Metamorphosis of a blog

I started this blog less than a year ago.

As the title suggests - or at least is meant to suggest - it is about me deciding to do something different with my life when I got to 40.

About some of my adventures travelling, my trip on the way down here from the UK, our adventures renting a horrible villa, trying to buy a property in Spain, camping out in a finca with no running water (hence no toilet or bathroom at all), travelling round Spain and Portugal and camping in winter, and the sort of things that start to happen to you at 40. Like your parents dying, deciding what sort of life you want to lead - and knowing there is no going back, well maybe there is but I don't think there is for me. Setting different goals rather than rushing into the office, clambering up the ladder for as high a position as possible and the nice salary and the horrific stress that goes with it.

So far, the only serious posts I have written have been:

Agua de Valencia - about my 40th birthday

The villa from hell about the aforementioned horrible, truly truly stressful - and life-threatening villa

and more recently

My father about the last time I saw my father.

Three serious posts out of 115. The naughty blog has insidiously taken over.

I have ended up writing about my life here in Spain - and since we bought a flat in Gib, life in Gib too. The antics of my neighbours, and some of our off-the-wall conversations here in Spain. Our exciting and resourceful life rescuing bikes out of skips and repairing them.

I have even written about cooking. Is that adventurous? No.

But, I can just about handle writing this sort of stuff, because at least it all gives a relatively honest picture of this Englishwoman living abroad.

I wrote about the Land Rover and swore I would never start a separate Landy blog, after all I was already writing the dog's blog for him. The Land Rovers won, and they too have their own blog or they would have started to dominate this one.

But the straw that broke the camel's back was My 100. I have written 100 things about me. How egotistical is that? It is not British to write 100 things about oneself. Especially on a blog that is not about what I think or feel or did before the age of 40. I am mortified and embarrassed. This blog has a very clear brief, or at least it has in my head, and it is not sticking to it.

So I now have a secret blog. No clicky linky thingies on the sidebar. Even Partner has said he doesn't want the url.

What I think, what I did when I was younger, drivelly stuff like my wedding in Sydney, university, career, friends, family, obnoxious work mates - all the usual sort of stuff - that will be on there. Not here. By which I mean if I feel like writing it up at all I will put it on my secret blog.

There probably won't be much about politics as I find politics too irritating to even consider discussing rationally, and there is highly unlikely to be much about religion. There will be something about my interests. And there will also be some swearing. Not a lot but sometimes I think it is appropriate.

I don't want to offend anyone who visits here - so if you think you want to read any of this stuff, have another read of My 100 and decide if you really want to read the life and opinions of a 40-something non-smoking, vegetarian, left-wing, environmentalist, agnostic, self-opinionated feminist who writes far too many blogs. If so, let me know. I might send you the url.

Oh, and I'm going to take the 100 things down after a few days. It's already on the other blog - where it belongs.

ETA: The 100 has now gone - if you haven't read it you were too slow

Enjoying ill-health - Spanish style

"Catalina, Catalina!" called José today.

Partner went out on the assumption that he is a man and therefore José was calling for him although his name sounds nothing like Catalina.

I went out too, and José gave me some more huge fresh lemons. We obviously haven't outstayed our welcome yet.

Anyway, I digress. The other day, Partner had cycled into town, José had gone for his paseo (walk) with his mates, so there was just me and Pippa and Adelina and Lassie (if a Spanish dog has a name, it is invariably an English one).

"¿Come estas?" I asked, thinking it was time I improved my Spanish which has deteriorated a bit while we have been in Gib, even though I try to keep up to it in the street, shops and bus. Naturally asking how someone is here guarantees a loooooong conversation, or at least a long monologue. All I have to say is "Ahh," and "Si," accompanied with a long, sad, and sympathetic face. I knew I would be in for the duration though.

Adelina's first response was "Me duele todo/mucho el cuerpo." That's what she invariably says. I suppose it literally translates to my whole body hurts so much. I would probably say, I'm in agony. It's usually her back. Sometimes it's her chest. Occasionally her legs. Or she just feels flojo (weak and feeble).

She'd been to the hospital. She'd had radiography before we came back so she had been for the results. They were recommending an operation for a 78-year-old woman with osteoporosis, and a problem at the base of her spine.

Sensibly (in my opinion) she had declined. "Me da miedo," she added. (Translates as "I'm frightened" - quite right too sweetheart, I'm not 78 and I wouldn't fancy that sort of stuff either.) So they gave her some tablets. Vitamin D and calcium.

She reckons it's because when she was young she was mal-nourished. Who knows? She worked in the fields as a very young girl, can't read and write (except her name), and often the family just cooked what they grew. She said for ages she lived on the beans they grew because they couldn't afford to buy anything.

Maybe she has bought into the mega milk and cheese advertising that now goes on here, and thinks she was deprived of it. It's ironic when in the UK, the so-called Mediterranean diet is touted as being so healthy (ie little meat and dairy produce, more fish, loads of fresh vegetables and salad).

Advertising and media have a lot to answer for. Edited to add: Big business has a lot to answer for. Not that it ever will.

She also had to go down to the water tap, and carry heavy containers of water back to the house. It seems to me that she had a lot of physical work to do at a young age, and maybe did or didn't get enough food. Can't say.

Sometimes she is mareada (dizzy). A lot of Spaniards suffer this when the wind comes from the wrong direction. It sounds like something out of Mary Poppins but I joke not.

Then she told me about her grandson who had been admitted urgently with appendicitis - so much of the family had been meeting up at the hospital. The grandson had been discharged so he was ok. I proudly showed her my scar, and talked about my gangrene. I can't usually add much to these conversations so this was a big moment for me. She acknowledged my scar graciously. We returned to other mundane health issues.

In winter everyone goes shooting off down to the medico (doctor), to get their 'flu jab, and then later when they still get 'flu anyway, they go for tablets.

We saw another neighbour - José Antonio - the day before yesterday. He was off to the the medico to collect medicines for his parents.

It's obviously quite a social event down at the medico's, although not something in which we participate. I think the older Spanish spent so long without an NHS under Franco that they still love the novelty value of being able to wander down, and get seen, and get treated for free.

Anyway Adelina is a great creaking gate, and I am fond of her. She has a wicked sense of humour in spite of all her ailments.

Oh, and the pictures? Just that we had peas yesterday, lots of them. Yummy. With fresh onions, carrots, parsley, lettuce, garlic, olive oil and a drop of (bottled) water.

Artichoke salad

When we're in Spain we tend to eat Spanish style, ie late lunch at 2-4pm which is our main meal of the day, and a light supper at 8-9pm.

The evening meal is normally a salad, even in winter. The odd exception is a clear soup. Of which more later - in another post.

Alcachofas, artichokes, artichauts, carciofi

Onto the salads. In La Axarquía, where we live, fresh artichokes are available almost all year round. They are a bit of a pain towards the end of the season, because the chokes are too furry, but normally they are great.

