Oasis

And following on from Gucci.....we have Oasis. Another UK high street fashion store which opened in Gib this month.

As Partner was working there on the elaborate interior decoration, he took the opportunity to take a few pix before it opened.

Like all chain stores, it has to fit in with the corporate image, and Oasis in Gib needs to look like Oasis in Regent Street.

This is not a couple of coats of white matt emulsion whacked on the walls. Oh no.

Specially mixed paint, Lincrusta panelling (put up by Partner of course, which luckily he has done before) and an exclusive huge chrysanthemum logo on the walls.

To make their job even more difficult, the huge chrysanthemum was self-adhesive so there was no flexibility and no margin for error. Just as well they got it right. So here are the pix of their craft work. And some clothes pictures to finish with, seeing as it is a clothes shop.

And if anyone in Gib notices a disproportionate amount of construction tradesman lurking amid the flounces and frills of Oasis, it's almost certainly some of Partner's colleagues going to look at the finished decorating rather than floral frocks.

His colleague, a joiner, outside the shop.



The joiner moving one of the panels.



Admiring their work.



Columns in the middle of the shop, which now have Lincrusta inside the moulding.



Window dressing.



And a few more clothes.



And more ...... and a nice long shot of the chrysanthemums.

I can see clearly now.......

Some time ago I bought some new contact lenses in Spain.

When they arrived the prescription was wrong. While I could see reasonably well out of one eye, the other was little better than my own very short-sighted vision.

After a few months, one eye was feeling a bit itchy so I took the lens out. It had ripped across the middle - not completely, but very nearly. Certainly more than half way.

I gazed at the offending torn lens and felt slightly sick at the thought of having narrowly escaped two shards of plastic scratching around in my eye.

At this point I went back to the previous lenses which I must have had for ten years. Although somewhat battered and knocked around, they were still intact. Just not brill vision as my eyesight has deteriorated since I bought those lenses.

Sadly the other day I dropped one of them on the floor. Even more sadly it happened to be the one lens that was the better prescription.

Despite not vacuuming (not something I do much of anyway), examining the contents of the dustpan every time I swept up, and crawling around on my hands and knees, I found nothing but dog fur, dust and grit.

There was no way round it, I was going to have go through the tedious eye-testing process again.

For anyone who doesn't wear contact lenses, it basically takes twice as long as a normal eye-test and your eyes get filled with yellow gunk. Then there is the cost. And I am not fond of spending money if I can avoid it. Shopaholic me - never.

Partner suggested I get some glasses. He thought it would be more sensible than me crawling around on the floor every time I dropped a lens.

So I wandered into the local opticians and had a look at some frames. Mmm. Yes, there was quite a nice dark brown pair. I decided I could cultivate a new image. The sort-of librarian look. To any librarians out there this is not a derogatory comment. I was thinking, thoughtful, serious, intellectual. I asked the price. They were something over a hundred quid. Not cheap - to my way of thinking. Although there were cheaper frames. There were also dearer ones.

I wondered if I could get some of those cheap off-the-shelf jobbies from the supermarket like Partner wears for reading. Nope. They are only for long-sighted people. They don't do the same stuff for us myopic types.

I bit the bullet and made the appointment. Partner came to help choose the frames. We all - me, him, the three staff in the shop - agreed on the same pair of frames.

Gucci. I ask you. How embarrassing. I have never bought anything by Gucci in my life and I end up with a pair of designer spectacle frames. I am sure it would be perfectly possible to design a pair of brown frames without putting that all-important double G sign on them.

Still, they looked better than all the others. And much better than the Prada ones that had disgusting pieces of diamanté on them. Diamanté on spectacle frames? Definitely not me.

I decided I wanted contact lenses too. Hard ones. PMMA. The nice easy-to-maintain, tough-as-old-boots ones that I have managed with for the last 20 years. My optician said she would need to get a price. Heart sank on hearing that.

In the meantime, they would try and get my spare pair of glasses (it was "buy one get one free" although unsurprisingly the free one did not include another pair of Gucci frames) made up as quickly as possible.

A couple of days later the lenses had arrived for the free pair so I went to collect them. The flash Gucci number arrived another week or so after that, and then a couple of days ago my contact lenses arrived too.

Total time from start to finish? Around two weeks. Cost of glasses (two pairs), eye test, and clip on sun-things - equivalent to one week of Partner's take home pay. The contact lenses were not dear - cheaper (and better) than the ones I bought in Spain, and also cheaper than the spectacle frames. The prescription seems fine too, and the service has been excellent.

To anyone in Gib or Spain, I totally recommend Gache and Co opticians, just off Main Street in Cathedral Square.

