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?"

Single-handed

I've just developed an amazing respect for left-handed people in a right-handed world.

And an even greater respect for people who only have the use of one hand.

Since my dog most unhelpfully decided to chase a cat - and in the course of which dragged me with him for the first few yards - my right arm has been useless.

I can't cook, because I can't chop with my left hand. I can't clean (not that I do much of that), I can't type anything longer than a few sentences - but that's because I find it so frustrating that it takes such a long time. I can't write with a pen. I can't tie shoelaces.

The ironing board will soon collapse under the weight of clean but very wrinkly clothes. I can't cycle. The digi camera is designed for a right-handed person, although it doesn't stop Worn-out Partner - who is left-handed - being able to use it. I have visions of dropping it.

I can put my contact lenses in - and fortunately can take them out too, I can open things - jars, bottles, bags, although I need to use my feet or toes or knees to help.

But I am feeling pretty useless. I guess I should sit back and enjoy being waited on.

A nice drive

We were idly driving round Gibraltar trying to find a parking space - as you do - when we suddenly found we were locked into a one-way system of no return.

Ah well, what better to do on a nice sunny afternoon than have a tour round the promontory?

And then have a nice rest. So we all had a stop at Little Bay.


I took some photos.
The dog had a few peepees. I had a bottle of beer. Driving partner walked the dog and wished he had turned right down the hill towards Ragged Staff Gates and gone to the usual car park instead of hitting the Rosia Road.

Then we went through a long tunnel. That was exciting.

For once I didn't have an attack of paranoia that the Landy wouldn't go through the small gap hacked out of the rock. There are so many MoD Land Rovers in Gibraltar that everything must be made Land Rover sized.

Down to Europa Point we went, past the mosque, and then back round on the top road.

And back to the car park where we normally park.

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.

Driving in Spain - incidents on the N340

We've just come back from a trip on the N340 between Málaga and points south. The well-known coast road that for the most part runs by the sea, through the amazing, totally overbuilt Costa del Sol from Torremolinos down to Estepona, and further.

In fact with the amount of buildings that are going up at La Duquesa (south of Estepona), the non-stop urban monstrosities will soon reach San Roque.

The road is part dual carriageway, part motorway, and if you choose, part cruising through the towns, but we have stopped doing that because it really is too, too slow. Although prettier.

The Spanish drive fast. Most people on motorways drive fast. The national traffic department regularly publishes statistics about how many people die over the weekend.

For the 1 May Bank Holiday weekend 2007 (celebrated here on the first and not the first Monday as in the UK), there were only 45 deaths. And this was good news, because 13 people less died this year than last year.

In a couple of trips we have experienced:

1) A strange guy driving very slowly (30mph - or perhaps it was 30kph) on the dual carriageway, held everyone up until we could all pass him.

When we passed him he seemed more interested in his nose than driving. Not sure whether he was picking it or what. With the bit of silver foil in his hand.

Later on he woke up. And overtook everyone again. Half an hour later on the three-lane motorway coming into Málaga he was in the outside lane doing 30 something an hour again. With everyone amazingly slowing down and managing to avoid him. Again.

2) Going through Málaga in the other direction, a car stopped dead in the middle lane. Two guys getting out leisurely to retrieve their obligatory yellow jackets from the boot before they started messing around with the car. The ones they should have been wearing before they even stepped out onto the motorway.

We just couldn't work out why they had stopped. Not an ideal spot though. Downhill. Traffic speeding up or flying off on one of the city exits. Still, another accident narrowly avoided.

3) The rude, ignorant, and aggressive driver of a Q8 tanker somewhere between Málaga and Rincon de la Victoria. The stretch of road where the speed limit is 100kph and we were doing around 85 and it wasn't fast enough for him so he started tailgaiting and hooting his horn.

Yes we were in the inside lane. Yes he could have overtaken but chose to be abusive and intimidating for a while first. Then he overtook, hooted his horn, and cut in front of us. It was fairly obvious he was going to do that so we were expecting it.

We are not the only vehicle on a motorway that doesn't do the maximum speed. We were not doing 30kph and picking our noses. We do not have a new vehicle or a company vehicle that will be replaced when it has died after abuse on the motorway.

A maximum speed limit of 100 kph is exactly that. It does not mean a minimum speed limit of 100kph that we should all be doing, and that everyone else who really wants can do at least 120kph.

We are looking forward to the day when Spanish trucks have nice signs on saying "Do I drive well, if not - report me...." Ojala.

