The Bedford Story - Part 1

Wandering idly down the beach the other day, as you do on a Sunday morning, Excitable Partner spotted a Bedford 3-ton truck.

When he is not lusting after Forward Controls, or 101s (these are all Land Rovers) he wants a Bedford truck. Hmmm.

"Hi can I take a photo of your truck?"

"Yeah, course you can. No problem. Most people don't ask."

The guy was English. He and his woman and very young daughter told us they were travelling up the coast having spent some time in Portugal and Gibraltar.

Boring talk about truck then ensued.

Age: 50 (the truck this is)

History: museum, and two previous owners

Price seven years ago: £1200

Engine: 5.5 diesel out of a later Bedford truck

Problems: none really

Mileage: well low, 9000 when it came out of the museum

Cruising speed: 45mph

The woman finally appeared so we talked about other things. Glastonbury. Police. Travelling. Home births. Sign language for babies. I know little about these last two and am not planning to experience either. Actually I know nothing about the first two either.

Off we went after nearly an hour chatting in the increasingly hot sun.

A day or two later doing the Shopping Run in the Santana, Helpful Partner returned home with Bedford Truck Man (BTM). He'd met him in town where he was wandering round looking for hose that goes from the air intake to the oil bath.

It seemed his had exploded. His engine was overheating. He was struggling round town trying to find somewhere to buy the right hose. His Spanish was pretty minimal.

Unfortunately the local shopping town is not the buying-hose-for-trucks-town. Or EP90 as we have just found out. A guy in one of the garages was telling him that the next town, only a short walk away in the middle of the day (hah) would have the right hoses.

So Helpful Partner junked off the shopping and off they went in search of the elusive hose...........

...........More later......radiators, fans and water pumps...

What do I read?

I've been tagged about my ten fave books. Well I haven't, the dog has. But he doesn't read. So I'm posting.

In no particular order....

Land Rover Series III Parts Catalogue and Repair Operation Manual. Two separate books but they both save me a sh!tload of money. And it means I can sit outside, head in book, issuing instructions.

Mostly these days when I pick up something it's probably a superb second-hand three-volume set of Somerset Maugham short stories that I bought a few years ago in Malaga.

Anything (apart from Brighton Rock) by Graham Greene, especially Our Man In Havana

The Idiot - Dostoevsky

The Scarlet and the Black - Stendahl

Midnight's Children - Rushdie

Love in the time of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez - and his other books

Most stuff by Conrad, especially Nostromo

And that leaves me two more to think about as I go off to bed.

If anyone wants to play tag - you can do your ten favourite books - or a quickie - what are you reading now?

Tomorrow is the Story of the Bedford.

Road tax

The guy from the local council was wandering round yesterday.

He had a pile of envelopes.

"It's for him over there," shouted one of the neighbours. "The foreigner. The one with the dog. Look, he's there now."

So the guy hands the envelope to Bemused Partner.

"Eh, HOMBRE!" shouts Partner as the guy rapidly disappeared down the street. "ESPERATE. PARA."

Eventually the guy stopped and waited. Irritated Partner gave him back the envelope. "No es para mi."

It was actually for the woman who lived here before us. When she sold the house to us she promptly went out and bought a new 4x4 out of the profits. (As did the estate agent out of the commission.)

When we first moved in, a guy from the council came round asking for her. Seemed like she'd bought the car, but using the old address. It's common practice round here. Some neighbours also bought from an English-speaking couple who did exactly the same.

So every year when the road tax comes round - payable to the local council - it goes to an address where they don't live. Technically they are untraceable - unless they ever get pulled by the police on the road.

After two or three years the guy who came round in his official van, asking for - let's call her Jane - started to believe us and accepted she didn't live here.

Last year we just got a bill in the post for her car tax. No visit. In fact we started to get on good terms with the guy and we waved at him whenever he was driving round the village looking for car tax dodgers.

This year the council obviously has so many non-tax-payers it is worthwhile sending a guy out to deliver the demand (plus interest plus fine) rather than using the very efficient postie (who at least knows who lives where.)

"I paid my car tax when the demand first came out," said Smug Partner (it comes out in March and you get a couple of months to pay) just to make a point.

The guy walked back up the street. Obviously deciding the foreigner wasn't totally stupid.

He asked us about a couple of other names, and numbers. The house numbers around here have no logic to them, partly because of the way families build extra houses on the same plot, split houses into flats, do anything to home their older or younger relatives that isn't too expensive. We directed him to some neighbours just down from us.

Our immediate neighbours were hanging about outside, interested in the commotion.

"Oh, you remember when Jane sold us the house and bought a new coche," we explained....."well every year her road tax demand plus fines are sent to this address."