A few years ago, one of our neighbours - not an immediate neighbour but one who considers us a neighbour because we live in the old part of the village, or maybe because he has got used to us, anyway, whatever - Pepe walked up to us one day after he had been harvesting artichokes. And gave us nine. What the hell do you do with nine fresh artichokes?

So I promptly looked up some recipes in one of my old books. "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" by Simone Beck, Louisette Bertholle, and Julia Child, is one of my very favourite cook books. No glossy pictures to pay for, but great diagrams, and great explanations.

Under the vegetable section, there are appropriate sauces listed for each veg. And for cold artichokes, among others, it recommends Sauce Moutarde.

So, here is the sauce directly out of the book.

2tbl prepared French mustard - for me there is only one. Grey Poupon.
3tbl boiling water

Rinse a small mixing bowl in hot water. Add the mustard and beat with a wire whisk, adding the water by drops.

⅛ to ¼ pt olive oil or salad oil

Again, drop by drop, beat in the olive oil to make a thick, creamy sauce.

Salt and pepper
Lemon juice
1 to 2 tbl parsley or chopped fresh green herbs

Beat in salt, pepper, and lemon juice to taste. Then beat in the herbs.

These days I don't make the sauce quite like that. Mainly because when I don't have the book in front of me, I forget about the boiling water - BUT - it does give a good consistency.

I use a pestle and mortar to make the dressing because I can start by crushing rock salt and peppercorns, and if I want, I can also add garlic at the initial stage too, (say one clove) to turn it into a paste. Then add the mustard, and more or less follow the recipe. Adding the hot water just gives a different consistency. Instead, or as well as lemon juice, you can also add wine vinegar, or a more flavoured and stronger vinegar such as Vinagre de Jerez or balsamic vinegar (too sweet for our taste - but if you like it, fine). But not much as you will be putting some onto the cooked artichokes later. As for oil, I use a local extra virgin olive oil from Periana. I wouldn't use anything else, but if you like a milder taste, you might want to use sunflower oil.

There are some fancy ways to prepare artichokes but basically unless you have bought VERY FRESH artichokes they are all a waste of time. They need to smell oily, even when you pick them up. They need to look fresh and not remotely tired. They are great if they have that super purple tinge.



To prepare them, the essence is speed, so then they don't discolour. Chop off the stalk, leaving a small amount (it is quite tasty), and then take off the outer leaves quickly with a sharp knife. Just go round the vegetable almost like a spiral staircase.



When you have got rid of the tough ones, you are ready. Sometimes I think I take off more than I need to, but it saves getting chewy leaves later on. Then chop off the top third or so. If they are large, chop them in half. And - if the chokes are large and furry, take them out. If there is hardly any choke, it's not worth the effort. I have tried putting lemon juice or vinegar on the exposed edges of the raw veg but I don't think it makes any difference. But do not leave them sitting around.



Put them immediately in boiling (or nearly boiling if you aren't that organised) water with a load of vinegar or lemon juice. If you have chopped them in half, putting them face down saves them going black/grey.

They are ready when a knife goes through them, without them falling apart.

Take them out, say with a draining spoon and put them in a bowl to cool. Add more vinegar to preserve the colour. I forgot to say, you need to like vinegar (and mustard) for this recipe.

When they have cooled slice them thinly so they are easy to eat. Put them in a presentation dish, and add the Sauce Moutarde, mixing well in, but leaving some herbs on top for presentation.

No, this is not the presentation dish, because it was for us....


It has taken longer to write this than it does to make the salad. They keep in the fridge and can be added to casseroles or paella or whatever. As a salad it is just as good the next day.

We tend to eat it with a mixed green salad, tomato, cucumber, olives, fresh onions, and parsley from the garden. Sometimes fresh broad beans go well, and tonight I am adding some blanched cauliflower.

Ironically, although they are grown round here, we have never seen fresh ones on the menu at restaurants, you only ever get tinned artichokes in a salad or on a pizza. Similarly my neighbour also uses tinned ones in salad, and when she buys fresh ones (rarely) they end up in a bean casserole.

They are incredibly good for you. They contain minerals, especially phosphorus, potassium and iron. They are also great for fibre, citric and malic acid, and enzymes which help to break down protein. They are also, apparently good for your liver and gall bladder.

I forgot to mention what to drink with them. "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" says that 'most wine authorities agree that water should be served with them rather than wine, for wine changes its character when drunk with this vegetable. But, if you insist, serve a strong, dry, chilled white wine such as a Mâcon, or a chilled and characterful rosé such as a Tavel.'

My Spanish recipe book says - to cut the translation short - that artichokes make white wine taste bad. Instead you should serve cava with them. I tend to follow this recommendation.

Here endeth the lesson on alcachofas. An acquired taste, but worth the effort.

The extranjero returns - absence makes the heart grow fonder

Well, the three of us have finally arrived back at the finca.

Since Partner decided to get himself A Job, he and the dog have not been out of Gib.

Anyone who reads this blog from time to time will know that I, on the other hand, have been leading an adventurous life on buses between La Linea and Málaga, on my regular trips to check the finca, feed the chickens, water the garden and collect the post. Oh, and I got to sleep in a proper bed which is more than we have in Gib.



On the first day back, Partner took some teabags from Gib round to some English friends. He managed to avoid anyone Spanish.

The next day was unbelievable. José next door hollered for Partner. Beaming all over his face he proudly handed over half a dozen huge lemons and clasped Partner as though he was his long-lost son. (Actually he doesn't see his son very often, not only does he not live in the same street, he doesn't even live in the same village). I thought it was so sweet that he felt he had to give Partner a present because he hadn't seen him for so long.

"Me alegro. Cuanto tiempo," said José, still shaking Partner's hand vigorously. Much Feliz Año Nuevos were then exchanged, followed by "How skinny you are with all that work."

A bit later Adelina came out. The same procedure, except she got kisses, and the same conversation. Nobody told me I was skinny, probably because I have put on weight over the last few months.

We started to fiddle about with the Land Rover in the street. The neighbour two houses up (José and Adelina's son-in-law) waved and tooted. Half the time they pretend we don't exist.

The bread delivery man drove up. We used to get bread from Manolo when we first arrived, but then I started to make my own so we haven't bought from him since. But he never fails to wave and smile, and he is a nice guy. So he slowed right down, and his arm was out of the window to shake hands and have a chat.

Juan the Gitano, the one who gave us the cockerel back in April drove past on his quad. And stopped. More "Me alegro de verte. Where have you been? I've missed you. But if you need money you need to work where you can. Hasta luego."

Tia Negra walked past. When we first arrived she had black hair and she is the auntie of one of the neighbours, hence the name we gave her. Auntie Black Hair. She stuck her hand out too. "Como estas? Me alegro. Feliz Año Nuevo."