That all-important double G for Gucci logo

Linguistic superiority

I like to support my local shops. Particularly when they are cheap. But I am also happy to pay a premium when they are open and no-one else is. Or I can't be bothered to walk to the supermarket for a couple of items that I forgot the other day.

Fresh produce - certainly here in Spain and Gibraltar is often fresher than it is in the big supermarkets. Much of it is grown locally, or at least within hundreds of miles so it is not flown in, or sitting around for days in frigitrucks travelling the length and breadth of Europe.

I usually speak Spanish in the Moroccan shops and English in the Indian ones. Or a bit of both.

The other day I went to one of our local shops in Gib. (Not the one in the picture above - that's a different one that I also use). They had been shut for a while so I asked if they had been on holiday or if they were closed for another reason.

Sadly it turned to be a funeral. In India - hence the reason for the long closure. As I'd been to India some years ago I asked whereabouts. They had gone back to Mumbai so I said chattily what a nice place it was. The woman looked at me slightly puzzled, and said "I don't think so."

Perhaps it has changed since I was there. Apart from anything else - everyone called it Bombay way back then. So I added "Oh it's a while since I was there." Note to self: Be very careful when commenting about places you have not visited for more than 20 years.......

Some days later Partner went to the same shop. He has a very chatty relationship with the owner and his wife. For some strange reason the owner often speaks to him in an Indian language. I have no idea which one. Gujerati maybe? I've asked Partner what he is saying and had an exasperated response: "How should I know? Hello and goodbye I suppose."

Mostly though they speak in English, and sometimes in Spanish - which is par for the course in Gibraltar.

There were some Spaniards in the shop, so the conversation was in Spanish. They were asking about the price of cigarettes. Now this particular shop sells cigarettes and spirits at pretty cheap prices - hence he usually has a queue. The Spaniards were umming and aahing about the price. Eventually they decided they weren't going to buy any. (Don't know where they thought they were going to find them any cheaper).

The shop owner smiled nicely at them and suddenly switched into English. "OK. Please your fucking selves." And winked at Partner. "Adios," said the Spaniards and walked out of the door - fortunately without any idea what he had said to them.

I have to say Partner was somewhat speechless - although very amused - as he has never heard this guy swearing in English before. But I am beginning to wonder what the shop owner is really saying to Partner when he greets him in his Indian language.

But I knew her well enough by now to see inside her head.....

I am not a lover of pop music and I know very little about it. (Says the woman who frequently types to the accompaniment of Spanish music.....)

Anyway. I went through the usual teenage phase of adulation for a couple of bands, but didn't buy a lot of LPs. I bought a few singles of records that I particularly liked to excess, and would play them endlessly. By that I mean I would play the same record again and again for hours.

As I grew older I did buy classical music. So I have far more Beethoven, Mahler, Rachmaninov, than I do Beatles, Moody Blues, Rolling Stones.

My collection of singles is pretty eclectic though. One of the ones I bought was by Albert Hammond. The Free Electric Band.



I never really listen to the lyrics of songs because 1) I buy the records because I like the music and 2) I usually can't distinguish the words.

Oddly enough I could actually work out all the words on The Free Electric Band. I thought he sang quite clearly for an American. He had to be American because he sang about Berkeley. But when we bought our flat in Gib, I was more than surprised to find out Albert Hammond is from there. (See, there is a connection with this blog).

OK, technically speaking, he was born in London. His family comes from Gibraltar and like many families, women and children were evacuated during the Second World War, and Albert was born during this evacuation period in 1944. A few months later the family moved back to Gib, so it seems pretty fair to me to say that he is a Gib boy.

I forgot about this until we were sitting chatting in a bar one day. There was the manager and her husband, plus a young lad who plays in a band in Gib. I've not heard him sing, but Partner has and tells me he is very good. So the conversation turned to music.

"Who's that pop star who comes from Gib?" we said. "The one with the one-hit wonder," we added for confirmation. And expected the young Gibraltarian musician to answer.

"Albert Hammond," said the manager's husband.

"But he's no one-hit wonder. Do you know how many songs he has written and for who?"

He had this sort-of "you-really-don't-know-what-you-are-talking-about-do-you" look on his face. But politely didn't say it.

Er, no. Nor did I know Albert Hammond had a hit with It never rains in Southern California. Hell, if it had California in the title it had to be the Beach Boys. Told you I knew nothing about pop. But thanks, Fred. You were right. I blame Top of the Pops 2 for saying Albert Hammond was a one-hit wonder with The Free Electric Band (I'm sure they said it). I guess it depends how you define one-hit wonders, and which country you are looking at it from.

So I had a little lookie on the good old Tinties. Not only has this guy had a huge career in the English-singing world - he has done it in Spanish too. Well, he would do, wouldn't he, coming from Gib. Sorry Albert, didn't intend to minimise your achievements. They are mega. Still at least, hopefully, I've contributed a few pennies to your royalties. Not only did I buy The Free Electric Band, I also bought The Fortunes singing Freedom Come, Freedom Go, which he wrote.