The neighbours tutted and sighed. We all looked virtuous and sanctimonious together. We discussed how Jane's Spanish boyfriend didn't like to work and lived and ate out of her money. (Unlike their exemplary son-in-law who hasn't worked for two years - apart from a couple of fiddle jobs - and lives off his wife's part-time cleaning job and her parent's pension).

Then the council guy called out another street number. He obviously thought we were so helpful and he still had a sheaf of bills in his hand.

There is no mistaking next-doors' house number. It is one of the few that has no duplicate. There is no mistaking their name either. Which the guy also called out.

He went to their gate. There was a bit of chat and then Jose reluctantly took the bills in.

We couldn't contain ourselves. We ran inside with a serious attack of hysterics. And the conversation had stopped.

Axles and diffs...Ejes y diffs

I have no idea what sort of axles and diffs I have on my Land Rover Santana 3.5 diesel 6 cylinder Station Wagon (DL Super).

No tengo la menor idea que tipo de ejes y diffs mi Santana teine.

They are not like any axles on any of the Land Rovers I have owned. They are not Rover, and they are not Salisbury. Could they be ENV? Both front and rear axles are very big and strong.

En mis Land Rovers que he tenido antes (LR Series ii, LR Series III, ambos 109 pulgados), no hay algo similar. Los de mi Santana no son de Rover, ni de Salisbury tanpoco. ¿Se pueden ser ENV? Pero, son muy grande y muy fuerte.

Can anyone shed any light on them for me?

¿Hay alguien que puede ayudarme distinguir que tipos de ejes y diffs teine mi coche?

Front axle........Eje delantero


Front axle........Eje delantero


Front axle........Eje delantero


Front axle number........Número de eje delantero


Rear axle........eje trasero


Rear axle........Eje trasero


Rear axle........Eje trasero


Rear axle number........Número de eje trasero


If you have any idea please comment below (anonymous usually works ok). Thanks.

Sí sabes algo, pon un mensaje abajo (normalmente anónimo funciona bien). Gracias.

Adrian, Catalina

Summertime......and gazpacho time

How many recipes for gazpacho are there on the Internet?

And how many English-speaking people can say they were taught how to make it by their 70+year-old Spanish neighbour?

Who grew up in the campo, and doesn't read and write (apart from her name), and who still cooks Andalucian peasant cooking - even though her family prefers fast food.

Anyway, the answer is - me.

Not long after we moved in, she asked me round to show me how to make gazpacho. And ajoblanco too.

It's coming to tomato glut time. We got a couple of kilos from next-doors the other day after Jose had visited his cuñado. (pronounced - around here - cun-yow)

That's his brother-in-law, ie his sister's husband. But why mention the woman when you can describe the relationship in terms of a man? I know this because my father once described me as his son-in-law's wife.

Back to tomatoes. Today we got a few more kilos. Not sure what the total is now. But the fridge is full. Not much in there apart from tomatoes, but that's a start.

Yesterday we had tomato pilaff. Very nice, spicy but not hot. The chillies - fresh and dried - went in the salad. That way the dog can have tasty rice for breakfast. And we get hot curry, courtesy of the salad.

And while I was making the pilaff, I remembered we had not yet had gazpacho this summer.

So take four or five large tomatoes. Say 1 lb or more. Peel them if you choose. I take out the cores, at least.


Put them in a blender or a batidora container. Add one or two reasonable-sized cloves of garlic. Some slurps of olive oil. Quite a few slurps, eg around 2 fl ozs. Definitely has to be extra virgin, cold-pressed.

If you have a favourite, use that. If you don't like a strong-tasting one, use one of the blander mainstream ones. I use an aceite verdial from Periana in the hills behind us. I doubt it is exported. It costs around 20-25€ for five litres and it is excellent. Droolerific in fact.



Add some wine vinegar. Not too much, less than the olive oil, but say around a couple of tablespoons. Ordinary wine vinegar is fine because you need the sharpness, so don't mess with any trendy vinegars. I use Vinagre de Jerez at any opportunity, but this is not one. Your average 40 cents a litre stuff from the local supermercado is fine.

Add a pinch of salt. I use rock salt. Today I had run out, so it was salt-free.

Blend or batidora it. Put it in the freezer for a short while unless you are organised and have left enough time for it to chill in the fridge.



Then, when it is nice and cold, re-whizz. Zzzzzz. Now this is actually the technical bit. Depending on how much oil you have added, or how juicy your tomatoes are, you may want/need to add some cold water. Bottled - I use Primavera.

The other adjustment to be made is the salt:vinegar ratio. Stick finger in (not while the machine is switched on - apparently one needs to include these sort of warnings because people are really dumb) and test for flavour. A few times obviously. I think I have just breached a few hygiene regs here.

