A new life in Andalucía

Once bitten ...

The neighbours´ dogs Wolfie and Shaggy (formerly known as Boris; but ´he` has subsequently turned out to be a she) - who are actually called Goriti and … ooh, I´ve forgotten her name again - have been so grateful for our company, cuddles and proffered titbits that they felt they had to give us a nice present to show their appreciation.  And so they did – since last week the cats and therefore the downstairs lounge (and God knows how many other rooms of the house) are infested with FLEAS.  Cheers guys. 

I had suspected for a while that things weren´t quite right.  Grace did an awful lot of scratching and one day I noticed that her tail had a massive bald patch which I – unsuccessfully - tried to hide with a snazzy comb-over.  I had furthermore become aware of some black specks of – what I naïvely suspected to be – dirt in the cats´ fur.  I examined these bits closely (ugh!) but as they didn´t jump, I wasn´t alarmed.  With hindsight – I should have been.  Now of course I know that these ´specks of dirt` were in fact flea poo.  What you do is brush some of those black particles onto a moist piece of white paper and if they turn red (that´s traces of the animal´s blood which remains in the flea droppings), it means you are faced with fleas.  There were loads of red smudges on the paper.  AAAAAARGH!!!!!!!!!  So, what now?  Well, first I googled ´fleas` and read up on the matter.  Much to my horror, I learned that only 5% of fleas actually live on the animal whilst the other 95% (either as eggs, larvae or pupae in a cocoon) develop somewhere in your house.  I quickly grabbed the vacuum cleaner and hoovered the entire house from top to bottom (great, more cleaning), in particular the areas the cats frequent.  A visit to the chemist´s was then called for, where we bought an insecticide spray as well as Frontline spot-on and had to swallow hard when the pharmacist charged us almost 40 euros for 6 tiny pipettes.  (What´s in ´em?  Liquid gold?)  We quickly forgot the idea of buying Frontline for the dogs.  All rugs were banished from the house and we washed everything the cats had slept on, walked over, looked at … 

And now to the hardest part: we have stopped the dogs from coming over to the house to drop off more unwanted gifts by shooing them away as soon as they appear in the driveway and try to ignore their confused and disappointed faces.  I just need to pick up the water pistol now and Wolfie beats a hasty retreat, tail between his legs.   (Aaaaw!)  We have, in the meantime, actually met their owners, a lovely Spanish couple, who were extremely helpful when our water was cut off last weekend.  Grateful for their support, we didn´t really want to wave the packet of Frontline under their noses: “Did you know you can buy this for dogs, too?  And it´s an absolute bargain at only 6 euros a shot.”  A lot of people here in Spain still seem to think that all animals have fleas and as most dogs and cats lead an outdoor life and never set a paw into the house, this doesn´t seem to bother people unduly. 

I think I´m on top of the situation now, having hoovered and sprayed every day for the past week and I will certainly keep up this routine for the next fortnight at least.  I must say that I do miss the dogs but I certainly won´t miss their little companions.  Luckily Chica, the Spaniel, has (German) owners who regularly treat her for fleas, so she is still welcome chez nous. 

Wolfie

Shaggy

Chez Manolo - part one, two and three

Ian has gone to Fuengirola again today.  Firstly he has another appointment at Specsavers and secondly he´s having a dental checkup.  The dentist, who is apparently half Argentinian, half German, was recommended to us, so I await Ian´s verdict upon his return. 