Today he cycled into town. He went to the veg shop. The owner put her hand out straightaway. "Hijo, te echado de menos. Donde estabas?" "Well, I've been working in Gib," he answered. The (Spanish) guy behind nearly fell on the floor. "Well, where is he from?" he asked the shop owner.

"He lives in my pueblo," she said proudly. "He is a buen constructor, pintor, mecanico, he is a very good worker."

He bought some beautiful peas, artichokes, pimientos, tomatoes, green onions, and a couple of cucumbers. Almost all of the stuff is grown locally. It's interesting to compare the difference with the veg I buy in Gib. I think it is much fresher here.

The old guy in the bike shop repeated the whole scenario. Handshake, Happy New Year, and I've missed you.

Then he went to a bar. Joachim naturally shook hands and asked where on earth Partner had been. He speaks good English, and French, but given that we live in Spain we always speak to him in Spanish. He goes by the name of Jack to most people, so one day we asked him what his real name was, and he always looks so pleased that we call him Joachim, and speak in Spanish. There was a Spaniard in the bar, he's about 80 odd and has an andador - a walking frame. His eyesight is going, but he obviously remembered Partner's rubbish accent. More hand-shaking and Feliz Año Nuevo with Antonio.

The English owner had been worried. She had rung us on our Spanish number a few times to find out if we were ok. "I've missed you," she said, exactly like all the Spaniards.

And, on his return home from town, he has seen both of next-doors' daughters. More kisses, hand-shakes, and chat.

Now I can understand people with a business missing the trade (having had a business ourselves), but all these people in the village being so pleased to see him? We haven't even met the dog-biscuit man and his sons, or José Antonio who works in the fields and lives up the back. If we went back to the city in the UK where we lived for ten years, we wouldn't get any of this. Spain. We like it. So does the dog.

Lavadora problems

Ahhhh washing machines. When we bought our first house, of all the white goods I wanted, the first was a washing machine. I decided it was the most essential of all. We had a camping stove and as it was only April, a fridge wasn't essential.

I have never, but never, been any good at hand-washing. A friend of mine at university used to wash large bath towels BY HAND! Can you imagine washing a huge bath towel in a small sink in your bedroom in university hall of residence?

No. Well, I can't. Still don't know how she managed it. So for me, a washing machine has always been a priority.

When we bought the Gibflat it was full of the previous owner's rubbish. Tat furniture and crappy white goods. Why move them out when they are past it and you can leave them behind for someone else to suffer or shift?

So we advertised the two beds and sofa as free to collect. And to the guy who collected them, we sold him the microwave at £10. OK it was pretty cheap but at least we didn't have to shift a large sofa, a double bed and a single bed.

Another guy came for the washing machine that we sold for £15. It worked but it was pretty grotty, and I had one in storage with all the rest of the stuff from my mum's house.

The door on my mum's washing machine had been a bit iffy, but eventually it just refused to open. The last time involved taking off the top and fiddling around to try and open the door from the inside. I didn't feel like Partner electrocuting himself because I was too mean to buy a new washing machine. And it wasn't washing stuff properly either.

So it was time for a new one. I toyed between the cheaper Zanussi and the dearer AEG. Most of our appliances recently have been AEG. But I didn't like the look of this one. It had some naff silver grey bling stuff and I knew it would offend me so I went for the Zanussi. I've learned from much experience to buy as simple as possible. Avoid electronics at all costs.

It worked a treat. I bought it at the end of September and it packed up at the beginning of December. Gloom.

Tried it again on the Wednesday just to make sure. No, not having a bar of it. Went to the shop on Thursday. The repair man wasn't in and he was booked up for Friday. He didn't work Saturdays. He might ring me Monday. He didn't. Apparently he forgot. Lo and behold he rang saying he would turn up on Tuesday lunchtime. He did.

Once he'd diagnosed the problem he told Supervising Partner that he wouldn't be able to get the bit until the day after.

"Non, non, non, non, non," said Assertive Partner in Spanish, because the repair man comes from La Linea.

"Yo quiero hoy," he added.

So the guy agreed to come back in the afternoon with the bit. Which he did good as gold and it worked again.

Three weeks later it packed up again. More gloom. Especially when we had a load of dirty washing piled up.

Plumbing Partner changed the pipework in case it was a problem with the waste. It wasn't. He figured it was the same problem as before, and that the electrical connections underneath had come loose.

Not much point doing it yourself when it is under guarantee, much as we really needed to wash some clothes. If we need to complain about the machine being unfit for purpose, or whatever the phrase is, then best to have every fault registered.

So on Saturday, I wandered down to the shop again. Eventually. And of course, they had shut at lunchtime and by the time I got down there it was too late. The veg shop had shut too. I waited for the onslaught when I got in, but Partner just laughed.

I decided to walk down today when I went to the veg shop. Partner rolled his eyes and suggested I ring. I decided he was right. It would be well late before I walked down Main Street so I rang.

Not long after my call, Pepe rang. He was on his way. And in half an hour he had sorted it. We are all happy again. All the dirty clothes are being washed on a nice hot 60 degree wash. (All the ones that were damp because I tried to wash them two days ago and they were starting to smell horrid).

I can't believe how difficult life is without a washing machine.

University friends - and their children

I have three university friends that I still see. Three is not accurate, I have four, two are married to each other. But I don't know that I would be in touch with him if I did not see her, ....more to follow on this couple.

With two of these friends, I did the same degree, and with two of them, I shared the same hall of residence for two years. They all live and work in the south-east of the UK now, ie London and the home counties. They are, to all intents and purposes, "comfortably-off, successful, happy families". We have all been married for a similar length of time, ie more than 20 years. They all have two children, one of each, naturally.

So Friend A, ie the married couple. When I had business trips to London, I would invariably stay with them. It was a great opportunity to catch up - it cost the firm less (no hotel fees), and I got a small allowance that I could use to buy them a present or put towards a meal out. Often we never went out, it would be a meal at their lovely home. Usually better when he cooked tbh.

Once, she was in hospital overnight at the time of one of my visits, and her husband and I sat up merrily drinking red wine, well into the second bottle. I don't even think my presentation the next day suffered. He is a great guy and I really like him, which is why I would be sorry if I lost touch with her. I am not sure he would keep in touch with me, even though we went to the same university, shared the same hall of residence, I was a bridesmaid at their wedding, we went to his very chic 40th birthday party....it has always felt like the main contact has been her.

Anyway, in her 30s, Friend A finally had a son. A couple of years later the daughter followed. A cutie. I guess her mother must have been similar. We spent a New Year's Day at my friend's parents and I played with this tiny little girl who was crawling on the floor. I had a fun time.

A few years later, the toddler had grown up enough to want to climb up the Land Rover and onto the roof. "Help me," she said assertively. "No," we all said. "When you can get up there yourself, you will be much safer." Of course, the little monkey climbed right up. She took after her tough mother, although I didn't realise it at the time.

