El Escorial

Philip II was the Spanish King who had a bit of a tussle with Good Queen Bess, Elizabeth I.

Philip built a few ships to invade England in 1588 but whilst they were waiting to pick up an army from Holland a bit of a problem with the English fleet, the reputation of a certain Francis Drake and most particularly a spot of bad weather rather put paid to his invasion plan.

His home palace was this place, El Escorial. Quite a pile of stone. Bit austere. We were there yesterday.

Valley of the Fallen

Apparently Franco (the dictator who ruled Spain from 1939 till his death in 1975) didn't want to be buried in the underground basilica at the Valley of the Fallen (el Valle de los Caidos). I don't suppose the 20,000 Republican prisoners who built it, and who were able to "redeem" days from their sentences by working on its construction, were that keen to be there either.

The monument consists of a Benedictine Abbey where the priests recite a perpetual mass for the dead of the war, a 152 metre high stone cross - the tallest memorial cross in the World - and an underground crypt carved into the granite mountain parts of which were left unconsecrated when Pope John XIII declared it a basilica in 1960 to avoid it rivalling St Peter's in Rome as the largest basilica in the World.

Franco had it built "to honour those who fell during the Spanish Civil War" but as Republicans (the defeated Left) were not knowingly buried there till 1958, as the place is plastered with "Fallen for God and for Spain" inscriptions, as the only other person buried inside the basilica is José Antonio Primero de Rivera (founder of the Spanish falange or fascist party) and as the architecture has obvious stylistic links to buildings in Mussolini's Italy and Hitler's Germany the monument is still a tad controversial in a Spain that has just passed a law to ban all tributes to the fascist victory.

The valley is just outside Madrid, in the Cuelgamuros valley, on the route between Culebrón and Ciudad Rodrigo and so Maggie and I thought we'd make a detour and have a look at the place as we travelled from one home to the other.

Political precedents aside the place was spectacular as much for the setting as for the construction. It was one of those crisp, blue sky days. Snow capped peaks, piercing sunlight scenery in sharp relief, ice crunching under foot, breath smoking in the cold and the air smelling of wood and soil. Grey granite isn't a particularly impressive rock but set out a huge open plaza with the stuff, cement it together into heavy giant figures, carve a huge underground temple from it or pile it high into the sky and it does the trick.

Treasure

Some time ago a couple of friends, Derek and Laura, came to stay with us. Derek mentioned something about the death mask of a cursed mummy in Villena that he would like to see. We ignored him of course and did the usual round of paella eating and laughing at the centre of Pinoso.

Villena is a town about 30kms from us. It's a nice place and I'd read that their nativity scene or belén was a good one this year so Maggie and I thought we would go and have a look. Well actually I thought we'd go and have a look and Maggie didn't object violently enough to stop it happening.

The belén was good and as we walked across the square from the cultural centre and poked our noses inside the church a woman pounced on us and gave us a guided tour. She suggested we have a look at the archaeoligical museum. It wasn't a cursed mummy it was the Treasure of Villena and, sorry Derek, we should have listened.

A couple of workman in 1963 found a bracelet in the gravel they were spreading. They hung the bracelet up on the wall so that whoever had dropped it could reclaim it. A bit later one of them thought they might just pop it aound to the local jeweller to see if it was worth anything. As it was half a kilo of 24 carat gold it did have a certain value but as it was also 3,000 years old and from the late Bronze Age the jeweller suggested that melting it down wasn't such a good idea. He asked a local archaeologist to have a look at it. In turn this bloke, a regular Hercule Poirot, suggested they go and have a look where the gravel had come from just in case there was anything else there. Seventy pieces of gold weighing in at 9 kilos was what they found.

We got this story from a subtitled version of a No-Do, the Spanish equivalent of the Pathé News but with even more of a propoganda edge. The re-enactment of the discovery of the bracelet by the real life Spanish workmen on the film was of about the same quality as the Stainland Amateur Players rendition of "An Inspector Calls" except that the workmen did not fall over. Nonetheless it gave us the story. And the nice woman at the museum opened up the showcase and let us have a look at the real stuff.

