A nation of writers

I once worked with someone who was keen on illicit drugs. He came from Huddersfield but we were working near Newcastle and he was having trouble finding a local supplier. He picked up what we used to call a sexually transmitted disease and ended up at the local GUM clinic. He told me later that finding a supplier in the clinic was the work of minutes and he wondered why he'd never thought of it before.

If you want to find Britons in Spain the Post Office would be fertile territory. In the Pinoso office at least we usually outnumber Spaniards. I've been told, by a Spaniard, that this is because, until recently at least, there had not been a big tradition of reading and writing in Spain so the Post Office never became important to ordinary people. I have to say that I thought the analysis lacked academic rigour.

Today I was reading the local news over a lunchtime coffee. There was a piece to say that Pinoso had twenty one restaurants featured on a website called gastroranking.es which is a website that compiles the results from a range of other websites of the TripAdvisor type.

I had a look and I was quite surprised to find that the top rated places in Pinoso included places I would not have instantly thought of. The outright winner is very popular with both Spaniards and Britons but the rest of the top performers included places that I certainly don't care for. Risking the possibility of being ostracised by my own all I can think is that maybe the Post Office literacy comment is more accurate than I suspected. Maybe there really is very little tradition of writing by the home population and that extends to restaurant reviews.

Cobbling it all together

Our palm tree is fit and well. You will remember that I was alternately worried about it bringing down power cables or being eaten by beetles. Well everything sort of miraculously self resolved. All I do now is spray it with some deadly chemical every six weeks and that's it. Just another routine job.

I bought the pesticide from the bodega. In their shop they sell all sorts of things for we horny handed sons of toil. Much later I was checking information that I'd heard on the local radio about the the beetle plague with the local environment office. I mentioned my spraying regime. The Park Ranger I was talking to, you could tell she was a ranger because she had those trousers that are baggy behind the knee and have lots of unexplained and apparently useless flaps, asked me if I had a certificate for handling pesticides. I don't of course. No problem she said. Nobody is going to bother you about it but really you should either do the course on how to spray safely or get a professional to treat your tree. As it stands I am apparently on the wrong side of the law if I spray. I remembered her advice when I saw a poster outside the shoe shop advertising a spraying course.

A few weeks ago I was shovelling down some breakfast longanizas and tortilla in Eduardo's when David asked me if I used any chemicals in the garden. He had heard that, from the beginning of October, only people who had been on the appropriate courses about handling pesticides, herbicides and similar would be allowed to buy them. His advice was to stock up before the law changed and that's exactly what I did.

Today as I drove to work I had the local radio on again. This time I heard how the containers for phytosanitary products have to be disposed of in an approved way and that not doing so is a serious offence with attendant fines. Now my guess is that they are talking about the farmers, who spray thousands of litres of the stuff on their crops and then dump the chemical tubs all over the countryside, rather than me and my one litre bottle. The principle, nonetheless, is the same.

It's obvious that something has been going on in relation to agricultural spraying. There was David's news, the conversation with the ranger, the news item on the radio and the training course poster.

To be honest, I have no idea how I kept up with things when I lived in the UK. I suppose it would be a mixture of things - an information leaflet here, a news item there and, maybe, a conversation down the boozer to top it all off.

We, we Britons, don't generally keep up quite so well here. We're disadvantaged because we live on the edge of mainstream society. Most of us don't watch the home grown telly, share the same WhatsApp messages, read the home grown press, live with a Spanish person or even have the same sort of  bar room conversations. Our news tends to be filtered by someone who understood the Spanish in the first place or who has heard it passed on in a sort of Chinese Whispers way.

A few years ago there were sweeping tax changes. Perfectly reasonably the Spanish media centred on those things that would directly affect most people - income tax changes, sales tax changes, pension and salary freezes. In amongst those measures were increased duties on air fares. To your average Spaniard the air fare news was inconsequential but to a retired Briton living in Spain on a pension paid from the UK, paying no Spanish Incom Tax but flying "home" every few months the key bit of information was simply not reported.

So, often, it's not the lack of information that surprises me it's the fact that we somehow manage to cobble it all together one way and another.

My new job

Forgive the indulgence of this entry.

