenants. They might plan to remove their existing tenants (known in the trade as ‘las cucarachas’), or perhaps leave the building entirely empty waiting for higher property values or maybe turn the apartments into short-term tourist lets or even a hotel. Who knows, and perish the thought, these scavengers might even enlist the help of a city councillor to expedite matters.

Circling just behind these birdies – who are just as happy investing in houses as in anything else with good opportunities – we have los grandes tenedores – landlords that own either ten or more homes or over 1,500m constructed. It can be a great business, especially if you divide the apartments into various rooms-for-rent, demand being what it is. 

Then there are the banks, whose mortgages sometimes turn out to be a little too rich. 

So Maricarmen. Article 47 of the Spanish Constitution establishes that all Spaniards have the right to enjoy decent and adequate housing, ‘though it is categorized as a guiding principle of social and economic policy rather than an absolute fundamental right’ (says Google AI properly), but housing isn’t just in the hands of the state, but rather under the control of the regional (and city) governments.

Maricarmen Abascal was a victim of this mess. She had been living in the same apartment since Franco’s times (when prices were cheap, there were firm rent-controls and not everyone dreamt of being a capitalista). Her parents moved in along with Maricarmen back in 1957 and until recently (as the only survivor) she was paying 500€ a month. A Spanish investment company bought the whole building a few years ago and suggested that she should be paying a more reasonable rent – like 2,650€ a month. Long story short, the 85-year-old was evicted last week and carted off to hospital. Serves her right, eh?

Not everyone would agree, and there have been protests – a sit-in began in Madrid’s Puerta del Sol on Saturday which soon turned itself into a tent-city.

Not that she was the only one – evictions in Spain (whether vulture-related, foreclosures, rent-in-arears or squatters) are numerous. Indeed, says Público, there’s an average of 44 evictions taking place daily in Spain. Not that you’ll see any flag-wavers or right-wing banners amongst the protestors.

The story has gone worldwide. ‘The dramatic eviction of Maricarmen has put Spain’s worsening housing crisis back in focus, amid rising rents, limited affordable homes and a political fight over tenant protections’, says an Asian source.

The Government had tried to resolve this issue back in April this year but were shorted by the contrary votes of… well, the usual suspects. It’s now trying once again. Meanwhile, Urbagestión, the investment fund that evicted Maricarmen, feeling hurt by the negative press, on Monday relented and said she could have her old place back again.

Building more homes is all very well, and very necessary, but with the law of the jungle, where the new homes are picked up by the wealthy for speculative purposes, more attention needs to be placed on building rent-controlled council-homes, an expense which has fallen by 43% since 2002.

An item in Marca notes that Canada, faced with a similar issue, found the solution by stopping foreign venture-capital from entering the residential housing market.

Spain’s minority government has now proposed (once again) rent-controls, a halt on all evictions until 2030, and banning the purchase of housing by investment firms.

There are just a few seminal icons that we all recognise, because of their simplicity, their reputation or their attraction. 

I can think of the Mercedes symbol, which began in 1909; the swastika (it goes back over twelve thousand years - even if it has unfortunate significance today); the yin and yang sign (the version we know comes from 9th century China); the peace sign introduced by a British artist in 1958; the red heart that comes from 1250ad (and there was I thinking it was from Facebook); the Crucifix goes back to the 4th century and the Star of David dates to 14th century Prague. Who have I forgotten?

Oh yes, the Indalo. 

The Indalo came into being at a late stage. The Almería group of painters who called themselves Los Indalianos after Saint Indalecio, an early Christian bishop of Almería (The name can still be found in this province today).  

They were a group of artists led by Jesús de Perceval, Luís Cañadas and Miguel Cantón Checa going back to 1943. They introduced the figurine in an exhibition held in Madrid in 1947. You can see some of their work today in the Museo de Arte Doña Pakyta in Almería City.

The story goes that the Indalo is a prehistoric daub found in the Cueva de los Letreros in Vélez Blanco, although no one can tell which of the various stick men adorning the cave is the Indalo, neither where the name comes from and nor yet that it was revered. A 1908 - 1930 Encyclopedia by El Espasa (I found this 72 volume reference at La Voz de Almería) had lots to say about Mojácar for example - but had no mention of 'Indalo'. 

My own opinion of the Vélez Blanco claim is that it's a hoax (not that it matters). 

