A new life in Andalucía

Figged out

It seems that in my recent blogs I have focussed entirely on negative aspects of life here in Spain: rude bar owners, lack of suitable and affordable houses, threats of quarries opening, rubbish dumping, underage drinking and cruelty to animals. I don´t want anyone getting the wrong end of the stick though: I don´t hate it out here but it has to be said that, pretty much as expected, it´s not all sunshine and laughter and there are moments when you question your initial decision to emigrate. These moments do pass (especially with the start of a new school year looming back in Blighty). So, because I´ve been so doom and gloom of late, I shall make this blog entry a happy and cheerful one, I promise.

Even though the countryside is not at its most picturesque at the end of August (after several months without rain – I know you guys back in the UK must find that hard to believe – the land is very dry and barren), this is the time when the figs and the almonds have finally ripened and are ready to be picked. It´s been great to observe the growing process over the past few months, especially as far as the almonds are concerned – from gorgeous white and pink blossoms to furry cocoons which have now burst open to reveal a light coloured almond shell. When I lived in England I never had the time to pick fruit that had grown in our garden and I dread to think just how many apples, blackberries, pears, plums, gooseberries etc… simply fell off the trees, hedges and bushes and rotted away over the years. What a waste.

Now things are different. Over the past few weeks Ian and I have been picking tons of figs (hence the long silence since my last blog entry). Initially we ate them off the tree (it must be the biggest fig tree in southern Spain), then, when the novelty had worn off, we picked big bowls full which we somehow managed to cram into the fridge. Eating lots of figs is not a good idea though (I won´t go into details), so we started giving them away to our neighbours (those without a fig tree of their own: the others, who have their own supply, not surprisingly, didn´t want to know). Everytime somebody visited us, they were not allowed to leave without taking several kilos of figs home with them. After a few days (when nobody had been to see us for a while; word must have got round that figs would be dumped on you whenever you go and see the Wilkinsons), I proceeded to make several kilos of jam, so unsuspecting visitors were given jars of fig jam on top of carrier bags full of figs (the jam jars also make great gifts when you´re invited to a dinner party). When it became clear that we would never be able to eat all the fresh figs (nor give them away), we started drying them on a large table, over which we had draped a mosquito net, so the wasps couldn´t get anywhere near them. I am pleased to say that this has worked a treat and we have currently got our second batch drying outside in the Andalusian sunshine. Looks like we´ll be eating dried figs well throughout the winter and probably the next one also. We have even found a use for the figs that have already fallen on the ground and are half-eaten by insects and the ones that have gone manky on the tree. We collect them in a big wheel barrow and pass them on to our neighbours who feed them to their sheep. In exchange they´ve given us some of their excellent tomatoes and they´ve also let us borrow a net we now place under the almond trees, so we can simply hit the tree branches with a big stick and gather the almonds in the net rather than having to wait until they fall onto the ground and then pick them up again. Luckily almonds don´t need to be processed straight away but I have a feeling we´ll be running out of containers to put them in before too long.

Our friends Pat and Sue are here again at the moment and they´ve been helping us to harvest and process our figs and almonds. We are now the proud owners of a grinder which they have bought for us in the village yesterday and Sue has just filled a big plastic container with ground almonds. Earlier today, Sue and I made some fig chutney and compote which smells divine.

So, as you can see, it´s not such a bad life after all. Incidentally, if anybody has any more ideas as to what I can do with the figs (and also how I best go about storing the ones we have dried), please leave me a comment; I´d be most grateful.

Fig anyone? No? How about an almond?

Lovely fi(n)gs

Nuts about almonds

The house of horrors

One has to admit that house-hunting (or shall we call it area-hunting, as we´re still none the wiser as to where exactly we want / can afford to live) in the heat of August is not the most pleasant thing to do. However, as the clock on our present tenancy is ticking, we have no choice but to keep looking around. So it happened that we found ourselves, yet again, packed into some estate agent´s car on Thursday with the initial intention of looking at three houses further inland, about an hour´s drive northwest from where we are at the moment. Much to our chagrin, our fairly modest list of three definite maybes was soon reduced to an even more modest one, as one house was already under offer and another turned out to be semi-detached (a fairly important fact that must have somehow slipped the agent´s mind when she was putting together the accompanying blurb to describe the property – easily done). Of course the agent had come up with a few other possibilities of her own, so off we went, to ascertain if nothing else whether we actually liked the area and could contemplate living there.