Suddenly this blond ringleted girl started growing up. On one of my last business trips to stay with them she had a hamster. Mum and Dad were out at squash or pilates or something and I was in the house with the two kids. We played with the hamster, she wanted to drag the cat from under the bed and play with that too, but s/he was pretty old and I drew the line at that. Let sleeping cats lie. We painted glitter polish on our nails. Hmmm, don't know how that went down at the meeting the following day. She was great company.

Friend B has children of a not dissimilar age. He got married when I was abroad so I didn't get to his wedding. I met his wife not long after we returned to the UK. We all went into journalism after university, so there was something in common immediately. I've always liked this guy, he has been a great friend and never failed to keep in touch. I've stayed with him at his parents' previous house, but never stayed with him and his wife in London.

Last time I went to the UK, I decided I really should make the effort. "Of course you can stay," he said, despite the fact I had not seen him for zillions of years. He met me at the tube station, and said "I recognised you straightaway." As I did him. He was always quite dark and good-looking, and to me, he really had not changed much.

We walked to his detached four-bed house, with large garden. Good one, bro. I am so pleased for you that you have got somewhere in a competitive and difficult industry. His wife was as charming as ever, and did all the cooking while we prattled on aimlessly. After dinner we - obviously - swapped stories about university friends, and looked at old photos, including their wedding ones which I had never seen.

Their daughter is in her late teens. It was the first time I had met her. Super, very confident, and a lovely face. The son had decided to clear off to do other things. But the daughter, like the one of Friend A, was great company. Older, but quite happy to spend Saturday evening chatting with one of dad's university friends. We talked a lot about what she wanted to do, and which university she was going to choose. Things that are mega-important at that age.

Friend C has younger children. I met up with him again on the same trip. I got the same response - "Of course you can stay" and when we missed each other at busy Euston on a Friday evening he rang me on his mobile. Whereupon he said promptly "I can see you. Stay right there." And like Friend B, he looked pretty much the same too, a few years older, but instantly recognisable, and also just as good-looking as when we were at university together.

We did the same degree together (with Friend A). On one of my London trips I stayed with him and his girlfriend. Some years later, Partner and I went to their huge wedding. We kept in touch but apart from a couple of brief meets at Friend A's home, we didn't see each other.

His wife met us at the railway station - it was pouring with rain - and off we went home. Funnily enough, they lived about 15 miles away from where we had our first house, north of London. They had a lovely dreamy Victorian house and a gorgeous garden with superb views of the rolling hills.

Their children were younger than those of my other friends, can't remember how old but nowhere near double figures. What I really remember was sharing a Saturday family breakfast with them - lots of pots of fresh coffee, fruit juice, fresh mango, croissants and pains chocolate, crumpets ....mmmm....... a weekend family treat.

I spent Friday night and most of Saturday with them, it wasn't planned, it just happened that way. I'd never really had chance to talk to Friend C's wife much before and, as we both come from Yorkshire, we swapped stories of our similar upbringings.

Walking by the Grand Union Canal on Saturday


All my friends appear to have these amazing children. Interesting, well-behaved, polite, friendly, articulate and intelligent. In every family, the children were treated as equals. Maybe things are different when I'm not visiting, but there was no feeling of "Go and be quiet in the corner" as Friend C's wife and I exchanged about our childhood.

I've never been interested in the idea of having children. Nine months of wandering round like a bloated water-melon followed by x hours of agony and years of responsibility just never did it for me. People would say to Partner that he would make a great dad, whereupon he nearly puked. Nobody ever told me I would make a great mum.

I never felt old enough or responsible enough to be a mother. A couple of work colleagues had children in their mid-late thirties, and I vaguely thought for about 30 seconds - Perhaps I could manage that now - and then gave it no more thought.

But I do admire my university friends. They all seem to have brought up nice children, they treat them as individuals, and with respect. The children are an integral part of the family and also happy to be polite to mummy/daddy's old friend.

Wow! I just could not, ever, in my life have done that.

Old year, new year

As it's still only a few days into 2008 I figure I can just about get away with a quick review of last year. A strange year - but increasingly they all seem to be strange as I get older.

At the beginning of the year we put in an offer on a flat in Gibraltar. It was a reasonable size, (2-beds) fairly tidy, and central. To me, apart from the fact that it was fairly tidy (I don't like to buy squeaky clean homes), the big disadvantage was the lack of natural light. Anyway, Decorating Partner was entranced with the idea of buying a flat where he did not immediately have to whip out the paintbrushes.

The offer was accepted and all went well. Actually nothing really happened at all. I double-checked we could take the dog, yes, so sat back and waited. And then, suddenly, one of the neighbours apparently decided to object to the dog. It fell through. Who knows what really happened? Anyway, we are obviously not destined to buy squeaky clean houses.

So then we put in an offer on a grotty place with disgusting coloured walls and it was accepted. For some strange reason it took until April to go through, but then we were in. February and March have faded into oblivion as a sort of limbo where we were just waiting for completion on the flat. Although I did start blogging in March.

In May Partner went down to get rid of the vile colours and transform it into a nice white flat. Small flats do not look good in yuk orange and bright blue. Some friends, who holiday in Spain every year, came out for their customary four or five weeks and came to see me while Partner was in Gib.

It was good to see them, but the dog was a bit out of sorts with the excitement and after they had gone he promptly vomited on the sofa. I changed the throws and put the dirty one to wash. He then did it AGAIN. Agh!

I took him out for a walk, by this time we were obviously both stressed. And the inevitable happened. He spotted a nice black cat sitting in the grass and decided to go for it. Without telling me. I ended up full length on the grass as he finally managed to yank the lead from round my wrist and arm. (Purposely wound round to stop him chasing after cats). I got up and brushed off my trousers. My arm felt like every tendon and joint from shoulder to fingertips had been pulled apart. Still, I couldn't see any bones sticking out. The dog walked back towards me and we went back home. I got in the bath and thought I would see how it went. It hurt. A lot.

It took me until about September before I really started to be able to carry any weight and get some flexibility back into my fingers. Oddly enough I can type pretty much as fast as before, but my writing is worse than ever. I never went to hospital (spent too long working for the health service) so I don't know what, if anything they would have done that I didn't do. It was a pain because I had to stop cycling - couldn't grip the handlebar - but I take a break in summer anyway because it is just too hot for me to cycle in July and August. But I have felt pretty unfit because of that.

We flitted between the new flat and the finca, but spent most of our time in Spain. We came down in August and Partner decided to stay a bit longer. I went back to feed the chickens, and he got himself a job. So then our pattern changed and we have been in Gib most of the time, with me going back regularly to the finca at weekends.

Partner has watched lots of the ceremonial parades in Gib - The Royal Gibraltar Regiment marching through the city, Trafalgar Day, Armistice Day/Remembrance Sunday, and we both enjoyed National Day.