Then pour it out. In our village it is served as a drink, so it comes in glasses or cups. You can add ice cubes if you want.



No, it doesn't include peppers, cucumber, onion, or anything else, either whizzed up, or served on the side. This is a village, not a restaurant.

Finally, Gazpacho Loving Partner was busy painting the house of a neighbour with another English guy. The woman - from Madrid - offered them gazpacho (the weather was well hot). "Yes," said Partner. And promptly had seconds. "Delicioso, muchas gracias."

"God, I hate that foreign slop," said the other guy, (he lived with a Spanish woman) and he didn't touch a drop.

So it's basically a refreshing drink round here. And when I have enough cheap tomatoes - like now - there is always some in my fridge. If you like tomatoes, garlic, olive oil and vinegar - it's for you - great stuff, at any time of day. But if, like Bob, you don't like foreign slop......

Edited to add (in view of the comments)
Note to British readers and others in unsunny unwarm climes - you need sunny grown tomatoes, not nice firm ones from Blackpool or whereever. It tastes much better on a warm day. It's not a cool weather drink. A bit like gin and tonic....

Green eyes

Jealousy. I'm eminently qualified to write about this.

Like many women, I've been envious of the "prettier" women, the ones with more boyfriends, better exam grades, better job, affluent lifestyle, more money....I'm sure you know the list.

But I've got a bit better over the years and don't suffer any more. Well, not often.

Mainly because I've realised I'm doing what I want and that other people's lives aren't for me.

Still I always forget that people might be jealous of us.

It's easy to forget when you are tall and slim that other people might want to be too.

Or that they think you are clever. Or that you have a trendy job, or a good career.

Or that you are living the high life (I wish) on the shores of the Mediterranean in your 40s.

When a long-term friend came out to see me she looked at my graduation photo and said:"Oh, what a beautiful photo of you. Mine were rubbish."

I was a bit surprised, and then realised she meant it. She always seemed to consider herself a particularly adorable piece of work.

When we came here we wanted the olive grove dream, so it always surprises us that people are jealous of our small stone semi + very large corral in the village. With only a large terrace, and a small patio. And it is a five or ten minute walk to the beach.

But when Cycling Partner went to town yesterday, he was surprised to find he has a new nickname. Baron Rothschild. Does this guy fiddling with his bikes rescued from the skip look like he has anything?

He learnt this when he stopped for a drink. One of the other customers (the bar owners refused to tell him who) has decided they are both wealthy men. The bar owner apparently is Howard Hughes.

"I think I would rather be Rothschild," said Newly Ennobled Partner. "I thought Hughes was a bit off the wall."

I wish that he was Rothschild too. If only for the wine.

Neither of them felt aggrieved. They both thought it was funny. None of us are remotely rich. I think the correct word is careful.

But after laughing about it, they did talk seriously about people's perceptions. Since we bought here in Spain some years ago the price of property has gone up. It usually does. The prices have increased hugely in our village which suddenly seems to be desirable.

Lots of people in the area have sold up, and moved on. To cheaper places. Other parts of Spain, and other countries. And according to the bar owners, many of them spent a lot of money, in just a few years, all the time - leading a holiday life that just doesn't add up. Bars, restaurants, clothes, holidays....When you should be trying to make your money last out.

What people don't see is our cheap life-style. We buy our food from the travelling van or some of the local Spanish shops - rather than the help-yourself-supermarkets. If you are intimidated by going into small shops full of Spaniards, who rarely speak any English - supermarkets are for you. They are not for our food shopping, apart from the odd luxury like watercress.

We do not regularly go to the bar, maybe two drinks in a week, when we're on the bike. For some weeks/months, we don't go at all. Howard Hughes (sic) - the bar owner - would not be living out of us. We do not eat out. We do not smoke. We do not drink spirits. We probably should do these last two as they are both cheap here. They just don't suit us.

I no longer buy Cerrutti, (probably my very favourite designer). I rarely even buy from Zara. For half the year it is so warm that clothes are superfluous. For the other half I still have warm clothes from the UK.

We have no heating - apart from one fire - which we didn't light last year. We collect our timber. We have no air conditioning in summer.

Now we have no TV, after Ennobled Partner chucked it out when it stopped working. We never paid for satellite anyway. We didn't come here to watch British TV.

We don't go out in the Land Rover Santana every day. We cycle or walk. Sometimes we take the bus.

If this is the Rothschild lifestyle - fine. I doubt it.

Yeah, we have a small house in a nice place. But who would live the same life as us?

Almost forgot - my eyes are naturally green.

Internet mates

Some (ie quite a few years ago) when we used the Internet, there were very few personal conversations.

There were web sites and there was e-mail, but chat and forums were not widespread.