I myself have a bit of a dental tale to tell (try saying that after you´ve just been to the dentist). When we still lived in the Alpujarras, I happened to damage a filling and was in severe discomfort when chewing.  We asked around for a good dentist only to discover that most of the villagers didn´t go to the nearest dentist in Cádiar but instead travelled all the way to Órgiva (about an hour´s drive away) which was where Manolo, the dentist, originally from the village of Bérchules (that explains a few things), had his surgery.  We phoned in November to make an appointment but the earliest he could fit me in was late January.  I was advised though to simply pop in from 10 am onwards any day, if the pain got too much.  I bravely chewed on one side for a couple of weeks but then the tooth started to become sensitive to hot and cold food and drink, so I decided enough was enough and consequently found myself in Manolo´s waiting room one fine November morning.  I can honestly say that I have never seen so many people in a dental practice.  Did he give away free toothbrushes or what?  There were at least 20 people either sitting in the waiting room or standing in the corridor and more people kept on coming in.  The noise level was almost unbearable as everybody was chatting animatedly.  Were we really at the right address or had we ended up at the Órgiva social club for OAPs? (Is it still pc to say this?), we asked ourselves slightly confused.  There was a desk in the reception lobby but apart from the appointment book, it was empty.  After some time a harassed-looking chap clad in a white gown (who turned out to be el dentista) hurried along the corridor, briefly glanced at the book, entered the waiting room, had a look around, called somebody for their treatment, exchanged a few words with other patients who were waiting in the lobby and finally looked at me and asked me what I wanted.  My husband explained why we were there (I felt a little tongue-tied at the time) and Manolo invited us to take a seat in the waiting room but warned us at the same time that we would have to wait for at least one hour and a half.  I was in pain, we had no choice.  After a while I cottoned on to the fact that not all people sitting in the waiting room were necessarily patients.  Somebody would be called for their treatment and then as many as three people (the patient and his or her chaperones) would get up and leave the waiting room together.  It soon occurred to me that `Chez Manolo´ seemed to be THE place to be if you wanted a bit of a gossip or a chat.  I eventually got called after only an hour and was quite pleasantly surprised.  Sitting in the chair rehearsing my lines, I discovered that there was another treatment room beyond the walk-in store cupboard .  All doors were wide open, so the patient sitting in the other chair nodded a greeting over to me.  I nodded back and then acknowledged other patients who were happily peeking into ´my´ room from the corridor.  Different.  I explained again what the problem was when Manolo finally appeared, only to tell me, having gazed into my mouth, that I couldn´t possibly be in pain.  I was, so determined to make a point, I winced dramatically when he puffed some air onto the surface of my tooth (even though it didn´t hurt one little bit on that occasion).  He reluctantly renewed the filling (without anaesthetic; they don´t seem to believe in not experiencing real pain in Spain) and whilst treating me answered a phone call, chatted to the dental nurse who was chewing gum as if her life depended on it and kept popping into the other room to see my fellow sufferer.  Treatment completed (I had sunk several inches down in the chair, as you do) he accompanied me out into the corridor and I asked how much I owed him.  He reminded me that I still had an appointment booked for January and as I had a tooth which was slightly chipped and needed repairing, he suggested I paid for the lot after appointment number two.  At no stage did he or Chewy make any notes about the treatment I had received, nor did they record my particulars.  Obviously a trusting chap with a good memory.

Chez Manolo – part two

Funnily enough I actually had to wait longer with a firm appointment than I did when I simply came in on spec.  Whilst waiting I was somewhat entertained by an elderly lady who came into the surgery, didn´t fancy waiting for it to be her turn and subsequently decided to become all tearful, begging the dentist to see to her straight away as she was ´in a hurry`.  Manolo wasn´t taken in at all – “Señora, we are all in a hurry”, he replied, shrugging his shoulders, and called in the next patient on his list.  Eventually my name was called and when I sat down in the chair my heart skipped a beat as I caught sight of the photograph on the screen towering above my head.  It depicted a horribly rotten tooth and I only relaxed once it had become apparent that this was in fact the previous patient´s problem, not mine. Phew.  Manolo fixed my chipped tooth expertly and a brief discussion with Ms Bubblegum ensued.  I didn´t catch the entire conversation but the gist was that she thought she´d spotted something else that needed doing. He asked me to open my mouth again (I had already risen from the chair and was about to escape from the torture chamber), shook his head and told her that she was mistaken.  Phew again.  Before I left the surgery I paid Manolo some outstanding fees with which a couple of friends and fellow patients from Bérchules had entrusted me (he seems to be quite relaxed about money) plus what I owed him which turned out to be a mere 30 euros. 