The cortijo we had chosen to see immediately turned out to be a definite no-no. Just by the side of the main road, it was utterly characterless and very shabby. It might have had a fairly new roof (as the agent was quick to point out) but what it certainly lacked was potential. Strolling around the admittedly quite impressive cultivated land at the back of the house, where we found various fruit trees and vegetable patches bursting with produce, Ian took a look at the water deposit which – according to the agent – could have so easily been converted into a pool (for terrapins maybe) and that´s when I spotted ´it`. A term I am deliberately using because at first I had no idea what ´it` was. I found myself gazing at some dark, straggly-looking creature which was chained to the branch of a tree. A sheep? I immediately alerted the others and as we approached the tree, we identified the creature as a dog. The animal was standing with bowed hind legs, most of its fur had fallen out, revealing bare skin covered in sores and ticks. A filthy rope was tied tightly around its skinny neck and the chain that was attached to the tree branch was so short that it restricted the dog´s movements to an absolute minimum. Amongst the faeces and clumps of fur on the ground was a pile of stale bread and a bucket of murky water. The dog, who was dirty and not very fragrant to say the least, didn´t bark, he simply looked at us with the saddest eyes I have ever seen and after I had recovered from the initial shock of this sorry sight, I burst into tears.

You read about these acts of cruelty against hapless animals in the papers but nothing prepares you for the sheer devastation you feel when you actually stumble across a real case of such neglect and abuse. How anyone can be capable of treating an animal so badly beggars belief. Shock and sadness turned into anger (if the owner had come home that very minute, I don´t think I could have been held responsible for my actions) and then practical thinking took over as we wondered what we could possibly do to help. One thing was clear from the word go, leaving the dog there was not an option. We untied him with great difficulty and managed to heave him into the back of the car.

It was nearing 2 o´clock and we didn´t hold out much hope of getting the dog to a vet´s before siesta time. The agent phoned a couple of vets but one had gone to Sevilla for the day and the other one was about to have his lunch. Luckily we managed to find a supermarket which was still open, bought some yoghurt and a tin of dog food and took the dog to a house, which belonged to a friend of the agent, where we fed and watered him. I have never seen a dog relish a pot of yoghurt quite so much. He wolfed down half the tin of dog food too and we let him wander about a bit. He was very weak and unsteady on his feet. Eventually, we made him comfortable in a shady corner where he had access to a big bucket full of fresh water and the agent took him to the vet´s evening surgery at about 6:30pm when we were making our way home to meet our friends who were coming to stay the night with us.

Apparently the vet had never seen a worse case of neglect in her life. The prospects are good though and it looks as if the dog can look forward to a much brighter future. He is now getting daily injections of vitamins, antibiotics to sort out the sores and he´s also been put on a diet of raw liver and meat due to the fact that he is severely aenemic. The ticks have been removed and he is getting a ´haircut` this weekend. The agent is keeping him in her office for the time being while he is recovering from his ordeal, then she´ll be doing her utmost to find a permanent home for him.

I just wish there were something we could do to ensure the dog´s former owner is punished and stopped from keeping animals ever again but apparently this is not that easy here in Spain. Animal rights are still very low down on the list of priorities. I must admit, you do start to question the desirability of living in a country where this is the case.

Needless to say we never actually took a look inside torture cottage. We might not have found our Shangri-La yet but we´ve helped to save a dog´s life and that sounds pretty good to me .

PS: Below, I shall publish a picture of the dog as we found him. I took it because I thought it could be used to raise awareness as to how big a problem cruelty to animals still is in this country. It doesn´t make comfortable viewing and I can guarantee that it will upset you, so please be warned.

Our gruesome find.