Christmas begins

The first day of winter and the Christmas lottery draw, "El Gordo" - the fat one.

In every bar in Spain, and from nearly every window and car comes the odd, Gregorian chant like sound, of the Spanish Christmas lottery.

For weeks, nay months, before Spaniards have been buying lottery tickets. They send friends to distant parts of the country to buy particular numbers or to buy from particular offices with successful prize giving histories. They share tickets, or usually tenths of tickets, with friends, family and colleagues. Everyone has a system for choosing their numbers and the average spend per adult is in the region of 70€.

It's quite an odd lottery. The tickets are odd. For a start each one costs €200 and that's why they are sold as tenths - decimos - at 20€ a go. Organisations, charities and what not, often buy a few full tickets and sell them on at 23€ with the 3€ going to the charity. Even stranger is that there are lots and lots of the same number because each number is sold with a series number alongside. There are 85 series so there are 850 decimos with the same number. Someone told me that everyone in her company had been given a decimo, with the same number, as part of their Christmas bonus by the management. She wondered if the bosses had thought about the impact of everyone in the firm winning and whether they would have a workforce on Monday morning! I asked her if the bosses had the same tickets and, if so, whether they would care?

The draw is odd. For a start the numbers are not made up by drawing individual balls to make up a number, the draw is of whole numbers. So if I bought a tenth with the number 35005 then that number is actually engraved on one of the little wooden balls that roll around inside the big tombola type drum - el bombo. The number rolls out of the big drum and is collected by a child from the San Ildefonso school in Madrid. It's a tradition like the "Barnardo Boys" being the ball boys at Wimbledon. That child then chants the number. Meanwhile another engraved wooden ball has rolled out of a smaller bombo to be collected by another child. That ball has the amount of the prize. The children go like the clappers chanting numbers and amounts for nearly 3 hours. There are relays of children. The majority of the prizes are for 1.000€ but there are 13 big prizes. El Gordo is 3 million euros, 2nd is 1 million, 3rd is half a million and then there are two 4th prizes of 200,000 and five 5th prizes of 50,000.

So the first child chants the number, the numbers are five figures and the children chant the number in the ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine format rather than 99999. They practice from October to make sure they can do that quickly and accurately. A second child then chants the amount and, if it's one of the first five prizes they walk over to show the "judges" who are there to confirm that everything is carried out properly. The children chant the number and the prize as they walk. They walk with one hand pushed into the small of their back and the other holding the winning ball in front of them. The children have good posture.

Bear in mind that El Gordo is only 3,000,000€. That means that, unless you bought all ten decimos of a number your winning ticket is only worth 300,000€. Not exactly a fortune. But the reason this draw is so popular is because lots and lots of people can win 300,000€. If all the winning tickets were sold (85 full tickets made up of of ten coupons) then there would be 850 people with 300,000€ in their hands and the fifth prizes of 50,000€ or just 5,000€ per decimo could go to 6,800 people if all the tickets in all the series were sold. What's more there are supplementary prizes for having part of the winning number (I got my stake money back because El Gordo was 60381 and my number was 01001, I had the last figure) and Maggie won 50€ because she had a half share in a ticket that had won 1,000€ (100€ per decimo)

The payout is set at 70% of the money collected though I suppose that the organisers run the risk that the tickets drawn could represent a larger proportion if the unsold tickets were the losers or they could have a good year and not sell too many of the winners.

It's quite an event though in a strangely non event sort of way.

Not quite a party

It was the last "Adult Education" Spanish class last night and I went along as usual.

A bit before our class was due to end a white haired, pink faced chap poked his head around the door - another Brit obviously. The teacher asked him to hang on for a while.

Later, as we packed up to go, a couple of young Spanish lads (well young to me) scampered into the classroom and pinned a sheet of paper to the notice board. I had a peek and saw it was the end of term marks for an English class.

I packed away my books and headed off down the stairs towards home but I was called back by the teacher. There was a bite to eat and drink, an end of term celebration, wasn't I coming?.