The Indalo became the symbol of Mojácar, and it's without doubt a special sign. It was brought to the village in the fifties by the Indalianos who recognised the artistic opportunity of the narrow streets, the white or earth-coloured walls, the dramatic mountain setting and the warm sea below. Primary colours rich in texture. The old Mayor Jacinto built them a studio in the early sixties, just below La Fuente. 

The totem was transferred to the Diputación de Almería (the provincial council) in the early nineties for no very good reason. Perhaps politics played a hand. At any rate, the Indalo became the symbol of the entire province. 

Piqued by this loss, one Mojácar jeweller, a Frenchman called Bernard, designed a new drunken Indalo, which now does service as the town's identity. I think that it's rather more Bohemian than the old one. 

By tradition, Zeus and his pals were the male gods, warring, fighting, raping and getting drunk. They were without doubt a handful, often destroying towns, civilizations and even the odd champion or two. The female inhabitants of Mount Olympus, the goddesses like Hera (Zeus' wife), were in charge of the fields, the forests, shelter, art and nurturing the young.  

Which is why the Indalo must be a female symbol. An Indala. She protects us with her arch, an umbrella that keeps away the elements: the rain and Zeus' lighting flashes. She stands firm on the ground and, excuse the familiarity, her legs are open for procreation and childbirth. 

I think we should celebrate La Indala. The Tourist Office claims protection, good luck and other benefits to be found if you buy one from the nearest souvenir shop. But they still seem to be male. It's time La Indala took over.   

Being in my twilight years, I must search each night, with only limited success, for a decent sleep. So many things can go wrong: from the owl hooting outside my window, a sudden cramp or an irritating mosquito-bite; but I suppose being uncomfortably hot (or cold, depending) is the most common. A week ago, I wasn't even wearing a sheet. 

Followed by waking up to take a leak halfway through the night.

I’ve switched on the ‘no phone calls after 10pm’ button on the mobile phone so at least I won’t be roused by some nitwit…

Once I awaken, it’s the very devil trying to get back to sleep and that enjoyable dream I was probably having – which I’ve since forgotten. 

So, I decided on an early night on Wednesday (my book is a bit boring).

You know, it wasn’t five minutes after I fell asleep when an alarum went off on my phone Waddoo, Waddoo, Wadd- the fuck? 

Yes, those fine people at Civil Protection had put out an Es-Alert warning in red capital letters regarding a most terrible storm that was approaching, man the lifeboats and sleep upstairs; and please, Take Care because we love you!

I put something rude about them on Facebook and tried to go back to sleep.

My place is on a hill beyond a dry riverbed. On the other side, there’s a fast road that connects our village with the next one along. If it’s useful by day, then it’s a cracker at night, especially if you own a tricked-out motorcycle and enjoy a good thrill. I’ve become impervious over my time here to the noise of a throaty exhaust pipe, taking about twenty seconds or so to rise and fall in decibels as it goes past, but I think this time somebody must have organised a race, because I am suddenly wide-awake once again at three.

No rain yet, as I peer out over the terrace. Grumpily I try and get to sleep again. I’ve had about four hours by now, so I’m not going to pass out again for a while. After a bit, and grouchy because of my interrupted night, I switch on the bedside lamp and check my e-mails. Maybe have another go at my book.

At six on the dot, a single clap of thunder teases me.

I stagger from bed at nine this morning, go and feed the cats, and check once again for the terrible storm.

So far, as I open a can of pet food, it appears to have drizzled slightly.

I consider having an early siesta.

Last night’s alarm was apparently something to do with Valencia, 356 kilometres to the north, where it’s been raining heavily.

It reminded me (and no doubt them) that the last flooding up there, almost two years ago, was greeted by silence from the authorities, and in consequence 230 people drowned.

They also failed to warn us down here with their noisy and effective siren when the hills around next-door Bédar caught fire with fifteen victims back in July. A horrible event that I could see clearly for three nights from my bed-room window.

So now, they are using an alarm to wake the dead. Better safe than sorry, eh?

I am once again on the Internet as I sip a coffee – no rain for my area, it says, until Saturday!

Remind me on Friday night to leave the phone under the seat in the car.

…and later: Saturday started out overcast, then it cleared up again. There's never any rain where I’m living!