Happy New Year

I have been humming and singing the song Feliz Navidad for the past few days, much to the annoyance of my husband. You must know it: Feliz Navidad (x 3), Prospero Año y felicidad. I wanna wish you a Merry Xmas … Yes, it´s a Christmas song, so why is it on my mind in the height of summer, you may well ask yourself? I can explain: Ian and I have just returned from cute little Bérchules (the village in the Alpujarras where we lived for six months until we moved here to the Sierra de las Nieves in April) where they celebrate Noche Vieja (literally old night but it means New Year´s Eve) on the first Saturday in August, therefore they call the fiesta ´Noche Vieja en Agosto` and it has made Bérchules quite famous, probably more on a national basis though.

The reason they have two New Year´s celebrations a year is that, back in the winter of 1994, the village suffered a massive powercut which meant they had to see the New Year in by candlelight which, of course, for Spaniards is not romantic but a sheer catastrophe. They need lights, lots of them, the brighter the better. They also need music, so loud that the bass notes swallow all the lyrics. So, no blinding illumination and no deafening noise equals no fun. After this disaster the villagers were determined that their Noche Vieja would never be spoilt again and decided to have two celebrations – one in December and one in August. I don´t think that they had quite expected this fiesta to become so popular and I´d be surprised if they ever thought it would attract thousands of people from all over Spain – but it did. You see, Spanish people love anything wacky (like running along the streets in front of bulls, throwing tomatoes at each other – you name it), so the news that there was this little mountain village somewhere high up in the Sierra Nevada which celebrated New Year´s Eve in August, spread like a bush fire. And so it happened that every year on the first Saturday in August several tens of thousands of people flocked into the tiny village, renting every room or donkey shed available and even paying good money for a space on somebody´s sofa or floor. The village which normally has a population of well below 1000 souls found itself inundated with visitors and their cars.

Well, that, we had to see for ourselves and as it also seemed a good opportunity to catch up with our chums and former neighbours rather than having to visit them all individually, Ian and I found ourselves in the church square in Bérchules just before midnight last Saturday night. Clutching a little plastic bag, containing 12 grapes (you are meant to eat one grape with each chime of the clock), we watched artificial snow being thrown from the church tower just before an impressively colourful and loud firework display filled the warm air. Some people were wearing red Father Christmas hats and many were dancing and singing. People hugged one another, wishing each other Prospero año nuevo and bottles of bubbly were shaken vigorously and sprayed into the masses. Throughout the day, there had been competitions as to who had the prettiest crib on display outside their house, the three Kings had paraded the streets, throwing sweets to the kids and there was a street market where all sorts of Christmas sweets were available to buy. The night continued well into the early hours with more dancing (each square in the village had its own live band playing) and we finally made it back to our friends´ house, where we were staying, at around 4:30am.

On the whole, good fun and worth seeing – once. It seemed that the village was packed with mainly youngsters from other parts of Spain whose only aim that night was to get completely rat-arsed. I was quite taken aback to see so many people walking up and down the streets with litre bottles of spirits and carrier bags full of mixers whilst many locals had stayed at home and only surfaced the next day. We got the distinct feeling that the villagers weren´t really that keen on the whole thing. Throughout the entire day on Saturday the water supply had been seriously affected by the sheer volume of people in the village. By the time we wandered around the village Sunday lunchtime, most of the visitors had disappeared again, leaving the mountains - as well as mountains of rubbish - behind.

I think next year we will not bother with Noche Vieja en Agosto but we´ll join the villagers when they celebrate St Marcos and parade the streets with all their animals or the St Pantaleon fiesta where they carry a statue of their patron saint around the village.

There was at least one happy berchulero though - the owner of one of the local supermarkets who proudly told us that he had sold 275 bags of ice cubes at a profit of €1.50 each. On this note, I wish you all a prosperous New Year!

Snow in August (with a bit of imagination you can actually see it)

Waiting for midnight

Happy New Year!

Drenched in cheap bubbly - but happy :)

The next morning - peace is restored, at last

A load of rubbish

Last Sunday Ian and I borrowed Chica, our neighbours´ dog, for the day and went off to some lakes about half an hour´s drive away. It was a gloriously sunny day, the water was clear and refreshing and we had no end of fun splashing about with our rent-a-pooch, watching her trying to dive for stones which we had lobbed into the lake. We were surrounded by families who were either swimming or enjoying picnics in the shade and laughter could be heard all around. You can picture the scene, surely. Idyllic springs to mind. Well, almost.