More on the N340 and Spanish driving later....

Regimental Day

Gibraltar oozes history. It also buzzes with life.

At the weekend there was a superb piece of live history when the Royal Gibraltar Regiment (RGR) paraded through the town.

The regiment celebrated its Regimental Day and it's 68th anniversary by exercising its Freedom of the City.

The events began at midday on Saturday with a Ceremonial Guard Mount outside the Convent (Main Street).

Afterwards the regiment marched down Main Street, from Referendum Gate to Casemates Hill.

Since being granted the Freedom of the City in 1971 the Royal Gibraltar Regiment has aimed to exercise that Freedom every two years.

Under the provisions of the Freedom of the City the Regiment can march with bayonets fixed, swords drawn and Colours flying.


The parade was accompanied by the Regiment’s own Band and Corps of Drums, and visiting members from the Pipes and Drums of the London Scottish Regiment.  

In recent years the regiment has become more important as it took over the defence of the Rock, which is a key logistical base for the British military establishment and Nato.

Soldiers from the RGR have been deployed to conflict areas such as Afghanistan and Iraq where they have gained battle frontline experience.



Sources:
Adrian for photos and being there
http://www.gibraltarnewsonline.com/index.php
http://www.gibfocus.gi/
http://www.gibraltar.gov.gi/latest_news/press_releases/2007/MayorOfGibraltar.pdf

Tall ships - tall stories

So the Hardworking Partner had a good time the other night (in Gibraltar).

After flogging himself to death repainting the flat, ie covering vile coats of dark coloured paint with three or four coats of white he finally knocked off for the night.

Off to the bar where he meets some friendly Swedish people. Lars and Sven or whatever Swedish people are called. And Peter the cameraman.

They had lots of games of pool and then they all drifted off together to go and get something to eat.

"Come and visit our ship tomorrow, at 11 o'clock, for a tour on board."

So he did. Here are some of the pics.




He didn't get on board though. Lars and Peter never came off the boat.

Hey guys. Nice ship. Good evening had by all. Don't make offers that you aren't going to fulfill.

Hardworking Partner wasted an hour or so sitting down at the port waiting for you to show up.

¿Habla español?

Or if you do - can you hold a conversation with someone in Andalucia?

Some years ago, when we first came here camping, we went to a fine bar. Ok, I'll be honest, it was Bar Guerra in Los Boliches.

We practised our best Spanish there and the guys were really nice. So nice, that one day, one of them said, in superb English - "The day you can hold a conversation with me in Spanish as well as I can speak to you in English, then we will speak in Spanish."

That was a bit of a put-down, it has to be said. And this guy didn't just have the sort of "One beer, one glass white wine" English, he had really good conversational English. As he said in fact.

I went back on my own a few years later. He spoke to me in Spanish. My Spanish hadn't improved that much, but it was getting there. He also knew that he had seen me before, but couldn't remember when. Why would he? He must see thousands of tourists a year, some regular, some semi-regular. But that time we spoke Spanish together and he didn't bother with the English. I think we were discussing the lack of water/rain ie drought to be honest. We could have the same conversation now.

Well now I'm living here, I have a slightly different take on things. Or as Gaynor said to me (Pepe and Gaynor), "There is a difference between proper Castilian Spanish, and Andalucian Spanish." Thanks sweets, I'm not entirely stupid.

I thought about this when I took the dog for a walk the other morning. It was pretty quiet, but we met one of the guys who lives a few streets behind us who was off to look and see what had been chucked out at the local rubbish bins. As you do.

Hola, says me. Buenas dias, says him.

Ok, this guy did not say bwennas deeyas, as the books/tapes/CDs and Gaynor instruct. He actually said, or growled, bonna dia. It's nearly Portuguese the way they say it. (Portuguese - bom dia).

Sometimes it's bommm dia, or bonnn dia. Or buena(s). Or, as one of our neighbours said to us for ages bwrrrr. After a while you get the idea. It's a pretty loose variation on a theme. But it is never Buenas Dias. Unless you are speaking to someone from a city or the north where they speak much more clearly than in Andalucia.

I knew I had cracked "the Spanish of my pueblo" (as much as I ever will) when I could understand "aarr eeee oooohhh pahjah".

Meaning of course, that my next-door neighbour's husband had gone up to her daughter's garden just up the street.