There were a lot of posts on my feed the other day about how the AI Data Centres are going to become our nemeses. Firstly, by taking all the water and electricity. A large facility needs tens to hundreds of megawatts of electricity and up to five million gallons of water every day. The Spanish Data Centre Association (Spain DC) forecasts almost 67,000 million euros (‘€66.9billion’) invested in this country through 2030. 

Bad enough perhaps, but it gets worse as we ask: what place will humans have in the scheme of things when the machines can do everything we can do, only better? Already they can write poetry, resolve an impossible math equation, create ‘improved’ weapons, watch us and even think for us. It won’t be long before Artificial Intelligence checks the tea leaves and decided we aren’t wanted on the voyage any more. I don’t exaggerate, as we read: ‘AI could kill all humans in next decade, warn experts: but how seriously should we take them?’

I have been hoarding recently. Not old bits of cardboard, unread newspapers and empty toothpaste tubes, but stuff which might be useful for when a calamity befalls us.

Cans of sardines, jars of fruit and veg in water, tins of unperishable sustenance made in Eastern Europe, some Nescafé and sugar, a bottle of Butano, a lighter, lots of drinking water and a jug of vodka in case the first people through my front door turn out to be Cossacks.

The thing is it could be anything. Russians or Chinese perhaps (anyone seen Red Dawn?), or a meteorite, or another round of covid – even more dangerous than the last one. 

An American friend of mine bought a cave in Missouri some time ago, turned it into a fortress complete with guns and booby traps (and hopefully something to eat). He emailed me back in 2020 when the pandemic came along with a marvellous line that reads ‘All things considered, I would have preferred zombies’.

Such people as my Yankee friend are called preppers or survivalists – being ready for almost any calamity. In fact, while you are waiting for the Big One, you may want to get yourself into shape and learn how to trap, kill and dress a wild boar, then cook it over a fire (don’t let the neighbours see the smoke!).

The billionaires (who may well be at fault when things eventually go pear-shaped) are said to be building enormous underground bunkers loaded with groceries, guns, oxygen, medical supplies, bimbos and mercenaries. The plan being to, um, start again once the world ends, with the enthusiastic help of the bimbos. The return of Adam with a fistful of Eves. Rather obviously, when the hired-muscle realise that their wages aren’t going to be of any further use, they’ll certainly decide on cutting out their boss and helping themselves to both the girls and the supply of twenty-year-old Scotch.

To prepare ourselves, as above, we need tinned food, plenty of fresh water, a battery radio (so we can pick up Richard over at Spectrum FM), a torch, a few candles, plenty of lavatory paper (it’s hell when you run out) and an AK-47. I’m about there, except for the firearm, but I do keep a knotted sock full of marbles, and if things become hand to hand, there’s some nail-clippers in the drawer.

Well, let’s ask the GoogleAI what else I need: ‘a basic disaster kit’, it says. Don’t forget the medical box (Elastoplasts, Paracetamol and a tongue-depressor), a whistle in case it was an earthquake, some pocket-money (which reminds me, I ran out of cash the other day and had to raid the tin), a power-bank charger for the phone, and finally, in a waterproof bag: the trusty passport and a change of underwear.

I live on a hill across a (normally) dry-river bed. If it fills up, then I will no doubt be OK even if it hasn’t drained three days later. Maybe a bit tired of lunching on tinned rhubarb, but otherwise fine. Unfortunately, most disasters are going to be lasting a lot longer than a panicky weekend, indeed, they may become permanent.

What are the most likely? I ask Wikipedia: it says under ‘Global Catastrophic Risk’, that ‘Human-made risks carry a much higher probability of ending civilization than natural cosmic events’. And very jolly reading it is too. On the same subject, GoogleAI warns of ‘The creation of an artificial superintelligence that outpaces human control and pursues goals not aligned with human survival’. Something like Terminator 2. On this grim possibility, The Guardian says: ‘Lawmakers blast AI companies after researcher warns of human extinction by 2030’. That’s just four years from now!

The GoogleAI disaster-list continues (plus a few of my own) with ‘engineered pandemics’ (maybe I should add a bottle of American Health Secretary Robert Kennedy Jr.'s Ivermectin equine laxative to my store), followed by ‘invasion from a foreign force' - perhaps they'll be robot-soldiers, the kind that never sleep - and worse still: ‘nuclear war and nuclear winter’.