To our horror, all the bins on site were full and there were lots of carrier bags, stuffed with rubbish, which had been placed next to them. Of course it would have been too much to ask for people to take their litter home with them but at least they had made some effort to clear up after themselves. For others, this was far too big a task, so they had simply decided to leave all the debris behind under trees, by the water´s edge, … – wherever you looked there were rusty coke cans, smelly tuna tins, greasy crisp bags and even glass bottles, a lot of them smashed, so that many shards of glass were lurking dangerously in the sand. I hate to point the finger of blame at the Spanish but I´m afraid I must. Spaniards still have not learned to respect or look after their environment. They think nothing of littering everywhere from streets to beauty spots like these and have an amazing tolerance as far as pollution is concerned – they simply don´t care. I have often witnessed Spanish kids coming out of a shop, unwrapping an ice cream or chocolate bar and chucking the paper on the floor, the nearest bin virtually within their reach. When I´ve told them to pick up their litter and throw it in the bin, they have stared at me in disbelief (together with their parents) as if I had asked them to give my shoes a quick polish. So, yet again, I decided to pick up the glass at least, as I was worried about the dog injuring herself. (It wouldn´t have worried me if the culprits, who had dumped the rubbish in the first place, had cut themselves, but alas – poetic justice like that never happens, does it?) Two girls gave me some peculiar looks but I didn´t care. Next time, apart from our towels, two folding chairs and a cooler box, Ian and I will bring a big bin liner and gloves with us. What a sad world we live in.

The beautiful lake from afar :) ...

... and from close up :(

The heat is on

A couple of days ago, for the first time in ages, we weren´t able to eat al fresco. No, it wasn´t raining or cold or anything like that – it was simply too hot. If you´ve ever used a fan-assisted oven and opened it when it was going full blast, that´s what it was like stepping outdoors – not pleasant. Well, it is late July and we are in southern Spain, so I guess such extremes are to be expected from time to time.

We recently made yet another journey of exploration this time to the province of Córdoba. There was mercifully little evidence of any foreign invasion and the town we visited had a nice authentic feel to it (estate agent speak for ´it was a bit scruffy`). That said, the countryside was okay (nothing spectacular) and the water in the river was brown. Hmm. The estate agent who showed us round seemed more occupied with his personal life than with finding us the right home, constantly answering calls from his various paramours and we ended up seeing three houses which were all, for various reasons, unsuitable for us. The fact that there are very few foreign people has an effect on the rental market in as much as there was only one property available for a long-term let. We took a look at it but the place was filthy and full of dead birds, so we decided it wasn´t quite what we had in mind (even though it was a bargain at a mere €525 a month – what a cheek!).

Back here in the Sierra de las Nieves, we had a group of people round for a late lunch and drinks on Sunday. Because of the heat, I had decided to serve a buffet, preparing most of the food in advance. After two days of cooking, I finally switched the oven off at 2pm on Sunday afternoon. We had one hour before our guests arrived and all we wanted to do was to heave our weary and sweaty bodies into the shower. Ian turned on the tap in the kitchen and discovered that, yet again, (for the umpteenth time since we arrived here in April and very likely not the last time either) there was no water. Aaaargh! Luckily we have big bottles of tapwater stored in and around the house as a standby but somehow having a wash when you´re hot and bothered is not quite as refreshing as having a shower.

We are now a wee bit confused as to where we go from here. Our rent runs out in October (we might be able to extend it for a month or two) and we are still none the wiser as to where we want to go next. We´re pretty sure now we won´t stay in this beautiful region as the prices are still ridiculously high. Incidentally, there might be another good reason for moving on. Last night Ian and I went to a meeting where the highly controversial opening of a quarry just on the outskirts of the village was discussed. The mayor kept repeating that nothing was certain yet and that he merely wanted to inform everybody as to what might be on the cards. Opening a quarry obviously doesn´t just generate employment and extra income for the community but also poses severe threats to the environment and to peoples´quality of life and maybe even health: dust, noise, vibration and extra traffic immediately spring to mind. A friend of ours whose house is about a kilometre away from said quarry was sitting next to us, chewing his nails to the quick whilst we thanked our lucky stars that we are only renting here rather than being a home-owner. Seems we´ve had yet another narrow escape. Onwards and upwards.