Back to blogs and the title of this. Now that we've cleared up a bit of info about Albert Hammond, I do like the lyrics of The Free Electric Band. And I think this line is appropriate to blogging.

"But I knew her well enough by now to see inside her head...."

We all give out a lot of information when we blog. Some people write a lot more personally in public than I can. To be honest I can't even write much personal stuff on my private blog. I struggle to do it. So I do admire people who can write about their feelings, opinions and emotions in public. I can't.

So, why, why, why, would I invite someone onto my private blog who seriously enjoys taking the piss out of me? About whom I know very little, apart from what I have gleaned on a forum. OK, You can find out a fair bit about people from a forum, but it's hardly open stuff like a blog.

And to the person who asked very politely for an invitation to my secret blog - it's on hold. Why do you want to see inside my head? I don't get anywhere near yours. You need to give a bit more out - and I know you won't.

Source: The official Albert Hammond website

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.

The shooting

Part 1
I should have realised it was going to be a journey with a difference when police stopped our bus on the way to Málaga.

It turned out there was going to be a procession, so all traffic was being diverted. Well that wasn't much use to all the passengers who wanted to get off at the next few stops so the driver asked if it would be a long wait.

(Processions are a way of life in Spain. They are also a very good reason for always getting an earlier bus than you actually need. It is better to wait for 40 minutes or an hour in the bus station than miss your connection by five or ten minutes and have to wait another three hours. Bus stations are full of people who have arrived early, it's probably also one of the reasons why the bus station bars have a healthy trade.)

Apparently it was going to be a long wait for the procession so the driver then asked where the diversion went. Onto the motorway. About a dozen passengers were junked off and we set off exploring the back streets (no diversion signs) to find our way to the motorway.

It wasn't too difficult, and as we approached Málaga, one of the passengers asked the driver if he was going to stop at the port. The port bus stop is actually nearer to the town centre, whereas the bus station is further out, although next to the railway station.

No, we were off straight to the bus station. At this point, a strange woman - who looked remarkably like Linda Hunt in The Year of Living Dangerously - started asking what was going on.

The young lad in front of her explained patiently that the bus had been diverted because there was a procession and we were going straight to the bus station and not the port. For whatever reason she could not understand this, and kept repeating the same questions. Naturally the lad repeated the same answers.

After about the fifth repetition of this, the rest of the bus was in hysterics, while the young lad was patiently repeating the story yet again, although by this time with a smile on his face.

When we arrived at the bus station, the driver announced he would then go to the port for those passengers who wanted to get off there. Well this woman didn't understand that either, so she picked up her stuff to get off. "No, no," we all shouted at her. "He's going to the port next."

But she didn't understand any of us and continued walking towards the door. Then somebody repeated it again and the penny dropped, and she sat down, looking very bemused.

Part 2
I got off and made my way to the bar for the obligatory drink while I waited 40 minutes for the connection to La Linea. This turned out to be a pretty tranquil journey - well, for the first half - until we got to San Pedro (outside Marbella).

A woman got on (didn't look quite so much like Linda Hunt, although there was a vague similarity), and a couple of minutes later a ticket office clerk followed her on and started shouting at her. It seemed she'd asked for a ticket but then left it, leaving the clerk with a (computerised) ticket and no funds to match against it.

The driver nicely told his colleague that he really needed to be going which he obviously couldn't do while she was ranting at one of the passengers. So she stormed off the bus and back to the ticket office clutching the duplicate ticket and deciding how to explain it to boss.

At the next stop (there are only five), the driver obviously wasn't happy with the number of passengers on the bus. "Get your tickets out," he yelled as he stamped down the bus to start inspecting them.

I thought this was quite interesting as I've often thought it would be dead easy to get a ticket to the first stop and sit on to the end. I've never seen an inspector on the buses. I'm the sort of person who can never remember where I have put my ticket so I was busy emptying my pockets and trying to sort out old tickets from paper tissues. I hadn't even unfolded what might have been the right one when the driver snatched it out of my hand. Sigh of relief. It was the right one.

Then we arrived in La Linea. More police, some sort of road block. Two women behind groaned and said we would be there for ages - apparently they had loads of suitcases and if the police were going to go through all their clothes.....

The police waved us on. As we went past the cars they had stopped, I noticed two young men putting their socks and shoes back on. I thought no more about it, jumped off the bus, and started my dash for the frontier so that I could get the 8pm bus. If we arrived by 7.50pm, I know I can catch the bus if there are no border delays.

Part 3
One of the police motorbikes came up to where the road turns into the frontier and blocked it with his bike. Another one came up the pavement.