"Ha ido por alla." You also need to know where pahjah is exactly. This involves many previous conversations because pahjah could mean the daughters house, the sister's house, the niece's house, you get the idea. It's important to know which pahjah it is, and you only know that if you have discussed each pahjah before. A lot.

So this is español. It's also Andalucian Spanish, from my particular pueblo.

I was going to write more but this has taken long enough. It took me long enough to learn too. I think I will write about my chichi next time......

Fridges in Spain

Is it me or is the specification for Spanish fridges just different?

We bought a perfectly good (electrolux?) fridge freezer many years ago in the UK. One or two days before we were due to go on holiday we noticed a mega hole out the back.

So we rushed off and bought a new one. As our neighbour used to say: "Everyone else has to worry whether and when they can afford a new fridge/washing machine/whatever. You two have the dilemma of deciding between AEG and Bosch."

So we bought an AEG. It was pretty good. Top rated energy efficiency, looked nice, sound recycling policy. And when it came it had a knock on the side, so the guy promptly offered us forty quid cash as compensation.

Yes we took it. And yes, it was legit, we signed for it and got a letter later.

It worked pretty well until the door seal went. Fortunately within 12 months. But they didn't fit a new seal. Oh no. It was a new door. There was no quibble, so good service and efficient fridge (even better with a new seal).

Fast forward to Spain. We left the UK fridge behind. The guy buying our house seemed to want it as he was being pressurised to leave his behind. For the sake of a fridge we didn't feel like a house purchase falling through.

And we bought one here. AEG as it had been good in the UK. Top energy rating yet again. Good recycling policy. Appalling badly fitting water collector at the back of the fridge that has to be emptied manually every week in winter and more often in summer.

We've seen others, in other people's homes. Similar different specification. Maybe the spec has to be lower because the prices here are certainly less than we paid in the UK. The door seal is ok so far (touch wood and it's out of warranty now anyway).

Heigh-ho the weather is warming up, so no doubt I will be on regular fridge duty for the next six months.

The cockerel - at last

Juan turned up on his quad. With his mate on the back, and another mate. And a cockerel. Three guys and a cockerel on a quad.

It took them an hour and a half to catch him the night before apparently.

So then they all trooped off into the shed to look at our chickens. Juan was impressed with the little one, Jimena.

Round here they call them inglés, probably because they are independent, aggressive, and want to go some place where the grass is greener.

He has a cockerel of the same breed, and thinks it would be an awfully good idea to put them together. An even better idea if we did a swap and gave her to him.

"They are very dear to buy," he said. And we could see the euros going through his mind as he started to offer all his family away in exchange.

"No."

So that's why we got the cockerel. Hmmm.

Anyway he is very cute. He is not inglés. He is obviously a mix and worth nothing to Juan. He must have a load of them.

The new cockerel is young and clearly frightened of Jimena who is well in charge of the chicken shed and has been for some time.

Husband told Juan he could bring his cockerel here for a while and see what happens. He'll need to be tough and fast to get anywhere near Jimena.

Camping in Spain.....and Land Rovers

Camping is fine in Spain.

In winter the place is full of Northern Europeans in campervans/motorhomes. A lot of the coastal campsites are chocka, but many people prefer to wild camp by the beach.

Partly for cost, but partly because it's nice.

Summer is a pain because it is full of noisy families, and the staff on camp sites can't keep up to the cleaning fast enough.

Anyway we splashed out on our first "proper" holiday in five years and paid for a camp site. I nearly died - 35Euros!!!! A night!!!!! And that was charging us for a small tent. Since when have the prices gone up so much?

You can still get a hotel for that price, although admittedly it won't be set in the midst of idyllic woodland where you can sit outside all day enjoying the peace and tranquility.

Nor will your Excitable Land Rover Partner go round every French person on site who he sees in a Land Rover asking them where they have been and discussing riveting things like parabolic springs.

He was very happy that all the Land Rovers he saw entering the site came to park next to us. Our own little colony of Land Rovers.


Never let it be said the French aren't polite though. The guy opposite with a Defender was happily setting off for the toilet in the morning - quite clearly clutching his toilet roll - when Excitable Land Rover Partner collared him to discuss tyres and springs.

Did Partner notice toilet roll? No. Did the French guy stand there patiently when he quite clearly wanted to be somewhere else? Yes.

I did have a quiet word with Partner when I could stop laughing, but it won't be of any use. If he wants to talk about Land Rovers with someone he would probably follow them down to the toilet block if necessary. And back. Without pausing for breath.