It continues spreading its gloom with ‘rapid climate change’ (and here am I living in Southern Spain where the heat this summer broke records), volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, powerful cyclones, rising sea levels, methane poisoning, el Niño and microplastics.

How about a putsch from one or another of the billionaires (I’m thinking of YOU Elon Musk)? Then there’s the – I have to say – rather unlikely threat of the Rapture, where the most faithful of the evangelicals will ‘rise in the clouds’ while the rest of us are burned by Beelzebub, and finally the surprise arrival of either a huge asteroid or an unexpected attack by a horde of bug-eyed Martians. Frankly, I’m amazed we’ve made it this far.

Living in Spain, there’s also the outside chance of a coup d’état. Unlikely perhaps, but they did it once before. In my opinion, it’s pretty much on the cards right now for the USA.

Really, and after reading my own notes, I should probably go and make myself a nice cup of tea and then have a lie down.

Just in case, and don’t tell my neighbour I’m stockpiling, I might pop round this evening to the local German discount supermarket again and pick up a few more tins of pickled beets.

There’s not really a lot of point to Ceuta and Melilla, Spain’s two inhabited territories in North Africa: fine places as they no doubt must be. Ceuta is small at just 18.5km² and one can walk from one end of Melilla to the other in an hour of so (4kms long, 3kms wide).

Neither of them charge IVA, and furthermore, residents and businesses enjoy massive tax cuts, including a 60% reduction in personal income tax (IRPF) and major corporate tax reliefs. This represents hundreds of millions in tax revenue that Spain willingly forgives every year to keep the cities economically viable.

…and they don’t really produce anything at all, except occasional trouble.

But there are around 170,000 people living in the two enclaves, which have both been Spanish possessions for the last 530 years (Melilla) and 360 years (Ceuta). As Pedro Sánchez says, they are both españolísimo.

Although, for practical reasons, Spain is stuck with two difficult stepchildren that are both a huge financial and political burden.

The total combined economic burden to Spain of Ceuta and Melilla, says Google AI, for the 2025 financial period, including structural maintenance, military operations, and foregone tax revenue, is estimated to be between €1,100 million and €1,500 million. This year, with extra protection, subsidies and defence investment, it will be more.

We remember the virulent reaction of Spain in 2002 to the brief occupation of the deserted Spanish island of Perejil, just 250 metres off the Moroccan coast. Then, and on the other hand, and casting back to a couple of weeks before Franco’s death in 1975, there was King Hassan II’s ‘Green March’ which took the more or less uncontested control of the Spanish Sahara (with Washington’s tacit approval).

In politics, we have the Moroccans claiming the two enclaves (known to them as Sebta and Mellila) for their own. As happened in the last days of July, this claim can sometimes prove to be a major problem, exacerbated (or maybe encouraged) by Donald Trump, Benjamin Netanyahu plus the usual suspects – Feijóo, Abascal and various nazi troublemakers.

Not that the Partido Popular or Vox want to lose the two cities – far from it. But there are political advantages to them both to go in with guns blazing. There were major protests outside every (PP/Vox) town hall in Spain last Wednesday (September 2) against the Government’s admittedly poor handling of the crisis, under the banner of the Federation of Municipalities and Provinces (FEMP), a right-leaning agency. I was in Granada that day and saw a large number of demonstrators heading towards the Plaza del Carmen, the town hall square, with many people wearing Spanish flags wrapped around their shoulders.

Indeed, the Ceuta ‘invasion’ (if I may quote Vox) has proven to be the biggest headache for Pedro Sánchez in this entire, complicated legislature. 

The Moroccans are backing down for the moment, having caused a huge problem – they don’t particularly want a right-wing government in Spain, and Sánchez is firmly not blaming them for the 72,000 that crossed the border on July 31st (no doubt for sound political reasons), yet the fresh threat of Felipe VI visiting Ceuta and Melilla in the coming weeks is certainly not going to be at all acceptable to King Mohammad VI’s government.

So, what is to be done with the 5,000 migrants currently causing problems in Ceuta? Some are Moroccan, some are minors and some are Sub-Saharans. In theory, the Moroccans should be processed before being allowed to stay or to be returned; the 1,200 minors, known dismissively as los menas, should be allowed to stay and sent to refuges on the mainland (although the regional authorities run by the PP don’t want them); while the Sub-Saharans can’t be returned from one foreign country to another foreign country (!), so must be checked before being allowed to stay or to be returned to their homeland. This would be following Spanish and EU law.