"Se puede pasar?" I asked. He waved me on. I headed for the frontier. First you go through a Guardia Civil post, then a Policia Nacional post, and then you get to the Gibraltar checkpoints.

There are three lots of police in Spain with varied responsibilities although the Guardia Civil seem to get involved in just about everything. If you want a police career in Spain it is the one to go for, especially as they have some great specialist units - mountain rescue, diving, environmental protection, coastal surveillance and security, and others. Next in the hierarchy are the Policia Nacional, and then you get Policia Local who are responsible to the local council. All three forces carry guns.

As I got about half way to the Guardia Civil post, I heard a ratatatatata noise like bangers or jumping crackers which the Spanish are always chucking around, even without a fiesta for an excuse. Then I remembered the road block and realised it was shooting. I walked even faster to the comparative safety of Gibraltar.

I passed an older couple and a woman. "Que pasa?" I said. (What's happening?). "Tiroteos," replied one of the women. (Shooting).

I love the Spanish and Gibraltarians. They have an amazing capacity for stating the more than blindingly obvious, and then normally repeating it a few times. Not for them idle speculation. So I replied the same way.

"Claro." (Of course).

Another few steps towards the Guardia Civil. The shooting was well behind me, I glanced back and couldn't see anything.

Suddenly the Guardia Civil joined in the shooting. In my direction. It was getting far too close now. There was a gap in the wall next to me. Admittedly it was one of those silly walls made out of bricks with holes in, but it was better than nothing. I hit the deck behind the wall.

Then I looked out. The three Spanish/Gibraltarians were still standing there watching the show. They obviously had more confidence than me in the shooting ability of the various police forces.

I got up. A Policia Local guy motorbike roared up on his motorbike to the Guardia Civil. "Hijos de puta! Cabrones! Que haceis?!" And loads more obscenities in Spanish.

A Policia Nacional car cruised out from their office, followed by countless officers on foot all interested in the spectacle. No, not the shoot-out. The Policia Local guy giving the Guardia Civil grief. Ouch. Police officer responsible to local council giving shit to Spain's elite police force. Not something to do lightly.

Meanwhile I sped through all the controls and jumped on the bus. Still shaking. And told the driver (in Spanish, twice naturally) about the events.

I arrived home and where was Partner? Out dog-walking, actually taking the dog to the pub. The dog likes the pub, people give him lots of strokes and talk nicely to him.

Fast forward. According to Gibfocus on the Internet, the police had stopped a (Gibraltar-registered) vehicle in which they allegedly found some hash. But during the search the driver revved the engine and escaped, crashing through the road blocks and then speeding through the frontier.

I never saw the car. Maybe it was when I was hiding on the ground.

Gibfocus also reports that two police officers were injured, one of them was transferred to hospital in Cadiz with serious injuries.

Whatever the rights or wrongs of the incident, I hope the two officers have a speedy recovery to good health.

Apparently the Royal Gibraltar Police have arrested two Gibraltar residents, a juvenile aged 16 and a 22-year-old, in connection with the incident.



Sources: Gibfocus, me.
The above photos were not taken at the time. They show the frontier/airfield area. I was too busy looking after my arse to take photos.

Ten good things about living in Spain

Or in Andalucía to be more precise.

1 The weather. I've never been a sun-worshipper, but it is nice to know that in summer it will be warm and sunny. It is good to go camping and not worry about getting soaked (especially when the groundsheet leaks). And because Spain has a continental climate there is every other type of weather as well.

2 The food. Not so much the eating out as the local fresh produce you can buy - or if you are lucky, you get some given to you by your neighbours who have bits of ground and grow crops to sell on to the local wholesale market. Although can't say I am too keen on the way they spray pesticides around with gay abandon.

3 It is cheap to live. It is nowhere near as cheap as it was when we first arrived (or when we first started coming on holiday some 12 or so years ago) but the basics are still much cheaper than northern Europe. And where we live you do not spend a lot of money (if any) heating your home.

4 Public transport. It is a pretty big country but it is relatively easy to get round using long-distance buses, or trains, or a combination. Every time I get the bus from Málaga to La Linea or Algeciras, I am amazed it costs just over ten euros for a 2/3 hours trip of around 140kms. Or you can travel from the south to the north by bus for around 50€. If you take the overnight train from Málaga to Burgos sharing a couchette compartment, and then get the bus to Santander, it will cost less than 70€ for nearly 1000km trip.

The new Málaga railway station


5 Coffee. I loathe instant coffee with a passion. Although you can now get decent coffee in the UK, whereas at one time nearly everything was instant, you are virtually guaranteed to get a decent coffee anywhere in Spain. And it is very strong. I so love a strong espresso (no sugar either).