Home and away

A lot has happened over the past couple of weeks. Spain´s football team deservedly won the European championship (we watched the match in Torremolinos and it was a real joy to see the Spaniards celebrate), Rafa Nadal won the men´s final at Wimbledon after a spectacular game against Federer and on Monday Ian and I returned to Spain after an action-packed week in the UK.

It was our best friend´s birthday and she had gone to a lot of trouble by taking her nearest and dearest out for a slap-up meal last Friday as well as throwing a big party on the Saturday night. Both Ian and I managed to see a number of ex-colleagues, former neighbours and friends and it really was great to catch up with so many people.

The UK seems to have become very environmentally friendly, charging customers for carrier bags in shops and supermarkets and everybody appears to be running around clutching some sort of bag for life. Very commendable and definitely something that Spain should take on board as the Spaniards are still miles – no, sorry - kilometers behind when it comes to looking after the environment.

We were both quite shocked by the prices in the UK – it seems fairly normal to spend £35 a head for food and wine in a restaurant and buying wine in a supermarket is expensive too. A bottle of red for which we pay about €4 here in Spain sets you back a massive £8 in England. (We have recently discovered an extremely palatable white wine in our local supermarket which costs a mere €1.41 a bottle, so I guess we ARE a bit spoiled as far as prices are concerned.) When the lady at the car hire place agreed that we could bring the car back with a ¾ full tank and said that should save us £15, yet again, we were amazed. £60 to fill up a small car with petrol? Yikes!

The weather for once behaved itself and we enjoyed a few sunny days but we were shivering with cold at night time, obviously accustomed to balmy temperatures throughout the evening here in Spain. I hadn´t realised how much I´ve missed grass! (I mean grass as in lawn not the stuff you smoke). Whenever I got the chance during our week in Blighty, I slipped off my shoes and walked on the wonderfully green patches of grass that obviously benefit greatly from the frequent rain.

An episode in the M&S food hall made me realise just how Spanish we´ve become. It was packed in there and as we wound our way through the crowds of shoppers, we accidentally brushed against another couple. We continued walking, when I heard the woman´s accusing voice behind me: “Excuse me, please – is what we say!” Sorry love, we live in Spain - we don´t!

After a frantic drive back to the airport with five minutes to spare before the check-in desk closed and a nailbiting wait at the X-ray machine which had decided to eat one of Ian´s shoes and his coat, we finally collapsed into our emergency exit seats which – hurrah! - provided ample legroom and eventually arrived back ´home` at midnight where the outside temperature was still 27ºC.

Reflecting over the past ten months, I think that we have settled into our new environment rather well despite our frequent moves. If and when we find the area where we want to put down roots and where we can both contemplate and afford to buy a house, we can start to feel well and truly at home. On that note, we´re off exploring the Córdoba province on Monday. Stand by for more adventures.

Right, I think a glass of chilled white wine is called for. Bearing in mind it´ll cost me the princely sum of …. (what´s €1.41 divided by 4?), I might well have two. How I love living in Spain……..

We still haven´t found what we´re looking for

We´re off to the UK for a week on Monday to visit friends and when we get back to Spain, we will have been here in the Málaga province for nearly three months, so almost half-time.

As I have mentioned before, we really do like this area: the countryside is beautiful, the white-washed villages are sizeable but they haven´t lost their charm and the access to Málaga city centre, the airport, the coast, Ronda - to list but a few places – is simply excellent. We´ve met some very nice people - and dogs - and we are greatly enjoying the peace and quiet in and around the finca we have rented.

Can you feel a ´but` coming on? You´re right, there is a ´but` and it´s quite a big one too: despite the general slump in the housing market (which we selfishly welcome of course), this region – mostly due to the advantages I have described above – is still very expensive as far as property is concerned and our budget does not seem to be compatible with our list of `must haves´ with regards to our future home. We have looked at a few houses but they are either out of our price range or - if we can afford them – not what we are looking for. (Somehow, we cannot really see ourselves living in a 50m² glorified tool shed plonked on a plot of land which looks like a desert, not a mature tree or shrub in sight.)