Now there is a forum for anything and everything.

And we have joined a selection. Mainly interest groups. Sometimes to share expertise and learn, sometimes to get help with problems.

We were naive at first. Didn't realise that some of the fun, wit and sarcasm visible to the whole world was posted because some of the people on various forums have actually met each other.

In fact a lot of people have met each other on some of the forums we visit. Which is a good thing - and something that may not have happened without the internet.

And we haven't met anyone from any forum.

But people have said they were coming to Spain and suggested meeting us.

Or on a number of forums - trips are proposed through, France, Spain, and sometimes on to Morocco - which we have followed with interest. And then they stop dead. In public anyway. Don't know if they ever happen or if they only happen for the In Crowd.

We clearly aren't the In Crowd. We aren't the norm. Once we did it for some years. Well, we had a mortgage and a couple of jobs, a semi-detached, etc etc....

But if we commit to something, over the Internet or in person, we try and hold to it. I would like to say we always do, but we all let some people down at some point. Sadly. And maybe we don't even know when we do.

So the big wide world of the Internet starts to shrink. If you don't fit in with the majority on a forum, you fade into the background. You certainly don't join in with the very in jokes.

People don't seem to care if they say they will do something and then they don't. They find a reason to back out. This is not a personal gripe - we have read about people saying they will help someone else out - and then......it's all too difficult. And maybe it's easier when it is just a meaningless Internet offer of help to someone you don't know.

Some people want to charge for any sort of help. Others are looking for income generation for their business. And there are some people on the Internet who are willing to help for no obvious reward.

Others are just self-publicists and they are good at it too. "I have just posted some photos of this event - and here it is" on my website of course - you want to see the photos - you bring traffic to my website. "I'm not going to post them on a forum, I don't waste my time on here for nothing".

So if you get good help and advice, that's great. We hope we remember to say thanks when we get help from the ones who are genuinely helpful.

Because there are always the ones who seem to be really good Internet mates and who suddenly leave you high and dry.

No, they've changed their mind. No, they don't want to meet you (even though it was their idea). No, they don't want to do an expedition with you (they haven't met you, they can't be bothered). No, they can't even take the time to send you any info over the Net.

You get a cursory acknowledgement when you send them something they ask for. Did they even want it - or are they just checking us out?

They pick you up and drop you faster than anything you've known.

Who are these perfect guys? And why do they think an Internet commitment means nothing?

Discovering naval history in Gib

Weekends in Gib are great. There are less people, less cars and it is quiet.

A good day to go for a walk and look at some naval heritage.

Here is a statue of Admiral Lord Nelson facing the Trafalgar cemetery. We pass it every day. The whole area is beautifully maintained with exotic sub-tropical gardens.



First stop the 100 ton gun, at Napier of Magdala Battery.

Closed. To revamp the exhibition. Sorry for the inconvenience.

The inconvenience was not huge. The walk was nice anyway. The views of Rosia Bay and the Bay of Algeciras are always interesting.

Pilot boat in Rosia Bay



Bahia de Algeciras



So off we went to Parson's Lodge, just round the corner.



Also closed.

The Gibraltar Heritage Trust won an international award for the excellent work that had been carried out restoring the gun battery so it is a shame to see it closed in the summer holiday season.

Everyone wants to go to the top of the Rock and see the apes. And that's what we did on our first trip.

But there is more to Gibraltar. The historical heritage is incredible. I say this as someone with my first degree in history and archaeology - and the place just oozes history. Love it.

It's one of the reasons we bought a flat there.

We have also joined the Heritage Trust to try and give our support. And if we can volunteer to do anything to promote Gibraltar's history and heritage we will.

Because it would be good to see tourists and travellers enjoying everything Gibraltar has to offer, as well as the apes and the top of the Rock.

Coast artillery searchlight and guns at Parson's Lodge

Drinking with the gitano

As usual Shopping Cycling Partner cleared off for the veg. After a few hours I figured he had either gone to Nerja for a bit of extra exercise or had been waylaid.

So I sent him a text. Asking if he had gone to Nerja. A few minutes later he appeared.

A few hours previously he had cycled round the corner to come up the street.

"Hola amigo" someone hollered at him from the bar.

"Hola" he waved back at whoever-it-was and attempted to cycle on home.

Not a chance. It was Juan the gitano. The guy who gave us the cockerel. And he insisted Non-Bar-Drinking Partner go for a drink.

"I don't go to the bar," said Partner. "I know," said Juan. "But I am paying. I invite you."

So Shopping Cycling Partner turned into Bar Drinking Partner.

One of the neighbours came up and shook hands. A few minutes later another one followed suit to pay his respects.

The guy from the finca over the road beamed and went over to chat with them.