National Day


I tried to go to a concert but it was cancelled so I lost enthusiasm for concerts after that. I do go to the art exhibitions held at the John Mackintosh Hall - after all, it is only across the road.

I've taken a tour of the Alameda Gardens (which I wrote about here), and one with the Heritage Society of which we are both members. Post to come later on that one, it was really interesting.

Since November, one or both of us has had one of those vile 'flu/chest infections, where you can't cough without feeling you are going to split your ribs or your stomach. Not a bad year for major health problems, but not a brill year.

As the end of the year drew nearer I got more and more edgy. Five years ago, my father died. The following year my mother died. The next year it was the turn of Paddy, my adorable 15-year-old cross-setter/lab, the only dog who has ever listened to me. Finally, Prince, our cranky and independent GSD died the year after.

Paddy on the left, Prince on the right


All our ties with the UK were cut. And there was only me, Partner, and the rescued cat-chasing Spanish streetdog left. Who was going to die in 2007? I seriously wondered if the three of us would make the year out. But we did, even if Partner is full of 'flu right now.

So, a year of new property investment, niggling health issues, a change in lifestyle - new city, new job, new friends. Could be much worse.

Plans for the new year? Some work, some travel, some time in Spain, and some time in Gib. Get back on the bike, go swimming, and keep up to the obnoxious paperwork. Do more writing, waste less time on internet sites that don't really suit me, and focus on the good ones. No resolutions. Only intentions and aspirations.

Oh, and learn how to manage the firework setting on the camera. I took better pix on National Day using the night time setting.

New Year's Eve fireworks

Internet, vertigo, Christmas and New Year

We rejoined the Internet just over a year ago. I had fought against it for ages as it was no longer part of the way I wanted to live my life. When I returned to the UK and stayed with friends who had mega-fast broadband access, I was impressed. Information at the touch of a key.

So on my return to Spain I signed up with Telefonica. Dear service but efficient. And the first thing Partner promptly did was join every single Land Rover forum under the sun. But we only really post much on one. However on some of the others, people said they were coming to Spain and asked if we would meet up. We said yes, of course. And never heard any more. We didn't lose too much sleep and appreciate that people change their minds, and don't want to spend a day out of their precious holidays with someone they have never met before in their life.

The first forum we joined gets up my nose. People are sexist, racist, classist, bigoted, even more self-opinionated and arrogant than me (I think). But we have also had some great help on there, and in return have tried to help other people.

A couple of months ago, one of the members on the first forum said he was coming to Portugal and Spain and was interested in visiting Gibraltar and meeting up. As usual we said fine, and didn't hear any more. We thought it would be good to meet him and his partner but by the time they had left for Europe, we figured it wasn't going to happen. Also to be fair to them, visiting Gib was a serious detour on their route - and because the flat is so small and grotty we couldn't offer to put them up either.

So there we were on Christmas Eve, having a relaxing drink, and chilling out as you do. And the 'phone rang. "Hello, it's Marc, and we're in Gibraltar in Morrisons' car park." I passed the phone to partner. He agreed to go and meet them. It gave me time to put on the mascara and brush my hair, while I waited to be notified of the venue of choice.

The intercom rang. "Hello," said Cheerful Partner. "Here we are. Let us in."

"No. Go away. The flat is filthy dirty, I do not wish to be so embarrassed." And put the intercom 'phone down. Smartly. You have no keys, go find a pub. Triumphant. Then the door opened. Partner did have keys, just too idle to get them out earlier.

This was BIG TIME embarrassment. Small flat. Damp (it's humid here in winter). A week's worth of ironing piled up on the ironing board. The toilet doesn't work. We flush it with a bucket. There is no seat on it - it fell off a while ago. The flat is floating in dog's hairs, and naturally the sofa belongs to the dog. So that leaves two armchairs for four people. Oh well. At least I had time to put on the mascara.

But this is so just how you do not want to meet people for the first time. If we had really thought they would have turned up, I might have cleaned the flat. Maybe.

Anyway, they were adorable. Super company and lovely people. Easy-going and interesting. I still find it hard to get it into my head that you can meet people via an Internet forum and enjoy their company so much. The men went to get an Indian take-away (all the local decent restaurants were closed or we would have taken them out - given the effort they had made to come to Gib) so we stayed at home all night.

Marc and Brigid posing in our Santana


In the morning we planned to go up the Rock. Because they were on a fairly tight schedule they decided to drive round Gib and asked us if we wanted to go with them. First we went to Europa Point, the southernmost point of Gibraltar, with Africa a few miles away.

The lighthouse at Europa Point looking towards Morocco.
On the left is the wreck of the New Flame


Then we started to climb the Rock. I knew this was not a good idea. I get vertigo. I particularly get vertigo when I climb too quickly, ie in a car. I HAD to get out of the car, and stagger around with wobbly legs and a dizzy head. I should add - this was nothing to do with Marc's driving which was very good.

Meanwhile, when we all got out of the car, Brigid clambered around on the rocks taking photos of the SHEER DROP beneath her. "I don't think you should watch me," she said. I thought she was so right. The monkeys loved Brigid so much that they jumped on top of her. Marc suggested she was wearing Eau de Monkey (Odour monkey?). They left me alone. Wrong perfume.

Barbary Macaque - the only primates living wild in Europe


I like playing with car aerials - especially Marc's


Then we walked up to the top of the Rock, with me shading my eyes from the views either side, and then Partner and I started walking down. After I had stopped wobbling too much, and could handle the car again, we eventually all drove down again together, and then said our goodbyes.

I live with vertigo. By now we have worked out that it happens mainly when I climb too fast. I can describe it best in Spanish - it is so succinct: "No cabe en la cabeza" - it doesn't fit in the head. I just can't handle the rapid climb stuff.

Today I went for a walk. Both on Christmas Day and New Year's Day we like to go for a walk. But Partner was struggling with a 'flu/chest infection so I trotted out on my own. I decided to wander part way up the Rock.

The first time I did today's path (Library Steps, and up towards Devil's Gap) I felt quite dizzy. Today, I had no shaky legs and no dizziness. It was important to me to climb on my own and not get vertigo. And it was a beautiful walk in glorious sunshine. Vertigo is so in the head. But it ends up leaving you physically struggling. If you get vertigo, you will know what I mean. If you don't, please take time to help anyone who does have vertigo. It is not easy to overcome, and it takes a lot of concentration and fortitude to climb when you are struggling against fear.

View from the climb


But today was a good result for me. And we had a lovely and unexpected Christmas. Very many thanks to Marc and Brigid for making the effort to come and see us.

Best wishes to everyone on the Internet - because now I know that Internet people really do exist - for a happy, peaceful, and confident New Year.

Christmas spirit

Partner has seen two examples of Christmas Spirit this week.