The Spanish Supreme Court must come in for some blame over these events, as it ruled in July this year that those crossing a frontier may be returned ‘en caliente’, but those arriving by sea must be processed. A decision that would have been seen among the Moroccan youth as little short of an invitation.

It’s no doubt a lot easier to resolve the problem of 5,000 anxious migrants killing time in Ceuta than the alternative preferred by the Moroccans on the other side of the wall: to remove 170,000 irate Spanish residents to the Peninsular.

Our village fiesta coincides with both the end of August and the day when everybody must pack the car with suitcases, family and a straw donkey and join the caravan heading back to the city. A little bit sunburned, a little lighter in the wallet and a slight headache from that late last-night revelry.

School, work and various obligations call for many if not all our visitors. But there will be some folk, with less encumbrances, to buck the trend and set out for the resorts now in September, knowing that there are fewer crowds and rather better weather.

There were six point nine million vehicles chasing each other home for operación retorno this weekend. The cities fill up, and the resorts – if not now empty – have certainly taken a hit.

Between the swarms of Spanish holidaymakers and the foreign tourists (the INE claims 11.3 million during August), things have been decidedly busy. Employment has been high – even if a lot of those jobs (as everyone who can will have taken a holiday) have been filled by Latin Americans or the few Eastern Europeans who haven’t returned to their countries, considerably wealthier than when they left ten or twenty years ago.

Spain spends a lot on promoting tourism. Google says that Spain invests tens of millions of euros annually on direct international marketing through its official tourism body, Turespaña: with advertising, influencers, national and regional promotions (like ‘Think You Know Spain? Think Again’), the easy call of Sun, Sea and Sangria, plus various international tourist fairs: the giant one in Madrid, Fitur, which is held in January, along with the others in Berlin, London and so on.

Tourism creates lots of jobs, lots of money. Even the destinations themselves will have spent some of their budget on sprucing up the gardens, the streets and beaches. How much is a fully-grown transplanted palm-tree anyway? 

It also creates its own problems. ‘Go Home Tourist’ daubed on the wall, or the locks for the airbnb apartments filled with super-glue. In Palma, or Barcelona or Marbella. Less tourism, more available homes for Spaniards!

In 2024, domestic and international tourism combined accounted for 12.6% of Spain’s GDP, or 200,699 million euros. Tourism generated more than 2.7 million jobs, representing 12.3% of total employment. The international tourist expenditure in 2024 was around 126,000 million euros.

But back in 2020, with the coronavirus, the numbers were very different: In short, tourism, particularly foreign tourism, whether from disease, war or climate, is fickle.

Whereas residential tourism, as the Spanish like to refer to us guiris, is constant. A tourist may have little loyalty to Spain, but we’ve hung our hats here. Like them, our money largely comes from elsewhere. They might spend a few hundred euros on their holidays (how much of that actually reaches Spanish hands?), while we have a house, a car, twelve months of shopping and a new kitchen appliance under our belt. One foreign resident of the expat variety could easily have spent the same in a twelve-month period as a hundred tourists.

Google says that ‘Spain is home to over 1.5 million foreign residents from high-income, Western nations’. Multiply that by one hundred, and we are worth to Spain as much or even more than international tourism.

The figure would be considerably higher if someone fixed the 90/180 rule for non-Europeans, since many foreigners own homes in Spain which they can’t fully enjoy. 

We may not fill the pockets of hoteliers and other powerful lobbyists in the tourist industry, but we bring our money to lawyers, builders, dentists, vets, mechanics and shopkeepers.

I ask, where are the state-sponsored promotions – ‘Come live in Spain: You’ll love it’? And I find the answer with Google AI here: ‘Severe domestic housing crises, inflation, and local backlash have forced a policy split. Governments now actively court tourists for fast economic injections while penalizing foreign homebuyers to protect local real estate markets’, the post contrasts the ‘Red Carpet Treatment’ for tourism from the authorities with a ‘Cold Shoulder’ for settlers.

I don’t believe that we affect the real-estate market as much as is feared, as most of us inactive retired types (at least) prefer to live in small villages in the hinterlands or on the coast rather than in a seventh-floor apartment in Madrid.

We also take pride in our surroundings and rarely stay up until 4.00am – and are almost never sick in the shrubbery on our street.