House prices are all over the place at the moment. Apparently estate agents in Spain don´t value houses - the owners simply state what they want for their property (this, as you can imagine, is often totally unrealistic and sometimes downright greedy). If the house doesn´t sell subsequently, the asking price simply gets reduced, at times drastically, depending on how desperate the owner is to sell. However, the pound is so weak compared to the euro at the moment that a reduction in price still does not mean you are getting yourself a bargain. (Over the last year we have seen the exchange rate drop from 1.5 to a mere 1.2). Besides, here in the Sierra de las Nieves not many people are indeed anxious to sell their house. A lot of the properties around here are owned by comfortably off northern Europeans who still reside in their home country for most of the year and therefore only use their finca as a holiday home. A lot of them have snapped up their plot for next to nothing around ten years ago and had their house built relatively cheaply. Now, patting themselves on the back to have proceeded before the market went absolutely crazy, they are the proud owners of a nice finca which even now would probably fetch ten times more than they paid for it and – of course – they are in no hurry to sell.

So, unless a miracle happens (we might decide we want to live in a village house or a shed after all or somebody might feel really sorry for us and reduce their sales price by at least 50%, or who knows, we might even win the lottery – were we to start buying a ticket), it is decidedly looking as if we´ll start exploring again when we get back from our little holiday in England. For our next venture, we are thinking of having a sniff around the Córdoba area where you still seem to get quite a bit of house and land for your hard-earned money. Ah well, it´ll be another chapter in the book, I suppose.

Maybe we should just buy ourselves a mobile home and be done with it?

P.S.:

On a totally different note: I´m getting quite excited about tonight´s football match although I´m still a bit confused as to which team I am actually supporting. Well, I have decided I shall be wearing my España T-shirt and my Deutschland hat (unless we go out to watch it, then I´ll be dressed in neutral clothes as I´d probably feel a bit of a twit to be honest) and then I´ll just keep my fingers crossed that it´ll be an exciting game and that ultimately the better team wins (and that there won´t be a penalty shoot out). ¡Vaya Deutschland! España vor noch ein Tor!

The last straw

Friday is market day in the village. We usually get there around midmorning, buy our fruit and veg for the week ahead and then pop into the fishmonger´s and the butcher´s. Laden with heavy shopping bags, we like to have a coffee or a soft drink in a bar before eventually returning home.

There are several bars in the village and we have recently started visiting an establishment, run by Brits and therefore known as the ´British bar`. The handy thing about the place is that they have a little library with English books and as Ian is an avid reader of thrillers, he borrows a couple to see him through the week. You can also buy PG tips, brown sauce and other ´essentials` to satisfy any cravings you may have for UK delicacies. Furthermore, they sell free range eggs (€1.50 for a dozen) which are much tastier than the supermarket equivalent. The only fly in the ointment is the appalling attitude of some of the people who run the bar. Ian has often moaned about one particular guy (whom I shall name Grumpy) whose lack of friendliness could even be described as plain rudeness. He is one of these people who think they are doing you a big favour, allowing you to be their customer and he is the only person ever who has managed to serve Ian and take his money without uttering one single word. “Hello, what can I get you? A cortado (coffee with just a dash of milk)? Certainly, sir. Coming up straight away. Do sit down, I´ll bring it over to the table.” Sentences like that don´t feature in Grumpy´s linguistic repertoire. So until now we´ve simply put up with the atrocious service, mainly because of the convenience of getting our hands on some reading material. Until yesterday that is when Grumpy simply went one step too far.