Example one

The other day he went into the local shop and there was a Spanish couple loading up with spirits and cigarettes, Gib being the duty-free paradise that it is. They were also over their limit so presumably were happily going to smuggle their purchases over the border.

The mother of one these two was also in the shop. She bent down to pick up a couple of handfuls of some sweets and chewing gum.

"Pasa," said Partner - indicating that she was in front of him in the queue.

"No, it's ok," she said (in Spanish), "I'm with them."

Then she put the sweeties in a plastic carrier bag that she had with her. She rattled it at the shop owner, who hadn't a clue why she was doing that. And then they all left, obviously without paying for the sweets.

You would think people who could afford nearly £50 on booze and fags could afford to pay for sweets too.



Example two

Yesterday people finished work early and went drinking. Actually some of them just went drinking, they didn't bother going to work.

Partner went to meet a workmate at about 3pm, and they had a couple of beers. When he left the bar, it was chucking it down.

There were two smartly-suited guys crossing the road from the marina complex. They had obviously been to a works do at one of the smart restaurants there. Very nice.

They both had two very large umbrellas, clearly emblazoned with the name of their firm.

"Oh I could do with one of those, it is raining so hard," joked Partner and turned into a pedestrian passage on his way home.

Then one of the guys ran in after him, and presented him with his umbrella.

"No, no, no," said Partner with his hands in the air. "It was only a broma (a joke)."

"No," said the guy, "Toma, take it. We're going back to the car, and I will get another one next week from work."

They exchanged greetings - Felices Fiestas, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Then Partner went off towards home, and the guy turned round to join his mate who was patiently waiting to share his umbrella with him on their short walk to the car.

Apart from the nice gesture, the reason this was such a bonus, is that the best umbrellas in Gib are the works ones. I bought a rubbish umbrella last week, it is big but very flimsy. It will blow inside out as soon as there is a strong wind - which often happens. I couldn't find a good quality umbrella anywhere - yet when you look round, there are lots of people with really great umbrellas, but all with a logo on of some sort.

So now we have one. Thanks, whoever you were, and hope you have a great holiday.

And I hope everyone who reads this does too. Merry Christmas and Feliz Navidad to those of you who celebrate Christmas, and to those of you who don't, Season's Greetings and Felices Fiestas. Happy New Year and Feliz Año Nuevo to you all.

My parents (1) - my father

One of the reasons I started this blog was to write about the big things in life that happen when you reach 40.

I didn't really intend to write about tales from my Spanish village or shootings on the Spain/Gibraltar frontier.

So for once, this post is a personal one.

I left the UK towards the end of the year. I think it was November. It was a big move, not in terms of any fear of what I was doing, but more a sort-of momentous change of life thing. When we left, we did not stop off to see my parents. I didn't want any emotional manipulation and apart from anything else, we were actually late leaving home - and we had a ferry to catch.

On our travels I bought a mobile phone so I could keep in touch with them. Or they could with me, whichever way you want to look at it.

My dad rang a few times early the following year to say he wasn't feeling well. One call always sticks in my mind because I was sitting on the beach at Camping Chullera, south of Estepona, looking at Gibraltar. I talked to my dad about Gib because he was there during the war. He'd forgotten that I had been there too, on holiday some years ago.

He asked if I would get a cheap charter flight to go and see him. I wasn't impressed with that. I hadn't flown for years, and I wasn't planning on flying at all, certainly not cheap charter. I doubted my dad would get a cheap charter flight. In fact I suggested he did, and then we could see each other. He could even fly to Gib. Stalemate. He didn't want to fly cheap charter either.

My dad was the sort of guy, who, when I first got married and arranged a day out with my mother - in Harrogate, bit of shopping and very nice lunch - suddenly takes ill on the morning of said trip. Mother naturally feels obliged to cancel trip and look after him. Helpful Partner assures her there is no problem and he would look after my dad. Haha.

As soon as we had gone out of the door, and the ruse had failed, father was reinvigorated and suggested they cleared off to the pub. In fact, he'd never been particularly sick in his life apart from a bad back, so I wasn't very impressed with being summonsed back from a camp site in Spain to the UK because he was feeling sorry for himself.

Some months later my mother rang me. We had bought the house in Spain by then. "Send your father a card, he's not feeling well." I did. Never heard any more about it.

Then he was off to hospital for some tests. They were inconclusive. I felt very manipulated. I couldn't get any sense over the 'phone and it was clear they wanted me to make the obligatory Dutiful Daughter visit. I didn't.

Christmas came. Or rather the few days before, and my mother rang. My father had been taken into hospital. She was so stressed and frantic she couldn't really tell me anything. Partner Who Is Always Right told me to get my arse into gear and go back. It was 18 months since I had seen my parents.

I told my mother I would go back. I think she expected me back on Christmas Day. Given that a) I had to get my head round everything and book tickets, and b) I was going by train and ship, this was impossible. But I did get back on Dec 27.

The neighbours took us to the district hospital the next day. I spotted my dad in the ward before my mum did. He was grey and old, but he looked the same. Sort-of. I guess she was looking for the 25-year-old guy she married and not the old man in his late seventies.

He said thank you for coming. He was never big on words. We chatted and he was a pain in the arse to my mum. He told her he wanted to come out of hospital. Immediately. I talked him into waiting a few days - I couldn't handle him at home and neither could my mum.

I spoke to the unhelpful staff on the ward desk. They eventually and grudgingly told me he had been admitted with a chest infection. They said he was lucid and alert, as was my mum, and they would do some tests on him.

"What for?" I asked.

"Can't say."

I thought this was particularly stupid - having worked in the health service - and told them so. I got abused for trying to pull rank.

Then I went off to the toilet and cried because I realised he was dying and this was the last time I would see him. I dried my eyes and came back out.

I went to the desk and got some more information and insisted that the geriatrician ring me at home. Instead of relying on the unhelpful tosspots on the desk.

I went back to my mum and dad and we chatted a bit more and then we left. Total visit, maybe an hour.

After that visit, I went a few more times on my own. I got the bus, the visit took up most of the day, or at least the travel did. I took him some new pyjamas as a belated Christmas present. He had always been large, so I bought a large size. But they were too big, he had lost so much weight, and he asked me who they belonged to.

One day I asked him if he wanted a drink. There was a bottle of water and a glass. "Yes, please. I'll have a large gin with a drop of water."

"Sorry, dad, there isn't any gin here. Do you want the water?"

"No."

Over the next few days I told him about his patient's rights. Well, no-one else seemed to. He could refuse tests. He could refuse operations. He had the right to ask for information about anything and everything that was suggested/recommended/ordered. I don't know whether I said all that wearing my patient's advocate hat, or just as his daughter who didn't want to see him deprived of making his own choices. He'd missed out sometimes in his life so I thought he should at least get the chance to make some choices of his own at the end.