Clearly Juan carries some weight.

Another young neighbour was sitting at the bar.

"He's often in here," gossiped Juan. "He drinks quite a lot." Juan was already drinking whisky and cokes with his beer.

"How are the chickens and the cockerel? Don't forget I'd still like to put my small cockerel with your little English one."

And by way of incentive, "Would you like a peacock?"

Well a peacock would be great. We don't really have the space though. And they are expensive. Accepting a peacock is not like accepting a hybrid cockerel.

Bar Drinking Partner played it safe. "Well, the little English chicken belongs to my woman, it would be up to her really....And sadly we haven't enough space for a peacock."

The unsuccessful business part of the conversation out of the way, Juan launched into his exploits with one of the prostitutes in one of the villages a few miles away. Juan does not have a partner, I should add. He is 48.

"It costs me €50," he said. "That's for as long as I can manage. Of course I usually keep going for an hour and a half."

Bar Drinking Partner murmured appreciatively. Not sure whether it was at Juan's alleged sexual athleticism or his fertile imagination.

Not everyone is impressed with Juan though. Clearly the fact that the English foreigner had been drinking with the gitano flew round the village and the next-door neighbours ignored us for a week.

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

One good turn.....

.....deserves another.

The other day Shopping Partner came back from hunter-gathering, and unloaded the Land Rover Santana. Which is parked on the street outside the house.

We carefully unpacked everything and started cooking lunch.

I say we, he actually did everything, but the principle is the same.

An hour or so later the neighbours called out.

"Is that yours?"

Is what ours?....

Shopping, Cooking, Unloading Partner had only left his bag containing vehicle papers, passport, reading glasses, Swiss Army Knife, Multiplier, Georgio Armani sunglasses (that I always resented paying for) sitting outside on the bonnet for an hour or two.

Clearly the village is still pretty honest.

So the other morning when DogWalking Partner went past next door's house, he noticed the car window was wide open.

He called for Jose, who came out and promptly opened the door (unlocked) to check nothing had been stolen.

The CD player was still there and everything was obviously untouched.

Seems the younger part of the family had gone to the beach for the evening, rolled back home around 3.30 am - after a few drinks down the beach with their mates - and just fallen out of the car and staggered into the house. Obviously without securing the car.

Jose went off to berate the younger generation and Partner continued dogwalking. He doesn't usually go that way, total coincidence, and no damage had been done. But it doesn't hurt to look out for your neighbours - or anyone really.

Cutting you off

Helpful Partner went off to earn his keep. Shopping and paying the water bill. (Remember - the water bill can't be paid in the village bank.)

So while he's in the water office, the guy in front was trying to explain - not unreasonably - that he didn't want his water cut off. The account wasn't yet in his name and it seemed like the previous occupant hadn't paid up.

Apparently he had received a letter saying the water company would be cutting off the water. Mañana, muy temprano. Yes Saturday. People work on Saturdays here. A lot of our neighbours work every day.

The woman rang the Cutting Off Department, and it was agreed that if Guy In Front brought in his title deeds and provided the number of the meter - today - then the cutting off would be cancelled.

Guy In Front sent his teenage son, who had accompanied him, back home to find the deeds and meter number. On the motor bike. Son promptly left skid lid on counter and went off, leaving Guy In Front sitting patiently in the office.

Don't know what happened then because Helpful Partner paid and cleared off too. But we have some empathy with this.

When we bought GibFlat, our blond hairdressing vendor (who, according to our estate agent had suffered a disastrous encounter with a peroxide monster) didn't seem to think (us) paying over the money and signing the papers (all of us) meant that she had to move out of the flat. Well, not for a few days anyway. Just until she had got herself sorted.

Lawyers command vast sums for conveyancing in Gib, but as part of that service, it seems to include ensuring all the bills are up-to-date and there is a straightforward handover. Her lawyer asked if she had done the transfer of bills stuff. "No," she said. Actually it was "Non." She rolled her pretty eyes helplessly. Underneath the mass of blond hair.

"OK," he said patiently. And to his colleague, "Can you give her forms 123XYZ?"

"Yes. Er, no. I don't seem to have them. I'll need to get them from the office." (We were sitting in a formal boardroom sort-of-place for the Official Signing and Handover of Keys - Hah!).

As an aside, had my lawyer been asking for the last few weeks if this had been done? Yes. Had it? No.

So once we're finally in our flat and had our first night in there, the entryphone rang early the next morning.

Well obviously it was a mistake because we didn't know anyone. But I answered anyway. Couldn't hear because I had ringing in my ears so I let them in and then went down to confront Gibraltar's major criminals gaining false entry to flats. Or so my paranoid British mind ran.