Sitting in the street café just outside the dentist´s, sipping my café con leche  in the sunshine and admiring my ´new` tooth in a compact mirror, doubts started creeping up on me.  “I can´t believe how cheap the treatment was.  I went to see him twice and it only cost me 30 euros.  Do you reckon he´s forgotten to charge me for my first visit?”, I mumbled to Ian.  The more I thought about it, the stronger I suspected that Manolo had indeed made a mistake.  Ian nobly agreed to pop back up to the surgery to enquire (but mainly as he´d spotted a toilet there earlier which he was desperate to use) and just as I had ordered more coffee, orange juice and a croissant (pronounced in a very Spanish way) for Ian, my hubby – having returned from his mission(s) – informed me that Manolo wanted to see me.  Ok, so he had probably realised that he had charged me too little.  If only I had known what would be in store for me.

Chez Manolo – part 3

I hopped back upstairs and was quite taken aback when the dental nurse (running out of synonyms for chewing gum) asked me to sit down in the chair again.  Hold on, I´m quite happy to stand whilst handing over more dosh - what´s going on now?  A neighbour from Bérchules appeared in the doorframe and waved at me – “Hi!  Fancy meeting you here.”  “Yeah this is my second time today,” I retorted – still pretty flummoxed.  It turned out that Manolo really had overlooked the fact that he had merely inserted a temporary filling back in November which needed to be replaced with the real McCoy.  Throughout the treatment (I still hadn´t quite recovered from the shock of finding myself in the chair for the second time that morning), whilst I worried about my coffee breath, Hubba Bubba (Ha!  I knew I´d be able to come up with another one!) kept saying to Manolo: ”See, told you so, didn´t I?  I said you hadn´t finished.  See?  See?”

I parted with another 30 euros at the end of treatment number three and wondered if anybody had ever explained to Manolo that computers are also useful for recording information on patients and their respective treatments rather than simply enabling you to store photos of rotten teeth.  I think it´s pretty unlikely that I´ll have two dental treatments in one morning interspersed by a coffee break ever again in my life.  Then again, you should never say never. 

The good life

About a week before we left the Alpujarra we spent a truly fabulous day high up in the Sierra with our friends Birgit and Jane.  It was a day which I will never forget.  We met up just after 10 am and set off in the X-Trail.  Birgit was our guide for the day as she knows the Sierra like the back of her hand, having ridden her horse up and around there for several years now.  Ian was the designated driver, I was the caterer (having prepared a vegetarian picnic for us all) and Jane provided the en route entertainment, chatting away merrily throughout the journey.  It was a beautifully sunny day and as the car steadily wound its way up into the mountains to a maximum height of about 2000 m, the views were simply breathtaking.  We could see right down to the invernaderos (greenhouses) in El Ejido (not so nice actually but it gives you an idea how high up we were and how far the vista stretched as a consequence).  Had it been a clear day, we would have been able to see the African coastline (a line which estate agents like to trot out). 

After about a thirty minute drive, we got out of the car to take a walk and bumped into a group of mountain bikers out on a tour.  Jenny, their guide, looked as fresh as if she´d just stepped out of the shower but one older gentleman seemed decidedly knackered.  I really was glad it wasn´t me on that bike – I wouldn´t have lasted five seconds. 