I wasn't perfect. I didn't want him home and I knew my mum couldn't cope with him. She couldn't move him around. And I was frightened of him. Even though he was ill, and old, and frail, I still didn't want to sleep under the same roof as him. I told him he could discharge himself if he wanted. He would have to call a taxi, dress himself, and pay for everything. I wasn't going to do it for him, and I knew he couldn't do it either.

How do you balance it? I wanted him to die peacefully, the way he wanted. I wanted to look after myself and my mum. No easy answers.

One day he said to me:

"I'm going to die aren't I?"

I couldn't think of a sensible answer. "Yes" seemed just a bit too blunt even for two people from Yorkshire.

I said something like: "Well, we all have to die sometime, dad," and felt so inadequate.

He didn't reply. He probably wanted me to say no, but I couldn't.

We were his only visitors, but he did say he didn't want to see anyone else, but I couldn't visit at weekends because there was no bus from the village. He rang my mum on the days I didn't get to go. He must have felt so lonely - or alone - or both.

On New Year's Eve the hospital rang me late at night. My mum was asleep. He had had a fit. They asked if he had ever had one before (no), and told me they weren't sure if he would last the night. Could we go in? No we couldn't. No car. And, I didn't want to stress my mum in the middle of the night for a false alarm.

I slept on the sofa and asked them to ring if there was any more news. In the morning, he seemed to be stable. There was no public transport and I didn't want to ask the neighbours again. I went to see him the day after. He must have been medicated up to the eye-balls because he talked to me about people I had never heard of, and seemed to think I was going home to see his mum (my grandmother). The next couple of visits he was ok.

The district hospital was obviously sick of him though. He was taking up a bed and he had refused any further tests (I think I can take the credit/blame) for that - so they decided to ship him off to a local cottage hospital. Easier for me it had to be said.

So I spent the next couple of weeks trudging backwards and forwards on the bus into the local town and then walking 20 or 30 mins to the inconvenient hospital. Needless to state it snowed, and the pavements were covered with sheet ice while I was struggling backwards and forwards with his laundry.

My mother couldn't manage the public transport. We did it once and she was so cold waiting for the bus. She had to get a taxi after that at £20 round trip. Not something to do every day on a pension.

Dad looked very tired. The nursing staff got him out of bed every day and dressed him, so instead of falling asleep in bed, he got to fall asleep in a chair. I'm not sure of the added value - less bed sores?

He fell asleep when I went to visit him. He was reading a John Buchan book, but he didn't seem to get very far with it. He stopped asking about coming home. He had a nasty bruise on his forehead from when he had fallen at the district hospital.

I left many a time in tears because I didn't want to cry in front of him. I didn't even know what to say any more.

One day I got home and told my mum I couldn't go any more. I was so tired and felt very drained. She told me to go back to Spain, my dad was stable and they were talking about bringing him home soon with a care package.

So I left. I stopped over in London to see some university friends and it was such a break. I rang my mum from Dover and there was no different news, so I boarded the ferry for France and then got the overnight sleeper from Paris to Madrid, and then back down to Málaga.

It was good to be back in Spain. The morning after I arrived my mum rang. Partner answered the 'phone. My dad had died in his sleep that morning.

Apparently after I left he had deteriorated. They moved him into a private room and told my mum she could visit any time.

I arranged the funeral, 'phoned the relatives and went back. The undertaker, who was superb, took me to the funeral parlour to see my dad. In that sort of practical manner that they have, he commented as we looked at him in the coffin: "He was a big guy wasn't he?" and then, "I'll leave you for a few minutes. Just come out when you're ready."

My father was the first dead person I had seen. My mum didn't visit the funeral parlour, she didn't want to see him. But Partner had suggested I might find it helpful. I did. He still had the bruise on his head too, which I incongruously thought was such a shame. He looked big and frail at the same time in his box. Then Tom drove me home.

The funeral went ok. The organ music was nice, and my father wasn't particularly religious but he always liked "Eternal Father" from his days in the navy. I only got half way through it although I did try so hard to sing.

Afterwards, my mum's relatives and my dad's niece came back to the house. I had put my foot down at the idea of naff pub sandwiches for all and sundry to have a freeby, so I had decided it would be family only at the house.

I made lots of food. But no-one seemed interested, so I never bothered getting it out of the fridge. It kept mum and I going for days afterwards.

I stayed with her for a few weeks, I thought after the funeral would be the hardest time for her and I had all the paperwork to sort too, but eventually we both had to get on with our different lives so I left for Spain again.

It felt so strange after my father died. It was like part of my life was gone. And he wasn't very old either, 77. I remembered the good times, and the bad times, and then there was a huge sense of loss which I had never felt before.

And I remembered his comment from many years ago, in my late teens or early 20s, when we were in the pub together, having a pint after work. "When I'm gone, it will be up to you to look after your mother....."

Trafalgar Cemetery

Walking past the cemetery the other day, I noticed two of the tombstones had poppy wreaths.

Although the name of the cemetery commemorates the Battle of Trafalgar, only two of those who are buried here actually died of wounds suffered during the battle (Lieut. William Forster of the Royal Marine corps of H.M.S. Mars and Lieut. Thomas Norman of H.M.S Colossus - grave numbers 121 and 101). Most of those who died at Trafalgar were buried at sea, and Lord Nelson's body was transported to London for a state funeral. Wounded seamen were brought to Gibraltar, and those who died later of their wounds were buried just to the north of Charles V Wall, on the opposite side of Trafalgar Cemetery; a small plaque was recently placed there to commemorate the site.

Many of the tombstones in the cemetery commemorate the dead of three terrible yellow fever epidemics in 1804, 1813 and 1814. Also buried here are victims of other sea battles of the Napoleonic Wars - the battle of Algeciras (1801) and actions off Cadiz (1810) and Malaga (1812).

As I wrote about both Trafalgar Day and Armistice Day in Gibraltar, I thought I should add this brief postscript.

The cemetery is a very tranquil green spot, quiet and peaceful, and just outside the city walls.

I thought it was strangely touching that the two graves of men who died at the Battle of Trafalgar still receive a tribute more than 200 years later.

Captain Thomas Norman


Lieut William Forster


Source for quote: Gibraltar Heritage Trust although please note the inscription on the grave refers to Captain Thomas Norman and not Lieut Norman.

The Alameda Gardens

I'm always surprised when people say there is nothing to do or see in Gibraltar - apart from going to the top of the Rock and seeing the apes.

I've lived in some nice places (Sydney being the most spectacular I guess) but nowhere have I had so much diversity within literally five minutes walk.

The shops are five minutes away - I can buy a Dualit toaster, an AppleMac, a Dyson vacuum cleaner, designer clothes, whatever I really want. Admittedly the supermarket is probably 15 minutes away.

On the way to Main Street and the shops, I walk past the Governor's House and King's Chapel. If I go round the back streets I can visit the museum. Theatrical productions, concerts and exhibitions are held at the hall across the main road from my street.