It was the electricity board. They looked pretty straight. GibElec and not GibCrims. They wanted to cut off our electricity. The previous owner had given notice to stop the service - not transfer - so here they were, prompt and efficient.

I said - after a very long pause - that cutting off the electricity wasn't exactly what we had expected. And we had only bought the flat the day before.

Apparently if I ran down to the electricity office - immediately - clutching ID and some money for a deposit for the connection, this might be avoided. I went. And fast. Just as I finished averting the cut-off, the woman's parting shot was..."Have you been to the water office yet? They will cut you off too."

Well, the good thing about living in central Gib is that everything is near. So, next stop, water office. I don't like lifts, climbed the millions of stairs, and dutifully waited. Only to find I needed my title deeds (in the Land Registry), or at the least, a photocopy with a signed letter on headed paper from my lawyer. Oh, and the cut-off was scheduled. She didn't know if she could avoid it. But she would try.

Next stop the lawyer's office. Only three flights of stairs. Letter and photocopy in hand I again climbed the millions of stairs to the water office. I tried to avoid the chairs which are nastily positioned near horrible floor-length glass windows on this far-too-high floor.

My turn. The same efficient woman took my papers. Photocopied everything. Keyed in the details. Rang the Cutting Off Department. Yes, it could be cancelled. I nearly kissed her feet. Except they were under the desk and I couldn't see them. I was a bit hot and sweaty too from the hike up the stairs so I don't think it would have helped.

I did nothing for the rest of the day. Why are people such shitheads that they make life difficult when you buy their property? So we felt for the guy in town today in the water office today. Because we have been there too.

And you can see why my legs are in great shape after a few days in Gib.

Paying bills - Spanish style

Here in Spain you pay the bills at the bank.

Well, that would make sense, wouldn't it, as they deal in money.

So whether it's personal tax, council tax, electricity, or telephone, off you go to the bank. Apart from the water bills that you can pay at the office. The bank is easier to be honest.

Just to confuse matters the water bills come every three months, telephone and electricity - every two.

Sadly, now that I have ADSL, the telephone bill is monthly. I think that's so us Internet addicts don't all die from shock when we get two months' worth of line rental, ADSL rental, a few calls, plus 16% tax.

But you can't pay your bills at the bank at just any old time.

Some stipulate only between the 10th and 20th of the month. Others say only on a Monday if it's the week of a full moon. My local village bank is Tuesdays and Thursdays between 8.30-10.30am.

I checked I had enough to pay and off I went. Purse in hand.

The bank office is currently being revamped, so it's service-as-usual out of a portable office in a bus. Don't know what happens if you use a wheelchair or crutches though, as the only way in is up steps.

Actually I've never seen a wheelchair in the village. And if any of the older people have problems walking, their family just grab hold of them, and drag them out for the enforced ritual constitutional. Same would go for the bank I guess - the family would go for you. Who needs independence when you have family?

I digress. The bank man was on his own. Pili (the manager) was in town signing stuff, and Antonio was on his holidays. Every time someone came in, he repeated the story.

There were three people in front of me. Each time he started to deal with someone the 'phone rang. Then he had to go into Pili's office and rummage around. Then had to do something on the computer. Multiply this by three.

What would normally take a few minutes was taking a seriously long time. Anyway, no rush here. So we sat chatting about next week's feria (fair), how people didn't want to leave the village and live two kilometres away because all their friends and family were here, and how you could just put one of those nice pre-fabs up on your terrace for your kids when they wanted their own place so they didn't have to leave. Has to be said I didn't take a very active part in that last bit.

And then it was my turn. "Hola, buenos," I said. He started keying in the bill details. I opened the purse to pay. It was the sterling purse that I use for Gib. Not a Euro in sight.

So when I'd checked the purse earlier it was the Euro purse. And it was still sitting on the computer desk. And then I'd absent-mindedly picked up the Gib purse.

"Aaaaaah," I said. He looked up attentively. "No tengo el dinero." I didn't want a conversation about the two purses going round the whole village within an hour. And it was true. I didn't have the money.

"Qué hora es?" I asked, naively thinking I might be able to rush home and get the right purse. "Ya es 10.30."

Ah well. Back on Thursday morning for another half an hour's chat about the feria or whatever.

Listening to the neighbours (2)

After we'd spent the best part of last Saturday at the car boot sale, our neighbour waited a few days but then couldn't contain herself.

"Where've you been? We've hardly seen you," she said.

"We've been getting rid of some stuff at car boot sales," said Entrepreneurial Partner. (NB note to all dog lovers - this did not include selling the dog in the above photo.)

"Well did you make anything?" she asked nosily.

"About 40€ on Saturday in the local town" he said. Not one to let the facts get in the way of the story, although we did make more than 30€.