We entered the bar just before 12 o´ clock and – as usual – had to greet him before – surprise, surprise – he actually mumbled “Mornin´” back to us. (Without a smile of course. Steady now – wouldn´t want to overdo it, would we?) We ordered our drinks at the bar and took them over to a table. A few minutes later a friend came in, invited us to a coffee and again, we ordered at the bar and carried the coffees over to the table ourselves. When we eventually got up to leave, Grumpy dragged himself over to our vacated table, grabbed some of the cups and glasses and muttered darkly but very audibly: “Ok, I´ll clear up your mess then.” I was gobsmacked - for a few seconds – after which I seriously had to bite my tongue so as not to cause a scene. (I had even helpfully stacked up all cups and saucers, put the spoons in one cup and separated used from unused sugar sachets – yeah, well – don´t ask, that´s me!) Sure thing, you are entitled to get annoyed if somebody at home doesn´t clear up after themselves but if you run a bar, please correct me if I´m wrong here, isn´t clearing tables part of the job??? We often do take our empties back to the bar, actually, to save the person serving a bit of work; however, we don´t tend to be quite so cooperative when dealing with such a miseryguts.

Well, the camel´s got the hump now and its back is well and truly broken. ¡Basta ya! Enough is enough. Bye bye British bar. Incidentally our friend has suggested we should give the bar another try and said it might grow on us (like mould) but we´re not convinced. We´ll be joining the village library next week and we´ll stock up on English goodies when we´re in the UK next month. As for the eggs (not good for your cholesterol level anyway), you never know, I might be able to persuade Ian to have a couple of chickens of our own. Then again – pigs might fly and, even more unlikely, Grumpy might one day realise that he is in fact running a hospitality and not a hostility business.

Thank you for visiting my blog. I hope you´ve enjoyed it. Do look in again sometime soon. Goodbye and have a nice day ;)

The best things in life are free

The recent fuel crisis has not gone entirely unnoticed here in our little corner of the world but it has certainly not been quite as drastic as we might have expected at first.

Yesterday, we went to the little filling station which is housed within the olive oil cooperative on the outskirts of the village and didn´t even have to queue to get our hands on the diesel pump. What we have noticed though is that since our arrival in Spain last September, fuel prices have increased tremendously. We now pay almost €1.30 for a litre of diesel compared to just over €1 when we first got here. I dread to think what prices are like in the UK at the moment.

The traders had all made it to yesterday´s market in the village square, their range of products almost as varied as always, with the slight exception of the non-availability of lettuces and oranges. We managed to get the latter in the local supermarket where most shelves were fully stocked apart from the fresh meat and bread counters which looked very bare indeed.

Earlier in the week, not too sure exactly when we would be able to fill up the car again, we deliberately avoided its use and walked into the village, giving the X-Trail a few days off.

One morning, we set off for a walk in the surrounding countryside. The rolling hills were dotted with wild flowers, the air was clean and fresh and the only sound you could hear was birdsong and the occasional bark of a dog. Chica, the spaniel, came along and had no end of fun, chasing after the stones we threw for her. We arrived back home two hours later with an orange which had fallen off a tree and conveniently rolled onto the edge of our path. We munched it that same morning and it was by far the sweetest and juiciest orange I have ever tasted – and the cheapest too. So much enjoyment and not a single centimo was spent. How comforting to know that there are still pleasant things to do which nobody in this materialistic society in which we live can spoil for others.

Happiness - for some - is simply having a lifetime supply of stones.

Yer can tek a man aht o´ Yorkshire ...

My father-in-law, who turned 85 earlier this year, has been out to visit us twice since we moved to Spain. The first time, last Christmas, Ian went back to the UK, so he could accompany his father on his flight over which happened to be the first time the old boy had been on board a plane for quite some time. To be able to visit us, Alan had to apply for a new passport, as his old one had long expired. He was charged 66 pounds for the privilege but has since been ´generously` refunded in full for this expense (why he couldn´t have simply been given a new passport free of charge beggars belief). When Alan and Ian flew out from Stansted to Almería on a cold and wet December morning, Alan´s hand luggage was kept to one side and examined more thoroughly after having been X-rayed. Unfortunately, it had slipped my husband´s mind to warn his father not to carry any sharp objects in his cabin luggage but even Ian was amazed when the security officer unearthed not one, not two but three pairs of scissors from the depths of Alan´s holdall. When questioned why he was travelling with three pairs of scissors, the old man replied: “Well, everytime I wondered if I´d packed a pair, I couldn´t be bothered to rummage through my bag to check, so instead, I simply threw in another one.” The airport official saw the funny side of it and as Alan didn´t exactly look like somebody about to highjack a plane, he even let him select and keep his favourite pair.