That's what the other Brits were there for of course, they were the Spanish Beginners and the young Spaniards were an English class. We were going to have a jolly cultural interchange.

So you now have three litle knots of people sticking together for safety. Most of us Brit men are wearing some form of Marks and Spencer car coat (we´re that sort of age) and the young Spanish women are wearing velour track suits (they are, after all, country folk). Nobody looks comfortable.

There is a row of formica topped tables, all of slightly different heights, pushed together in the middle of the room with trays of Spanish cakes, a few bottles of sparkling wine or cider and a bottle of pop placed in a neat row along the centre lines of the table. The room is very quiet.

Conversation is clipped. The teachers try to be jolly. We all go "aaahhh" as the corks fly from the fizzy cider bottles. Brits and Dutch sample the Spanish cakes and slide the uneaten portions into their coat pockets. The doughnuts provided by a Dutch woman are sampled gingerly by the Spanish lads. People start to slide off. There are attempts at conversation - mine with a lad with a pin through his eyebrow - starts, hopefully eough with him checking the pronunciation of the English words nipple and bra but it's all downhill from there. I eat more cakes and slide away to find all the Spaniards outside the front door having a ciggy.

Fit to drive?

Our next door neighbours, Gail and Gerry, had read in one of the English language newspapers that Brits, driving on the European style GB licences, needed to pass the same medical tests as Spanish drivers.

I was sure that was wrong, after all if my licence is issued by Swansea then it's DVLA rules I follow isn't it? So I checked a few websites, wrote to DVLA, asked in a few internet forums and even went to talk to the local Guardia Civil. It soon became obvious that if you had a Spanish licence you needed the medical but nobody seemed sure about the rules for driving in Spain on a GB licence. So I sent a fax to the local traffic authorities and asked them.

The reply was not good news. Anyone RESIDENT in Spain and driving on an EU licence is subject to the same medical requirements as Spaniards. For standard cars that means people under 45 years old need to take the medical tests every ten years, from 45 to 70 years old it's every five years and when you're past 70 it's every two years. For anything over 3,500kgs, minibuses and most things with trailers its a medical every five years up to 45, every three years between 45 and 60 and every two years from then on. The exam is a sort of mixed physical and aptitude test.

And, of course, if you haven't passed the exam and you go out and slaughter someone on the road or destroy lots of property just watch the insurance companies wash their hands of you.

I'm going to get myself checked out at one of the authorised centres very, very soon.

If you'd like to check the appropriate legislation articles 22 and 16 are the relevant ones

Life in the Dark Ages

This morning the pipes were frozen in the house. It's not surprising as the main feed pipe runs across the garden only about 5cms down.

The frost wasn't particularly heavy but it is the third day in a row when the lowest temperatures have touched zero and daytime highs have only been around 15ºC. The house is cold and I don't expect to pass more than fleeting moments in some of the rooms and passageways until Spring arrives.

It would be difficult to pour sufficient heat into the place with its tiled floors, ill fitting windows and uninsulated walls to keep it toasty without negotiating an industrial sized contract with the energy suppliers and then, of course, a bunch of people from Kyoto, Bali or Greenpeace would, no doubt, pop around to give me a good talking to about my carbon footprint.

Boom bang a bang

The fiesta for the patron saint of Yecla, a town about 25kms from us, just over the border into Murcia, is a little odd in that one of the main events consists of a bunch of blokes, dressed up in tailcoats and Captain Hornblower hats wandering around the streets firing of arquebuses.

This is because in 1642 the French invaded Catalunya and the Catalans recruited 61 militiamen from Yecla to give them a hand. All the Yeclanos came home in one piece and, as a bit of a celebration, they paraded through the streets with the statue of the town's patron on their shoulders firing off their guns. Their ancestors, and a few friends, still do. Over 500 guns out last night.

A nice man from the Civil Protection Team gave us some cotton wool to stop up our ears.