And when we residents decide on a whim to transform ourselves briefly into tourists, we will stay in Paradors or other nice hotels as we explore little-known regions of Spain, arriving with our (Spanish-bought) car and, at least, a smattering of spoken Spanish.

Spain has recently experienced an intense wave of seismic activity, with over 55 earthquakes hitting the province of Granada in a single day. The strongest tremors reached magnitudes of 4.7 and 4.8 on the Richter Scale. The last time Granada was hit by quakes was in 1955.

The Richter Scale, incidentally, is not linear but exponential. Each whole number increase on the scale (e.g., from 4.0 to 5.0) represents a 10-fold increase in the measured wave size. Thus, an earthquake of magnitude 6.0 has waves 100 times larger than a 4.0 magnitude earthquake.

Spain sits directly above the active collision zone of the African and Eurasian tectonic plates, exposing several regions to notable seismic hazards. Multiple earthquakes, as just occurred in Granada, are known as a swarm. Very frightening they are, too.

According to the seismic data monitored by the Instituto Geográfico Nacional, Spain’s risk is concentrated along five key fault lines:  Andalucía (Granada, Málaga, Almería), Murcia (Lorca region), the Pyrenees (North Border), Galicia and finally, the Canary Islands.

Google AI grimly lists several major destructive earthquakes and notes that they are rare. The 2011 Lorca Earthquake (Magnitude 5.1), struck at an extremely shallow depth, causing severe building collapses, nine fatalities, and hundreds of injuries in the Murcia region, while the 1884 Andalusian Earthquake (Magnitude 6.5) is one of the most destructive in Spanish history, claiming over 800 lives in Granada and Málaga.

Another major strike occurred in Torrevieja, Alicante, back in 1829, with almost 400 reported dead (a computer mock-up scenario of this same earthquake, now centred around a major residential and tourist area, figures a similar event could produce as much at 20,000 dead today).

Going back, there was the Lisbon earthquake. This, perhaps the worst earthquake in the history of the Iberian Peninsula, is dated November 1st, 1755 (All Saints Day) and is estimated at 7.7 in strength. The tremor ‘claimed the lives of tens of thousands of people and opened a profound debate among theologians and philosophers about how God could have allowed such a tragedy’ (it was, after all, a religious holiday). In combination with subsequent fires and a tsunami which reached as far as Huelva and Cádiz, the earthquake almost destroyed Lisbon and adjoining areas. Up to 100,000 lives are thought to have been lost on that fateful day.

My own region of Mojácar and Vera was largely destroyed in an earthquake which occurred on the night of November 9th, 1518.

There had been a series of worrisome tremors occurring that year ever since the middle of June, but nothing to match the final convulsion.

It was a Tuesday, and the earthquake arrived around about midnight. The market-town of Vera was totally destroyed and Mojácar was badly hit. There's an eye-witness account from the then mayor of Mojácar – Iñigo Guevara – who described the collapsed castle in these terms: 'I saw it all fallen in, until the very foundations were visible. There is almost nothing left of the fortress which is so flattened that it appears to have been destroyed by all the artillery of the world'. A report from the time says that almost a third of the eighty homes which made up Mojácar had collapsed. Another report says that the clergy were frightened to give Mass in the church due to its state. It says in the original:  "En la dicha villa de Moxacar no se dize misa a causa que los clerigos no osan entrar a dezir misa a la yglesia porque esta para caerse a causa del terremoto que agora hizo”. A little over a dozen people died in Mojácar because of the earthquake. In Vera, the death-toll reached 150.

Just four years later, in 1522, Almería City was almost completely destroyed in another major quake, with at least 2,500 deaths. Those modest numbers, if ‘una terremoto’ of a similar size visited us today, could easily be much higher.

‘We are waiting’, says one newspaper, ‘…for the next major earthquake in Spain: “The clock is ticking and we’re not prepared”. They can’t put a date on it, but some geologists believe we’re in “extra time” for a repeat of an earthquake as destructive as those that shook the peninsula more than a century ago. They also warn that regulations are outdated and fail to consider the worst-case scenario’.

Which reminds me, next week I shall be in Granada, staying with my in-laws. I doubt I’ll get much sleep.