So fast forward to another of the family-next-door's lunchtime conversations.......(following on from Listening to the neighbours back in May).

"Oooooh, we haven't got any money," said the (40+year-old) daughter as usual.

"We can't afford to go anywhere, we can't buy our whisky and cigarettes," she moaned.

Her (80-year-old, walks three miles a day) father was just waiting for this. He'd obviously been brought up to speed by his wife.

"That couple next door have been to the market. He made 60€." (Also not one to let the facts get in the way of the story).

"They aren't even Spanish.

"Why don't you do that?" he blasted.

"It's my only day off." (She cleans for three or four mornings a week).

"He probably sold to foreigners anyway," she said.

"No he didn't, all except for three of his customers were Spanish," he replied.

"He's not just sitting around and moaning. Why don't you do it?" he persisted.

"Can't get the stuff in the car," said the son-in-law grumpily on one of his rare forays into these father-daughter arguments.

"Make two trips," snapped back his wife's father (well on form).

"Don't want. We've got better things to do on Saturday.

"I should be able to get work in my village," was his parting shot, as he sulked off in a huff....

...To go and watch the TV in their small house, built by him and his father-in-law, on his father-in-law's ground. The ownership of the property has recently been transferred from the father to his daughter. The son-in-law is not on the deeds.

There is no mortgage on the property. Never has been. And for all the time he has been working, do they have any savings? No. What are they living on? Mostly the old couple's pension that stretches to feed and pay bills for six, plus the cleaning money earned by the daughter.

Oh, and his car, which he doesn't use too much at the moment, had no local road tax earlier in the year (we heard the tax officer coming round to hassle him about it), and he didn't bother replacing the MOT/roadworthy certificate & sticker when it expired last year.

Back to the conversation. The son who-fell-off-the-pushbike and still isn't back in school piped up.

"Only foreigners who don't have any respect for themselves would be prepared to do that on a Saturday morning," he said arrogantly.

"I've told you before, stop disrespecting the neighbours," his mother shouted at him.

"I've heard enough. Get out of the way."

So the two teenage sons limped off the ten yards to their house with their tails between their legs, to join their equally out-of-favour father.

Good results

Two good reports.

First - the Royal Gibraltar Police Traffic Control Department.

Well, I said they had responded mega-fast to my request for No Parking signs.

And the signs were up there, on the spot, well in advance, to ask people not to park there during the day on Wednesday.

Thanks very much, RGP, superb service.

Hey, note the police signs, just by the bin?

And secondly, the removal firm was great too. MoveIt. The only firm I have ever - I mean ever - used twice. And that included storage too.

All their packing of delicate goods and furniture has been as good as, or better than anyone else.

The guys turned up at the frontier - early - but so was I. Off round to the Spanish side to tell the Guardia Civil who I was, and then off to the Gib side to import a load of old furniture.

Officer in Gib customs asked me how old the stuff was - "Well, as old as me, more or less" - so that seemed to dull his interest, and I got the all-important slip of paper to import the furniture with a resale value of zilch pounds.

And then we all drove up to GibFlat, parked outside, and the cool guys unloaded the furniture. Polite, efficient, hard-working, and courteous. Thanks guys.

Men

And their Land Rovers. Actually our Land Rovers.

So Eat,Drink,Breathe,Sleep,Talk,SurfInternet,Land Rovers Partner decided to take off the roof yesterday and put on the hood sticks and the rag top.

Cool idea, especially being in Spain.

Well, yes, but we were meant to be going somewhere today. (No not shopping, that is his job too - not that he did much of it today.)

So when the roof is out on the street, along with the Lintrans dog kennel, he asks if we are going on the pre-arranged trip.

When? Midnight?

So he finishes off the hood sticks and rag top. Very nice it looked too.


And then can't get the roof back in the corral.
Good one, mate.

Forward Control 2B/Royal Gibraltar Police

Here is a view of some local scenery.

OK I know it's a Land Rover but Helpful Partner likes Land Rovers.

And the dog already has his own blog, so I am certainly not, and I mean not, maintaining a Landyblog.

So here is a Land Rover Santana Forward Control Series 2B which lives not far out the back of us.

It is used on an aguacate finca (avocado farm) and it takes the aguacates to the local corrida (wholesale veg market) in our village.

It often drives past our house, but sadly Land Rover Smitten Partner never has the camera on him.

So one day he found it when he was having a brief wander.

For any similarly smitten people - drool on. It's the only one we have seen here in Andalucia.

Top marks
to the Royal Gibraltar Police (RGP).

It is really nice to be able to say something good about people for once.

We sent a fax to them today regarding getting a delivery to our flat in Gibraltar.

The street is narrow and will need No Parking signs to be put up by the RGP in advance.