6 Beer, or rather lager. I don't drink a lot of it, but I do like Spanish beer, especially the strong ones ie Mahou Five Star and Estrella Damm. And of course it is (comparatively) cheap.

7 Music. I've always liked Latin American music, and a lot of the popular music has a real Latin American feel to it. Apart from Juanes and Shakira (both Colombian), Spanish bands I like are Amparanoia, Chambao and Ojos de Brujo. I also like Rosario.

8 Spaniards break the rules with such aplomb. Rules are seen as something that get in the way of daily life, and basically are for other people. They are to be got round as cleverly as possible.

9 Following on from this last one - no "dob 'em in culture". I guess this must be a hangover from the Franco régime, but there is a healthy dislike and mistrust of chivas (spies). You can see why. If someone informed on you in the past, there was a good chance that you and/or your family would be carted off to the carcel (prison) and later killed. In smaller communities people accept that they have to live with their neighbours and it's better for everyone to try and get along.

10 The language. It is easy to learn, it is phonetic and quite logical. It also sounds very nice spoken by Spaniards although I dread to think how it sounds with a Yorkshire accent (mine) or a Welsh one (Partner's). Especially as we have slipped into speaking the Andalucían Spanish of our pueblo and not the perfect Castilian Spanish that is normally taught to foreigners.

That will do to start with off the top of my head. There are others. I also want to write a little more about a couple of these - but that will be for another post.

Romería in my village


Almost forgot the Gibraltar Social Democrats did win the election although it seems to have been pretty tight with less than 4% between the GSDs (49.33%) and the GSLP/GLP (45.49%) coalition. Turnout was 81.4%. At least I haven't lost my political acumen. :)

Paul

I've always liked travelling independently.

When I was in my early teens I went off happily youth-hostelling with a map and a rucksack and thought it was a great adventure.

Later I started taking holidays in Europe - usually based round work, or an activity or a course.

Then in my early 20s I went on my world trip - one of the best things I've ever done.

And now here I am travelling up and down the Costa del Sol every weekend.

The trouble is, it's not really travelling at all. It's a weekend commute. It happens to be in a pretty nice location, with a permanent view of the Med from the bus, but it is still a commute.

And after a few weeks, the three-hour journey between Málaga and Gib starts to drag a bit. Even if you do manage to get the back seat to yourself.

It's even worse if the bus is full of jabbering tourists (of whatever nationality), screaming kids, or as happened yesterday, a vomiting woman sitting next to me on the back seat (with her two kids who at least weren't screaming).

"Tiene una bolsa?" she said so I fished out a Morrisons bag. And gave it to her saying I hoped there weren't any holes in it. It didn't matter as she missed anyway. Don't drink water and sit at the back of the bus, is my advice.

So last Sunday was nice and quiet. I had the back seat and the bus was fairly empty. I sat right in the middle, with my feet on the armrests and started to read the paper, settling in for a reasonable journey.

And then at Torremolinos, a few people got on. One of them marched assertively down the bus, looked me right in the eyes and said (in beautiful southern English)

"Can I get past you to sit in there?"

I suppose I could have said there are plenty of other seats mate, but it seemed a bit rude. So I moved my legs for him to get in and promptly put them back. His mate decided to sit in front of us. Quite right too. Two people on the back seat was already one too many in my opinion.

"You're going to Gib," he said. It was more of a statement than a question but I answered politely anyway. "Yes."

"What do you do there?" he asked nosily. "Nothing," I answered truthfully (in at least I don't have any paid employment there - I assumed that was what he meant).

The cogs whirred round a bit. Who is this woman that lives in (expensive) Gib and doesn't work? There was a pause, so I leaped in.

"What do you do?" Tit for tat. "Forces."

"Oh," I replied chattily. Then he said "I'm a musician."

Is he having a joke at my expense? Either he's in the forces or he's a musician. My lateral thinking is obviously faltering though.

"I play the trumpet for the RAF." I thought he was having me on, but no. So we eventually called a truce to the hostilities and relaxed a bit. Turned out his professional training was as a musician, and 16 years ago he was accepted into one of the RAF bands - the Central Band.

It sounded like a cool job. You get to play at lots of concerts round the world, and you get to visit British bases too. He'd been to Ascension Island, the Falklands, and Cyprus among others. As for concerts they were in America last year, and they were off to Japan next year.

They even got a daily foreign allowance on top of salary of around twenty plus pounds a day. In America they also got a $400 salary from their sponsor, but they were doing 19 concerts in 21 days from one side of the country to the other so I guess they earned that.

It didn't sound totally glamorous though. There were the bus journeys from London to Scotland, or the three-day bus journey to Budapest. Don't think that was one for my vomiting companion from yesterday who couldn't manage two hours from Estepona to Benalmádena.