The marina is five minutes walk away, out of the city walls and down the street.

And if I want to go a little further, perhaps ten minutes away, I can start the climb out of town to the Upper Rock and the Nature Reserve.

But nearer to home, and within the five minute category are Gibraltar's botanical gardens - The Alameda Gardens.

Tiled plan of the gardens at the entrance


Once a month (except for August) there is a free tour of the gardens, so I finally got organised enough to go along to it. It was excellent. We were taken round by the curator, Brian Lamb. He usually does the paid-for tours, but the guy who usually does the Saturday freebie was busy sorting out a hedge-trimmer.

Brian was absolutely fascinating, his amount of knowledge was unbelievable, and his breadth of experience travelling abroad on botanical research was very impressive. I don't know how many times he takes people round and churns out the same stories, but he didn't sound boring or bored. There is quite an art to churning out the same information and managing to sound interesting.

The gardens were founded by the Lieutenant Governor of Gibraltar, General George Don (later Sir George Don) in 1816 so that "the Inhabitants might enjoy the air protected from the extreme heat of the sun..." He funded them - amongst other sources - from spare money collected from the rates for a sewers project, and a number of lotteries.

The George Don gates at the entrance to the gardens


During the period when the border was closed under General Franco, the gardens fell into a state of disrepair, and the current team has been gradually restoring since them since the early 1990s.

There is a good website which sums up the aims of the gardens and lists all the plants grown there. We're basically in a subtropical/semitropical region, so naturally a lot of the plants that perish in the UK survive happily outside here.

While there are plants local to Gibraltar - it has the only surviving Silene tomentosa (Gibraltar Campion) in the wild - the gardens contain plants from similar Mediterranean climates throughout the world, eg Australia and South Africa.

Gibraltar is a limestone mountain so its soil is alkaline, unlike the nearby Spanish mountains which are sandstone, and therefore the soil on other side of the frontier is more acidic. The geology here is similar to that found in North Africa, so there are also plants from there, particularly Morocco.

There is an impressive range of succulents, well suited to the climate, as they don't require expensive watering in the dry hot summers. Olive trees, native to the Mediterranean climate are also dotted around the gardens.

One of the huge succulents near the entrance


Succulent garden


Dragon trees abound, the oldest one in the gardens is around 300 years although there is an older one in the gardens of the Governor's House.

The oldest dragon tree in the gardens


And amidst all the plants and lush sub-tropical greenery there are statues and cannons, commemorating Gibraltar's role in historical battles.

The Eliott Memorial at the entrance

General Eliott defended Gibraltar during the Great Siege of 1779-1782


The Duke of Wellington's Monument

Unveiled three years after the opening of the gardens - the bust stands on a pillar from Lepcis Magna (Libya),
given to Sir George Don as a gift


One of the best things about the tour is that we got to go in the places that are not open to the public. The Open Air Theatre holds events regularly throughout summer and can seat 450 people. The Italian Gardens in the The Dell were designed by a Genoese gardener in the nineteenth century. The Dell can be hired for weddings and when we went round there was a huge sunshade, table and chairs in place - but no wedding. We finished the tour by visiting a propogation area.

The Dell, the steps and Italian Gardens


The Dell, pool to the west side of the bridge


The pond in the Open Air Theatre


Strelizia reginae in the Open Air Theatre


It was a good group, say around fifteen people, and we took around two hours. Normally it's a half an hour to an hour's wander round for one person - but obviously not visiting the areas that are closed to the public - or getting the benefit of Brian's expertise and experience.

A shady spot in the gardens


The next (and final) tour this year is on Saturday 15 December at 3pm.

Armistice Day

Gibraltar commemorates both Armistice Day and Remembrance Sunday. This year as 11 November fell on a Sunday, there were two commemoration ceremonies on the same day.

Armistice Day is normally commemorated at 11am in the lobby of Parliament House. Exceptionally this year, the ceremony was moved back to 1.15 pm to allow people to attend the earlier Service of Remembrance at the Cross of Sacrifice at midday.

Partner managed to get some photographs of the Armistice Day Commemoration Ceremony, although not lots, he reported there was tight security and he was not allowed to leap around like a proper-photojournalist (I'll never get him trained).

While I was reading around the topic to see what currently happened everywhere I was interested to read about the two-minute silence.

I thought it had fallen by the wayside but according to the internet, it is still going strong. As I was in Spain at the time, I have no idea what happened here in Gib.

I seem to remember we used to do it in school but it was a traditional private girls' school so it was obviously the done thing.

My parents lived through the Second World War (they were in their early teens when it started), my father and his brother joined the navy, and my mother's two older brothers joined the air force and the army. (Her younger brother later went on to join the air force and stayed in for his full term). The older brother in the air force was killed when his plane was shot down, not too long before the end of the war.

Consequently every year my mother would sit in front of the television watching every programme about the war, and all the commemoration services and ceremonies. She cried her eyes out. It didn't help that he had been her favourite brother - or maybe in her mind he had become the favourite because he was no longer around. At least he had stood up for her when the middle brother hit her and made her nose bleed. And tried to fight for her to stay at grammar school when her mother wanted her to leave early and help with the household chores.

She couldn't tear herself away from the annual commemoration programmes, they were obviously something she felt she shouldn't miss. Maybe she thought if she didn't watch them she would be showing disrespect for her older brother who had died so young - leaving a widow and a baby. Yet every year she became so very upset. So I loathed Remembrance Sunday/Armistice Day with a passion (my mum often called it Armistice Day I guess because that's what she had grown up with). I would ignore the television and, with the callousness of someone young who had no idea what my mum was going through, I would tell her to stop watching it if it made her so upset.

I think I'll be keeping away from any ceremonies. My mum died a few years ago and I can imagine watching a ceremony, thinking about her, and promptly ending up in tears. Doing exactly what I told her not to do.

Anyway here are a few photos, showing the guard of honour, the arrival of the Cardinal and the arrival of the Governor's car at Parliament House.






And here is a poem by Wilfred Owen, the war poet and First World War soldier. We studied him at school and his poetry left a lasting impression on me. He died a week before the end of the war and as the bells were ringing out for Armistice Day at 11am, his parents received the telegram telling them of their son's death. He was posthumously awarded the Military Cross for his courage and leadership.

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
- Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Sources: gibfocus, partner for photos, and my memories. Here is a site with more Owen poetry.

Fifty thousand words

Bit of a blog rest at the moment. I decided to sign up for the write a 50,000 word novel in a month challenge. So my creativity - or at least my fast typing - is currently being directed elsewhere. I managed to rattle off 1000 words of rubbish yesterday, but I've got a bit of catching up to do, as most people started at the beginning of November. They might have started earlier for all I know.

Anyway, so it's fingers to the keyboard to type at least 2000 words a day, and to make up the extra few thousand on the odd rare inspired day.

Catch ya later.