August 15th was the national Assumption holiday. A good excuse for a party if ever there was one. The Assumption itself is a little obscure – it’s the belief that the Virgin Mary was taken body and soul into heaven at the end of her life without her body decaying on Earth. The rest of us can only raise a glass to this excellent news, so we do.

Many cities and towns in Spain have their fiestas patronales in the second half of August, coincidentally when the holidays are at their height. Málaga has its fair along with Bilbao, Vitoria, San Sebastián, Almería and many others. If the festival is based on a saint’s day, which it is, it would be churlish of the City Fathers not to spread it across a couple of days, or a week maybe – or perhaps even longer. A quick procession and a Holy Mass by all means, but then some fireworks, speechifying, a mini-marathon, some pop concerts, exhibitions, horse and carriage stuff, perhaps some bullfights, a magic show for the kids, late night dancing and plenty of bunting in the main square.

Seriously though, you can’t fit that all into one day, can you?

There are some standout festivals going on, including the one where everyone throws tomatoes at each other in Buñuel (Valencia) on August 26, the Festa Major de Gràcia in Barcelona (current) and our own modest fiesta here in my pueblo in celebration of San Agustín de Hipona (who no one has ever heard of) on August 28th. Now, that’s a Friday, so we have lengthened the revelry (jolgorio in Spanish) to cover the weekend, plus the two preceding days, giving us in all five sublime days and noisy nights.

This sees us comfortably through to August 30th, which in happier times would mean the end of the hols and the beaches reopened once again for those of us who consider ourselves residents.

September, unfortunately, no longer means ‘they’ve all gone, three cheers!’. But the weather at least is slightly cooler, so we may be feeling a fraction more generous towards our visitors.

You can’t have a santo in a Spanish pueblo without a santa – usually but not always la Virgen María. Our own – celebrated (a trifle less noisily than the August thrash) – is la Virgen del Rosario on October 7th (where the Spanish army prayed for victory in 1571 to the Virgen María against the Ottomans). There’ll be a picnic (una romería) in the countryside plus some events down at the Barrio de la Fuente.

A local fiesta should, and I think that the clue is in the name, be for the local folk. These days, there are so many visitors (all clutching their telephone cameras) that we tend to get pushed to the back. The free paella gets gobbled by people from Madrid or München, the tin-bar in the square has run out of sausages, the carpark is full and I must walk half a mile to get to the bus stop. The local businesses (including the disturbingly large number of souvenir shops – let me ask you this: when was the last time you bought a keepsake in your own pueblo?) – are making out like bandits, and meanwhile the cops are stopping the live music in the foreign bars along the beach at 7.30pm.

In short, the fiestas are a time for dressing up, eating sticky buns (with care), dancing in the village square and taking lots of selfies.

Once it’s over, there are others not so far away. You’ll hear their thunder-flashes at night.

I’ll have to check my engagements, but our local market town of Vera has theirs, (San Cleofás – never heard of him either) in just a few weeks from now.

There apparently aren’t enough homes in Spain for all of us, and thus we must read the daily scare-stories of the okupas, of frustrated house-hunters, of those poor souls renting (or even buying) just a single room, or living in a caravan or a car, or I suppose, slumped somewhere on a park-bench with a few plastic bags of possessions.

We also know full well that there are plenty of empty houses, abandoned blocks, rotting urbanisations and so on (we see them every day), but not perhaps located precisely where we want to live, or even if we did, the town hall, the regional authority, the owner or even perhaps some squabbling inheritors have ruled that the place must stay empty for whatever reason there might be. Usually of course it’s to do with greed.

Some owners of a perfectly usable block of apartments – these things happen – might leave them empty or unsold for speculative reasons. Sooner or later, thanks to demand, they know that the price will go up.

There might be empty business premises which could be turned into residential housing. Sometimes, although rarely, they are. Many downstairs spaces were originally planned as shops or bars or hairdressers – but no one came forward, and so they got bricked up and covered with graffiti.

The main problem in Spain – or anywhere else – is location. An ambitious young lawyer or accountant wants to live in Madrid, not in Sigüenza (as beautiful as it may be). A dentist or a banker would prefer Barcelona to Cuenca and the best discotheques, restaurants and museums are not necessarily in Teruel.

Or Tossa del Mar. Good beaches though.