They also got to go to conflict zones. Not to play, I might add. He'd volunteered to go to Kosovo but by the time he'd finished training, the post had gone so he ended up in Basra. Rather him than me.

The band was in Gib for a concert tonight and they were due to play two concerts in Spain, but apparently there were some bureaucratic problems so he had a week's holiday, and the Spanish concerts weren't happening. He had time on his hands.

When we got off the bus he bought me and the other guy a drink, and then I headed off for home and tea, thoughtfully prepared by Domesticated Partner, and repeated two and a half hours of bus conversation over tea.

We'd fixed to meet up on Tuesday evening, but he sent a text saying he couldn't make it, was Wed OK? Fine by us.

On Wed, I thought about checking with him, (save Exhausted Partner getting changed after work!) but figured he would have let me know if he wasn't coming. I stubbed my toe. I avoided the dog and kicked the chair. (It's a small flat). The front half of my foot rapidly turned shades of blue, purple and black. Not a good omen.

We limped down to the assigned meeting place. After half an hour I sent him a text. Like, this is a guy whose watch is set ten minutes ahead of time so he is never late?

Chilled-out Partner had another drink and we wandered back home. Somewhat later on I received a text. Good marks for inventiveness. They had been frantically trying to get their instruments across the border (came by truck) and on top of that he decided to indulge in a bout of food poisoning. One of those would have been a sufficient excuse, although preferably sent before we were meant to meet. Did we want to meet the next day?

Why don't people just say they have found better things to do and can't be bothered to meet up? The bus journey went really fast, he was good company and I enjoyed talking to him. It would have been good to meet again, but I'm a grown-up these days and I'm not going to lose sleep when people change their mind.

Alternatively you could say third time lucky. I didn't. And I didn't reply either. I hope your concert goes well tonight Paul. And thanks for brightening my regular commuting journey. Safe journey back to the UK. But don't agree to meet people in quite such a hurry again.

Embarrassing photos

Being a considerate sort of woman, I always try and stop and take photos of Land Rovers for Land Rover Obsessed Partner to see.

Naturally there are lots in Gibraltar. Usually with an MOD reg.

So I took a couple of snaps as I was walking towards the frontier.

"WOULD PEDESTRIANS KEEP WALKING AND NOT STOP ON THE RUNWAY," bellowed the loudspeaker.

I looked round. I couldn't see anyone else not walking. Perhaps they meant me. I tried to look nonchalant. Bit difficult in the circumstances.

A guy waiting at the gate grinned and said "You're OK now." Maybe they were talking to me. It was only a brief pause to zoom in on the Landy. And I was hardly straggling at the back.

I stayed and took photos of the plane that was due to take off (hence the rush to get rid of the pedestrians....). Thought I might as well make the most of the embarrassing incident.

Gibraltar - or Alcatraz?

Here is another Gibpic. I mean Alcatraz.

I am slightly racked off. A friend of many years sent me a postcard. She had been to Alcatraz and said it reminded her of Gibraltar.

"Rocks, military buildings, guns etc," she wrote.

I haven't been to Alcatraz. As far as I am aware it is an island. Gibraltar is not an island. Alcatraz was discovered in the eighteenth century. Gibraltar's heritage is far older than that. It has been British for more than 300 years. Before that it was Spanish and Moorish. It is truly multi-cultural.

They are both called The Rock. That is a fair point. They both have military buildings and guns - as do a lot of other places. Gibraltar was a garrison, but not a military prison. It has certainly never been a high-security prison - for which Alcatraz is best known.

I write and tell her I have bought a small flat in - to me, a nice location - and the next thing I get is a snotty comment telling me it is like the best-known high-security prison in the world.

Friends. Huh.

Oh, it was cloudy in Gib today - although sunny on the other side of the frontier in Spain.

Shopping in Gib

For some reason, that I have never really understood, lots of British people who live in Spain cheerfully drive miles to buy sliced white plastic bread, sausages, bacon and jars of sauce.

Invariably to Gibraltar where there is an excellent Morrisons (formerly Safeway). There is also a small Food Hall at Marks and Spencer in Main Street.

Part of the attraction of living abroad is that everything is different. So driving more than 200 miles for a round trip to buy a few items of British-style food strikes me as bizarre. Especially when Eroski and Dunnes Stores sell more and more "International" food.

There again, we don't smoke or drink spirits. Perhaps that has something to do with the shopping pilgrimage that others make to Gib. Although the duty-free limit for bringing goods back into Spain is only a litre of spirits and 200 cigarettes per person. Not that it stops people taking more across the border.

Smuggling I think it's called.

I would not like to be caught by the Guardia Civil exceeding my limit with a load of tabs and a few bottles of spirits. Still, if people think the rewards are worth the risk - that's up to them.