Birgit had planned a visit to some German friends of hers who live in a little cortijo somewhere in the mountains, so eventually, we turned off the main track and descended towards the valley.  We parked the car (next to theirs) and climbed down further on foot until we got to a verdant valley and walked along the riverbed, the chuckle of running water and birdsong being the only sounds you could hear (apart from Jane who was still nattering away).  We walked for a good 15 minutes and I kept wondering just how they cope schlepping things like butane gas bottles down from where they have to leave the car to the house (it made our journey from the flat in Bérchules to the main square seem quite a doddle).  We finally caught sight of a little stone cortijo and we also spotted Birgit´s friends who were working in their vegetable patch.  We received a warm welcome (they had no idea we were coming) and were invited for coffee.  The casita they lived in was tiny (one room with a bed in one corner, a bookshelf in the other, the kitchen and storage shelves in the middle and a table and chairs at the far end).  There was no bathroom, only a compost loo and a water tank on the roof - which also doubled up as a shower - outside.  There was also no electricity.  Could you imagine living without it?  (Back in Norfolk we once had a power cut which lasted six days.  At first it was quite romantic to eat bread and cheese and drink red wine by candlelight but life soon became quite miserable after day one.)  So these guys can´t simply get a cold one out of the fridge after a day´s grafting outside, chuck their dirty dungarees in the washing machine, switch on the television and enjoy a long soak in the bath tub.  They get up at first light, go to bed at sunset, wash their clothes in the river and spend their days working the land, reading and looking after their many animals.  They had no previous knowledge of how to lead a fairly self-sufficient life but have learned a lot from books and by talking to the locals.  Once a week they come down into Bérchules where they charge up their mobile phone at Birgit´s and buy vital supplies for themselves and the animals. 

And believe it or not – they are happy.  They couldn´t give a monkey´s about not buying the latest fashion accessory or gadget, nor do they miss watching the box.  In fact, whilst we were with them, their sheep Dörte gave birth to twin lambs and as we all were admiring the new babies, still quite wobbly on their feet, and trying to work out how to help themselves to their mother´s milk, the couple turned to us with a big grin on their delighted faces: “See, this is why we don´t miss the television.  This is far more exciting.”  Fair point.  I must say, though, for me personally the lifestyle would not suit. Even if I find myself moving further and further away from linking material things to my own personal happiness, I have to admit that I do like my creature comforts. Nevertheless,  I do admire this brave couple and I think that we could all learn something from them.  I wish them well and hope that all their dreams will come true.  They deserve it. 

Dörte and her newborn lambs

Fuengirolaaaargh

Ian had an appointment at Specsavers yesterday to sort out some new contact lenses.  No, we´re not back in the UK – I am talking about Specsavers in Fuengirola (Where they pick up the phone and say: “Hello, good afternoon, Specsavers, Gary speaking.  How may I help you?”).

Now then, Fuengirola …  What a place.  Whilst Ian was having his eyes checked, I explored the nearest surroundings and what I saw was quite frankly nothing to blog home about.  More British cafés and bars than you can shake a stick at, advertising all-day full English breakfasts,  one pint of Tetley´s bitter for the price of two (or was it the other way round?) and quiz nights with Trevor at the Yorkshire Lad.  The city, a buzzing place, was packed with tourists revealing sunburned body parts in various shades of pink and red (why is it that some men think it´s okay to walk around topless, folded football shirt tucked into the waistband of their shorts, belly hanging out?), hen parties with silly hats and witty tee-shirts proclaiming to be ´Little Miss Innocent – Not !!!´ and tarty-looking women wobbling about on mega high wedges. 

Not even trying to eat anything vaguely Spanish, we found ourselves in one of the Brit cafés (where the special offer was a coffee and a brandy for only two Euros) and ordered coffee and bacon butties which were served with HP brown sauce – ahhhh, champion.  Feeling suitably refreshed, we ventured down to the seafront and I had a little paddle for the first time this year which was actually very pleasant and probably the highlight of my day. 

After an hour or so we both had had enough; the hills were calling.  On the way out of Fuengirola, I spotted it – the sign of signs – shame I didn´t manage to take a photograph.  It really summed the place up for me.  It said … wait for it … ´Spainsburys` with a big Union Jack underneath.  I´ve seen lots of British shops in Spain: Britbits, Arkwrights ect but ´Spainsburys`?  That really takes the biscuit, doesn´t it?  I´m simply lost for words.

I´m sure Fuengirola is paradise for lots of people and that´s fine by me.  I´m also convinced that somewhere in Fuengirola there must be a quaint little corner, some well-hidden little gem only known to native Fuengirolians (but I don´t think I can be bothered to go looking for it).  Truth to be told, personally I´d hate to live, work or holiday in this resort (or simply visit for a few hours).  Maybe Ian should consider laser treatment to cure his shortsightedness.  Hold on, I saw an advert for an eye clinic in the paper somewhere.  Ah yes, here it is – it´s in … oh no, not the F-word again. 