Despite our warnings, Alan arrived with a suitcase full of trendy summer clothes (3/4 trousers, shorts, T-shirts … you name it). Unfortunately, he had totally underestimated just how cold it gets high up in the mountains in winter time, so Ian ended up lending him a warm jacket and we persuaded him to leave all his clothes with us to save him having to carry a heavy suitcase when coming out for his summer stint.

On both of Alan´s visits, we left his return flight open, so he could decide for himself when he wanted to escape back to the comforts of his own home. Before he came out the first time, Ian asked him during a telephone conversation roughly how long he envisaged staying. “Well, about eight weeks I think”, came the answer which caused Ian even more palpitations. The old man had obviously thought if he were to make such a long trip, he´d better ensure it was worth all the hassle. It turned out that on both visits he was more than ready to head back to the Yorkshire hills after about a fortnight. “It´s not that I´m not enjoying myself here, far from it…”, he was eager to point out, “… but I do miss my independence.” You can´t really argue with that. Back in South Yorkshire, he catches a bus into town everyday, buys a newspaper, does a bit of shopping, goes to the pub for a couple of pints and a meal, tootles off back home for a siesta after which he watches Sky Sports, whereas here in Spain, he totally relies on us to take him places.

Despite his advanced years, Alan is still very much in possession of his faculties; he really does play a mean game of dominoes. He loves his food (as long as it involves some form of potatoes and lashings of gravy) and drink but never over-indulges: “I know when I´ve had enough.” is his motto which he often quotes if offered another glass of wine or a pudding after his lunch. He´s not as agile as he used to be and he is now also quite hard of hearing. When I asked him what happened to his hearing aid, he shrugged his shoulders (this was after making me repeat the question of course) and informed me it had one day fallen victim to the washing machine. The fact that he can´t hear very well is probably more of a nuisance for us (having to say everything twice) than for him. Last Friday we went into the village and I explained to my father-in-law that we´d be going to the market to buy some fresh fruit and veg. “Great”, he smiled. When we eventually reached the village square where the market was in full swing, Alan looked up, stopped in his tracks and turned to me with a surprised look on his face: “Oh, it´s market day today, is it?”

Throughout his stay he´s amused us with a few antics like for example when he got sunburnt hands and arms despite having put on sun cream, as he claimed. The mystery was eventually revealed – the alleged sun lotion he´d been applying, turned out to be hand cream. (Well, the tube had Spanish writing on it, so how was he supposed to know?) I had to laugh when he mistook the fabric laundry basket in his bedroom for a gigantic waste paper bin and started filling it with used paper handkerchiefs. (Easily done, especially as the plastic bin in the bathroom was a bit on the small side.) On his last day he managed to lock himself out on the back patio but instead of making himself heard, he simply sat down and read his book until we found and freed him.

So, after two weeks and a bit we took him back to Málaga airport on Tuesday where we saw him being given a tray to put in all his loose change and other paraphenalia from the innards of his trouser pockets. (I wasn´t really that surprised when a red tooth brush made an appearance.) Clutching the tray in one hand and his holdall firmly in the other, Alan walked through the metal detector doorway only to be sent straight back and asked to put the tray and bag through the X-ray machine. He seemed to be confused that he was going one way, whilst his belongings went another. (Just as well he didn´t decide to lie down on the conveyor belt to get himself X-rayed together with his luggage.) He eventually disappeared from view, ascending the escalator heading towards the airport shopping area, giving us a royal wave. To our great relief, he phoned us some hours later to say he´d arrived back home safe and sound. “Got me jacket on…”, he informed me, “… about to go to´t chippy.” “Will they be open yet?”, I enquired. “Well yes, they open at five”, he retorted. A quick glance at my watch (it was half past five) soon confirmed that my father-in-law was still tuned into Spanish time and had forgotten to set his watch back an hour. He would have had a long wait for his grub – bless him.

Alan and Ian in Málaga

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.

Sorry Wolfie and Shaggy but unless we can educate your masters about what responsible dog ownership means, it looks as if this is the end of a beautiful friendship.

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!