Anyway, when you are in Gib, there are some things worth buying. Sacarello's coffee. The firm was founded in 1888 and still roasts its own beans in Gib.


You can buy the coffee - beans or ground/molido - all over Gib. It is dearer than coffee in Spain - but it has a smooth and subtle flavour. One of the few coffees I have ever had that tastes as good as it smells.

Cheese is much cheaper in Gib than in Spain. Especially when Morrisons have a two for one offer. My favourite happens to be white Cheshire, but it would be - my parents (and me) spent years selling it on the market. Although not in plastic bags - it came from real Farmhouse cheeses. Still, cheese out of the plastic bags is better than nothing.

Gib Produce - fresh fruit and veg grown on the rock. Delicious raspberries - mmmm.

Other veg - cauliflowers - always cheaper than in Spain. Small new potatoes - can't get them in Spain where we live. And there is often some organic produce too - especially the beetroot. Yummy.

Vegetarian products - tofu, quorn products (now with free-range egg), veggie sausages, deli-slices for sandwiches. All much cheaper than in Spain. Although I've not seen tempeh and seitan which are easy to find in Spain.

Organic tinned tomatoes - not cheap, but delicious.


Morrison's also has an interesting selection of cider.

On your way out, don't forget to fill up. Diesel was 58p a litre on Monday this week, around 90 cents I think.

So those are my tips. I wouldn't make a specific trip to buy these things, but when I go I think they are worth buying. And if you drink spirits and smoke.....Try the shops in Main Street. Especially if you like Larios.

Oh, and the drive down is nice. Especially if someone else is behind the wheel.

The sea, and the beach....


Sohail castle at Fuengirola

BritBlog

This blog, ie mine - Itchy feet at forty - is about our life in Spain, and a bit about Gibraltar too.

We have made mistakes like everyone does. And we have had lots of good times as well.

We want to share this with other people who want to move, live, travel, work, whatever, in this area. No ulterior motives.

I am seriously racked off with Brit Blog: The Blog aka The British Blog Directory for rejecting my application to join their list of blogs. They don't even have a very big list.

What is going on? Do I have to be scantily clad from Ibiza to get on it?

Here is what I received.

Dear BritBlog applicant,

We are sorry to tell you that your application to join BritBlog was not successful.

Before you get annoyed, please read on...

Perhaps you have not fully understood our submission policies, so if you have not yet read them but still wish to join, please take a moment to review them now:

http://www.britblog.com/help/submission_policy.php

It may be that we could not determine if you were British or not. We get a lot of spam applications each day, so if you think we've made a mistake please let us know!

Your blog may have been rejected due to a lack of content. If your blog is new and is lacking content, please do re-apply once you have made more posts.

Please remember that we get large volumes of applications each day, and while we take care when reviewing new applications it is still possible for us to make mistakes. If you think we've made an error do please contact admin@britblog.com, and remember to tell us the email address used for your application and your blog URL.

Please DO NOT reply to this email: replies will be discarded.

Thanks,

The BritBlog Team

If you did not request this then please accept our apologies and ignore this email.

Well, anyway. I replied - not to that address, the other one - admin@britblog.com. Foolishly. Thinking I would get a response. I am British. It isn't spam. I thought they had made a mistake. The blog has content - about Spain and Gibraltar. Perhaps it isn't the sort of advertising or publicity content they want.

I contacted them the same day. At the beginning of this month.

I'm still waiting for them to tell me why I have been rejected.

Perhaps they want a photocopy of my passport signed by the British Consul in Málaga to certify that I am a British citizen - which I happen to be able to provide.

Well I wasn't annoyed when I received the email - but I certainly am now. I think around here people would say "hijos de puta". It's certainly my view.

And now I have looked at some of the blogs on there I am not too worried. I can live without BritBlog. I will find some other way to share useful information with people that are interested.

Buses in Spain

Apart from the sun, and the music, and the coffee, and the beer, and the cava, and the scenery, and the history, and..and..lots more.. one of the best things about Spain is the buses.

I guess the services are so good because so many people used not to have cars.

In fact lots still don't, and many women still don't drive. Not where I am anyway.

So I can walk down to the main road out of the village and get on a bus to Málaga, every 40 minutes, for 1.85€. And for 40 or 50 minutes depending on traffic, I can gaze out of the window at the Mediterranean as someone else drives me down the coast. This is A Good Thing.

Alsina Graells in Spanish, English, and French.

In bus stations you buy the tickets from a little ticket office. You need to go to the one for the company you are travelling with. (In Málaga this excludes the airport bus which is a Euro fixed fare paid to the driver when you get on the bus, have the exact money ready.)

On busy buses you may find your seat number is included on the ticket. Invariably the Spanish either ignore this or can't read anyway. This then leads to lots of Spanish hollering at each other and trying to sit on each other's laps as the whole bus has to start playing musical chairs.