We received a return confirmatory fax and a quick 'phone call. Great service, fast, efficient and very polite.

Let's hope everything works out as well on the day.

Listening to the neighbours

A little bit of Spanish can be quite useful. Mmmm.

So sitting out on our terrace while the (Spanish) neighbours were helpfully talking away at each other and anyone within earshot..

Snippet 1
The 15-year-old son next-door came off his pushbike some weeks ago. He wasn't wearing a helmet or gloves. He ended up in the city hospital with his jaw wired, his face badly knocked about, his cheekbones damaged, and he hasn't been back to school since.

The grandfather, who actually owns the property (three generations in the same space), asked why he came off.

Was he going too fast? Why was he going down such a steep hill? (Not one that we would tackle..)

"It wasn't his fault. It was the bike's fault," said his mother without missing a beat.

She went on to add that the brakes weren't working properly. So it was obviously the bike's fault.

The bike went into the skip after the incident. The lad now rides a moped, obviously without a helmet, and if the brakes don't work one day, no doubt it will also be the moped's fault.

Snippet 2
There was a party at the local council building a few nights ago. It was put on by one of the local political parties as elections are coming up very soon.

"We need to vote for them", said Marcey (the same mother of the son with the culpable bike). "They give us free beer and they will look after the people of this village."

Her 80-year-old father was nearly ROFLAO - or he would have been if he had internet access and understood the abbreviations. He still laughed at her anyway.

Snippet 3
The 15-year-old with the poorly face then piped up. "They look after the wogs/guiris/foreigners."

"No they don't," snapped his mother. "Our neighbours fund themselves. They don't get benefits or healthcare, they put money into our community and don't take anything out. They don't get a vote, they pay their bills - and the council does nothing for them."

"Well, my mate up the back says....."

"Your mate up the back is wrong. Just because his family is jealous doesn't mean they are right. And in a few years time, he will walk past you with his nose in the air because he thinks he is better off than you.

"When was the last time he came to call for you?" she finished.

"Well, my dad said...."

"Well, your dad is wrong too."

"The neighbour takes work from my dad..." he said.

"No, he doesn't do that either. The last time he did something was for an English couple - your dad would never have worked for them.

"If you haven't anything useful to say, keep your mouth shut."

Given that she is the only one bringing in money right now, she can get away with it.

His dad has not worked for two years. His parting shot in today's heated argument - about the same sort of stuff, politics, work, and why haven't we got anything - was "Why should I leave my pueblo for work?"

Fine mate. You just ponce off your father-in-law and your wife for the rest of your life. And don't forget to bring up your sons with the same narrow-minded bigoted views.

Que pases un buen dia.

Oh by the way. We like our neighbours. We have helped each other out lots and lots. We still do, they gave me some good veg plants only the other day. We just don't all come from the same point of view. La vida va asi.

A day at the shops?

A few local scenery shots today.

Totally coincidental that they all involve Land Rovers.

Here is the supermarket car park with a fine example of a Land Rover Santana c Series III. Spot the deliberate omission. (Clue - it's a legal requirement.)


Here we are on the road back from the shops.


And here we are on the beach. Not a soul in sight. It was a beautiful warm day too.

Peas and mi chichi - habla español? (2)

One day we were getting peas from the vegetable man who comes round the village in his van.

We used to ask for guisantes but now we don't bother. We ask for chicharros like everyone else does in the village.

In the local town you can use either, it really depends where the shop owner is from as to which word they prefer to use.

We used to call ordinary flat green beans judias but, like the chicharros, we have adopted local custom and call them habachuelas.

And I have given up asking for patatas too, and slip into the idle use of papas. Asking for patatas was often met with blank looks anyway.

Back to the peas. So while we were asking about the use of the word chicharros, the (40-year-old) daughter of our neighbour started talking about mi chichi.

Not surprisingly it isn't an abbreviation of chicharros. And definitely not a good idea to go up to the guapa (pretty) shop assistant and say you want some of her chichis.

To save you googling it - it is the part of the female anatomy that is always used as an obscene swear-word in English.

Words that I try not to use. One of the vague feminist principles I can remember is that it is not cool to use such words in an insulting, derogatory, or abusive context, ie the word association is not good.

Apparently though, it is not always insulting, derogatory or abusive here.

My female neighbour in her late 70s will cheerfully stand outside talking and say "coño!" meaning not much more than drat. Can I imagine my mother at the same age (or any age) saying "c***!" in a casual conversation with the neighbours? It gets used on Spanish television too.

And according to neighbour Marcey, you can walk onto the bus, and say to a good friend "Hola, mi chichi...que hay?"

I do not think any of my good and very long-term friends would be impressed if I greeted them with "Hello, my little c*** ... how are you?"