But now there’s a new system coming from the USA, which never misses a trick when it comes to screwing money out of the less fortunate. You may be one of those who live in the sticks to save on city-rentals while you practice teleworking. Hunched over the computer each day while wearing nothing more than a tee-shirt with the cat and a cold Martini both waiting for your undivided attention. Rather like I’m doing now.

It seems that clever landlords are charging extra rent if you do that. An apartment is just for sleeping in, showering and watching Netflix. Working from your couch is apparently ratable.

There are more homes in Spain than we like to imagine, although not all are located within the boundary of the M-30. Google says there are 27 million dwellings in España and with 49,700,000 people living here: which works out at a little less than two people to a home.

Whether this figure refers only to functional residences or anything which vaguely has a roof is unclear. 

There are those, of course, who have two homes. The usual residence in – probably – the city and then a second one, that has either belonged to the family for ages and can be found in some forgotten pueblo and is availed of during August, or perhaps an apartment near the beach. The second option being preferable to the young’uns.

I buck the trend by living alone. You can blame me for all the panic stories listed at the beginning of this essay. But, while I’m alone, I’m not alone, since there are 5.6 million of us. A whopping 28% of all dwellings in the country are unipersonal. Shopping for one.

Well, we could get together, maybe on a Facebook chat, and share and loosen up some property. However, says Infobae, ‘A study suggests that splitting an apartment with people with whom you don't share a romantic relationship has worse consequences for mental health than living alone and not having a partner’.

Right now, what with all the visitors making whoopie and making it largely impossible to go out either for supplies or for a gargle, I’ve been staying home and reading.

There are just a few more weeks of this summer frolic to go. Then, once my hibernation is over (the correct word apparently is ‘aestivation’), and the fiestas patronales just a noisy memory and a sticky taste, and when I can park the car in the village rather than having to take the bus, then I'll be able to go out once again and see my friends. Come the end of the evening, I'll head for home, glad to be living alone with my books and my cat.

Updated: Sunday.

All a bit odd – on Thursday morning a large number of apparently young men crossed the bay into Ceuta from Morocco. Bussed to their departure point by the gendarmerie and with the Moroccan border guards all away from their posts. They swam or crossed the rocky boundary into the Spanish enclave and – while there was no chance of them making their way to the Spanish mainland (or to the United Kingdom as faragistas would have us believe) – they milled around in the autonomous city until they had mostly returned, hungry, to Morocco by Saturday morning.

In all, some sixty thousand of them – creating a stink that could be heard around the world.

Around 67 are reported to have drowned in the exercise (and I wonder who lost sleep over that particular tragedy?), and it was noticeable that none of them brought so much as a change of clothes.One who drowned was a player for the Tetuan Women's Football Club, Faten Ben Omar El Azizi. Say her name out loud!

Later (Sunday), the Spanish authorities upped the figure to 72 dead and a massive 73,500 returned to Morocco.  

Why did this suddenly occur?

Could Spain’s recent deal with Algeria to import more gas have been the spark (excuse the pun)? Morocco and Algeria are historic enemies.

And what about Netanyahu’s son working to raise the Moroccans against the Spanish enclaves of Melilla and Ceuta? Indeed, here's the Israeli ambassador to the UN: 'Maybe before it continues lecturing us, it’s time it explained to the world why it still maintains colonial enclaves in Africa' (Israel indignant about colonies!).

Or perhaps Donald Trump, annoyed with Pedro Sánchez, along with Benjamin Netanyahu – both firm allies of Mohammed VI – could have hatched a plot.

The Guardian suggests that the Russians were in on it too: 'Russia-linked accounts spread far-right narrative online during Ceuta migration crisis, analysis finds Counter-disinformation group says social media channels connected to Pravda network helped amplify message'. But the Chinese (says El Mundo) are casting the blame for the operation on Mossad.

The ‘invasion’ played into the hands of the Spanish right-wing: Feijóo and Abascal both. The pair of them quickly arrived in Ceuta to be a nuisance, and they were joined by the -even further right- Alvise Pérez who was booed and hounded by the Ceuta residents, eventually being escorted to safety by the police. 

As long as events of this type are considered as ‘grey’, deniable and unfortunate, then they will continue – and who is to say that Melilla and Ceuta (and their 170,000 Spanish inhabitants) aren’t a justifiable target?

But now it’s over (except for a certain excitement led by the Italians), and the Spanish media can turn to other subjects; like forest fires, August holidays and Ayuso’s roof apartments scandal.