I watched this performance last week on the bus back from Gibraltar. On the way down from Málaga it had been pretty quiet, but coming back, on the 2.15pm bus - the Spanish had obviously got out of bed - it was pretty busy.

Anyway, when in Spain do as the Spanish do, so I ignored my allocated seat and cleared off to the back of the bus. I would not normally recommend this practice - I add quickly - but I had all my bags with me and wanted the space. Plus I've got long legs, and back ache...well those are my excuses anyway.

This was a good move although by fluke and not as calculated as it appears. Unless there are 52 people or whatever on the bus you are not going to get kicked out of the very last seat on the bus for taking someone else's seat, but I only worked that out afterwards. I was feeling smug. Those of us at the back looked on patronisingly as 20 people in the middle of the bus suddenly all started mass musical chairs just as the bus was due to leave.

A British guy hastily moved back one seat to join me at the back in case he'd committed the unpardonable of sitting in someone's else place, and then it all settled down, and off we went.

So in the back few seats we were two British, one German, one Austrian, and one undefined with curly hair and a flower pot hat. In front were three Spaniards. We happily chatted away mixing the languages, although the British guy decided to go to sleep not long after the Austrian told us he was a beggar..... He loved the Germans and the English, apparently we are generous, but the Spanish are not too keen on funding his lifestyle. He got off en route - presumably to go and find a nice supermarket to sit outside.

Coming out of Torremolinos and into Málaga we hit a delay. At this point the gypsy family in the middle of the bus decided to entertain us. The kids were obviously bored so the (say) 12-year-old girl started beating her younger brother round the head with a water bottle, on the tenuous grounds that he was behaving badly.

"SON OF A WHORE!!" they screamed at each other, while the said mother sat there watching the performance like the rest of us. Then they got bored with the water bottles as weapons and started fighting a bit more seriously with fists. Mother must have said something at this point as younger brother promptly whacked her one round the head. Father sat peaceably next to mother cradling sleeping babe in arms. And then they must have got bored and it fizzled out. Bummer. Not seen such good spontaneous spectator sport since I went to Elland Road and there were more missiles (mostly beer cans) on the pitch than players. And that was some time ago as Kevin Keegan was the main target.

I love buses. Practical details - 10.04€ between Málaga and La Linea (one way). Four buses a day. Clicky linky thingy here, (well it will be when I can work out how to do it...) Autobuses Portillo - autocares buses transporte de pasajeros Costa del Sol Málaga y Algeciras in Spanish and English.

If you want to go to Gib for a day trip and stock up at Morrisons on whatever you like - in my case Ecover toilet cleaner, cornflower, organic tinned tomatoes, vegetarian Cheshire cheese, and Nando's hot peri peri sauces - there are plenty of organised day trips from the Costa.

I used the Lux Mundi trip in Torre del Mar. Incredibly well organised. Buy ticket in advance, get seat allocated, and turn up to find name on seat too. Most impressed. Bargain price too, 12€ return day trip. Leave Torre del Mar bus station at 7am (about the only down side to the trip - especially if you live out of Torre), get down to Gib about 9.30, and then the queue to get over the frontier is all in the lap of the gods. Set off back from Morrison's car park at 4pm as I remember, and get back to Torre around 6.45pm. Recommended. So is Nando's sauce. Lux Mundi tel: (00 34) 952 54 33 34. Trips usually once a month on a Thursday.

I've posted some info about buses between Madrid - Burgos - Santander.

Good advice?

So, is my smarter older cousin 's advice to start a blog sound or not?

Anyway, methinks there is little to lose as I spend an inordinate amount of time writing old-fashioned letters about my travels around Europe to entertain people who rarely write back.

If they do, their letters are invariably full of detail about what the cat had for breakfast, how busy Asda/Tesco/Morrisons was, or how fast the kids are growing. My dog eats cats for breakfast, I know what Asda/Tesco/Morrisons are like, and it's hardly surprising that children grow up.

Nor is it surprising that I had itchy feet at forty really, if these events are the highlights of my friends' existence.

Time has moved on since I left the UK. Some friends originally told me to write a book (blogs not so prevalent then) - but like how many books are there about 40-year-olds chucking it all in to start a different life somewhere idyllic in Europe? Too many. I think a blog is much easier so cousin David wins out there straightaway.

But in deference to some of my friends, I will try and include a few flashbacks from the original trip. After all, driving on the pavement and uprooting trees isn't something I'd done before. Not really something you do very often in the UK, although by the looks on the faces of the French council workers it probably doesn't happen too often there either. Brownchurch roofrack 1 - tree 0. Anyway more travel snippets later, mainly from Portugal, Gibraltar, Spain and North Africa.