El Corte Inglés

El Corte Inglés is a big department store chain similar in some ways to the John Lewis shops in the UK. Apparently it is named for a style of tailoring - the English cut - as the founder of the chain originally opened a tailor's shop in Central Madrid in 1934. Despite now being one of the largest companies in Spain it is not quoted on the Stock Exchange and remains in private hands. Apparently several journalists have a clause in their contracts that says they cannot say anything nasty about the chain!

Corte Inglés is something of a retailing phenomenon in Spain and the timing of their advertising campaigns seem to be taken as a marker by other retailers. Their marketing strategy is very aggressive and the shops provoke a remarkable degree of either loyalty or loathing amongst ordinary people. Maggie, for instance, thinks they are overpriced and offer nothing special but I've retained a fondness for the chain from my holidaymaker days in Spain when I found them easy to use - they have long opening hours and with everything on display which did away with the need to ask across the counter as in so many Spanish shops. Nowadays I'm less impressed because when I do ask for help I find that the assistants are often unknowledgeable and quite sharp.

There aren't Corte Inglés shops everywhere. I think all of the Provincial Capitals have one and the largest cities have several - it's another of those times where size really does matter. So Elche City Council must have been well pleased when the chain decided to open a great big new store in their town complete with a Hipercor supermarket.

Doors opened in mid November and Maggie and I went to have a look this weekend. To be honest it was a bit unremarkable.

Rather splendid

Reading through a magazine I came across a re-run of an article on how to book an appointment with the doctor via the internet. I had a look at the website and though the information was only in a couple of Spanish languages the process was dead simple. As I had a look around I was reminded that you can also book your doctor's appointment via an SMS message from your mobile phone.

There mustn't have been much on the telly tonight because I also read a newspaper and I noticed an advert about tax incentives for renting out your house to young people. Lots of Spaniards have second homes so there is lots of property standing empty. I thought it seemed like a simple and elegant solution to a shortage of affordable housing.

This time the website was written in four Spanish languages plus English. The information included model contracts, extracts of the legal framework etc.

There was just the one tarmac road in Pinoso in the early 1980s, electricity arrived in the town the decade before. Bit of a change then.

Emergency services

The last time I had to call the emergency services was probably in 1979 so it's not something I do lightly or often.

Today I scived off work to go and get a cup of coffee at the Brit bar just across the road. As I walked in the owner started a rambling tale about some customer who needed an ambulance and could I phone for one because the numbers I'd given him didn't work. As the number was 112, the European emergency number, I rather doubted his story but it didn't seem reasonable to have a discussion about the efficiency of Spanish administration if someone needed help.

"Alright" says I, "where does this chap live, what's he called and what's wrong with him?" "Er, Torre del Rico number 10, Ted and his legs hurt".

So with this rather scanty information I phone 112 and tell them I need an ambulance from Jumilla (Torre del Rico is administratively linked to the larger town of Jumilla which just happens to be over the administrative border, not in our province of Alicante but in Murcia). The Alicante 112 call centre passes me to the Murcia control centre. So far so good.

The following conversation would be bizarre in any language but imagine it in dodgy Spanish.

You need an ambulance in Murcia but you're phoning from Alicante? Yes, I just popped into a bar where the owner had taken a phone call from a customer:
So is the customer in the bar? No he's at home:
In Murcia? In Murcia:
So what's the relationship between the sick man and the bar owner? No idea:
So what's your relationship to the sick man? None:
Why didn't the chap phone himself? No idea:
Why did he phone a bar? No idea:
What's wrong with him? His legs hurt and he can't walk:
What's he called? Ted:
And his other names? No idea:
How old is he? No idea:
Any medical history? No idea:
Where does he live? Number 10 Torre del Rico:
Where's that close to in the village? No idea:
What's his phone number? Hang on - at this point I have to go to find the bar owner who is contentedly getting on with a stock take -we think it's so and so:
But that's an Alicante number, are you sure you want Murcia? Yes.

At this point the operator asks me what language I speak and passes me to an English speaking operator who confirms the answers I've given. She obviously thinks I'm bonkers but she says she will send an ambulance.

I was quite cross about this whole episode.