Fuengirola beach

Special offer - who could resist???

I get a tick out of you

I have been in a bit of a pickle over the past few days.  As I have mentioned before, our neighbours´ dogs spend a lot of time with us and as you can imagine, we have become rather fond of them (and so have our visitors).  Several days ago, Wolfy (as he is now called; we still haven´t managed to find out his real name) appeared in the morning, limping badly.  We had a look at his front paw and he seemed to have hurt one of his claws.  His owners, a Spanish couple, are out at work all day, so when I heard their car in the evening I was hoping they´d take one look at the dog and whisk him off to the vet´s.  My hope was in vain.  The next day, his condition had not improved and I started to wonder if we should go over and talk to the pair.  Not the greatest introduction to the neighbourhood, I suppose: “Hello, we are your new neighbours.  Now, I suppose you´ve noticed your dog has a poorly paw.  What are you going to do about it?”  It´s tricky, isn´t it?  On the one hand I care deeply for animals but on the other I have to respect the fact that Spaniards don´t mollycoddle their pets as much as we do in England and I´d hate to be known as a meddler and a do gooder.  Luckily, Wolfy – although still hobbling – seems to be able to put a little bit more pressure on his paw by now and – truth to be told – he doesn´t seem to be in too much discomfort, let alone pain.  So, I´ve let that one go for now (unless things deteriorate, of course). 

My other quandary is still animal-related and also concerns Wolfy.  The problem is that he is riddled with ticks.  I once removed a tick from my cat´s head and on one occasion even one from my own body, so I´m not a complete novice when it comes to dealing with these nasty parasites.  Recently, I have also carried out a fair bit of research on the internet and found lots of contradicting information.  Use tweezers.  Whatever you do, don´t use tweezers as you can´t control how much pressure you apply to the body of the tick.  Twist the body of the tick anti-clockwise when you pull it out of the skin.  Under no circumstances twist the body of the tick or you´ll risk the head detaching itself and remaining imbedded in the animal´s skin. The internet is a wonderful thing but information overload springs to mind.  Basically, to remove a tick safely you have to ensure the head does not become separated from its body and you also have to be careful not to squeeze the body too hard which could cause the blood which the nasty critter has sucked out of the hapless animal to flow back into its bloodstream; this of course can cause blood poisoning and have fatal consequences.  The question is: do you really want to burden yourself with that risk, especially if you are not dealing with your own pet?  The answer must be no - but on the other hand, these ticks don´t remove themselves and our Spanish neighbours are busy people and tick removal is probably the last thing on their tired minds when they come home at night, exhausted from a day´s work. 

Up until now I have consequently buried my head in the sand and repeatedly told myself that they are not my dogs and therefore not my problem.  Up until a few days ago that is.  On Wednesday afternoon I grabbed the surgical gloves I bought some time ago, the antiseptic wipes and a container filled with gin (at last I´ve found a use for the cheap gin that nobody likes which we bought from Lidl the other day) and set to work on Wolfy.  At one point the dog went all floppy and collapsed into my arms and I thought for one horrible moment: ´There, that´s what you get when you interfere with other people´s dogs.  Now you´ll have an even better opening remark with which to introduce yourself to the neighbours.  “Hello, lovely to meet you.  By the way, it seems that I have just killed your dog.”  Imagine my relief when Wolfy subsequently rolled on his back, stretching his limbs up in the air, snorting and grunting with sheer delight. 

I am happy to report that I have so far successfully removed six ticks, each fatter than the previous one. They won´t be bothering any other animals as I have drowned them in gin.  (What a way to go.) There are more to be had but - as they say in Spain - mañana es otro día (tomorrow is another day).  That accomplished, I rewarded my efforts with a little gin and tonic.  I didn´t touch the tick killer though.  Luckily, there was a nice bottle of Tanqueray gin in the fridge.

Cheers!