I started a new job a couple of weeks ago teaching English with a language school based in Murcia city. They didn't give me a job in the city though but asked me to work in a co-operative grant maintained school in Cieza which is a very pleasant but lengthy 60km drive from home.

For three mornings a week I work in the school, with classes of youngsters. Their ages range from 12 to 16. I am there to do the authentic English bit - real structure, real vocabulary and real accent. Mainly speaking and listening rather than writing or reading.

For four afternoons a week I work in the same school buildings alongside a team of three or four other English speaking Spanish teachers. Indeed I work in the same classrooms, but this time for the academy, the private language school which sells English classes. The age range there is from six year olds up to adults.

I'm far from settled. The students seem nice enough and nobody has hit me or abused me directly as they did when I worked in Fortuna. First impressions are that the school is good and the staff have been perfectly friendly. On the other hand I still haven't worked out how a lot of it works or even got all of the various text books and other materials that are the basis for the ten different groups that I work with in the afternoons. Teaching full classes of ordinary schoolkids in a school is something completely new to me too.

All in all I have nineteen diffferent groups and getting to know them all is not something that comes easily to an old man with a failing memory. The teaching has been fine, I've even enjoyed most of it, but the record keeping has been driving me crazy. The records are necessary to ensure that I don't cover the same thing twice with the same group. Planning has also taken much longer than I like, and probably than it should. The truth is though that simple maths says that with so many groups even ten minutes per week on each means I'll be doing over three hours of unpaid work. All I can hope is that it will all become easier and faster as things settle down.

Or maybe I'll just decide that working isn't really for me any more and give it all up, sit in Culebrón and try to live off my small pension and the sweat of Maggie's brow.

Broken mugs and Timberland loafers

I heard a loud crash in the kitchen and a louder curse from Maggie. She'd dropped a mug which we got free with some Fontaneda digestive biscuits (McVities to you and me) when we lived in Santa Pola. That would be about eleven years ago now. "It was nearly an antique," she said, sadly.

A little while ago one of my nephews got married. Originally I intended to go to the wedding but airlines and bosses conspired against me to make it more or less impossible or at least impractical. Looking through the wedding list I siezed on sending a canteen of cutlery. I remember the myriad times that my mum would comment on a tea caddy spoon, a vase or some other trivial household object and say - "That was a wedding present from Uncle So and So." I rather like the idea of permanancy amidst the never ending change.

We have quite a few chipped tiles on the floor and lots of things that were new when we moved in here in 2005 are definitely looking a bit tired now - then again they also make the place look lived in, worn in - like it's ours.

This morning I decided to clear my summer sandals from the bottom of the wardrobe. There were a pair of Timberlands that I bought specifically to come to Spain. I thought that Spaniards, like Italians, probably didn't wear socks and I wanted to fit in. As I put the summer shoes away I pulled out some sensible black Oxfords much more suitable for the coming weather and I dragged out a Harrington windcheater that I bought when I first started working In St Ives back in 1996 I think. Perfect for the light chill of mid October.

The MGB, Mary the cat and I crossed the border into Spain eleven years and ten days ago now. Long enough to remember that such and such was a gift from so and so or came from here or there. Slowly building a history.

September weather

The blogs about the weather are amongst the posts that get most visits. So I've been looking out for the July and August summaries on the Town Hall website. Then a couple of days ago, the September report popped up, leapfrogging the earlier months. Obviously there was no weather to talk of over the summer.

On the same website there were some very seasonal reports. Apparently the grape harvest for the local wine co-op is shaping up nicely. Good grapes and plenty of them. It's the same for the almonds. An abundant crop with decent prices to the farmers. But not everything is sweetness and light. The tractor and trailer combinations that haul the grapes to the co-operative bodega and dried fruit and nuts processor are causing frustration for local car drivers. It is very annoying to get stuck behind the trailers and hemmed in by the very common - do not overtake - solid white lines of Spanish roads. Tractor drivers are being asked to use the route that skirts the town usually used by the heavy lorries. The farmers are also being warned that if they spill the grapes on the road (which soon get churned into a thick blood coloured paste) the local police may well prosecute. How they can be sure who spilled which grapes where I'm not quite sure.

In Cambridgeshire I used to get stuck behind beet lorries. Now it's grapes and almond tractors.

Anyway, September weather. Well the highest temperature was on both the 21st or the 22nd at 32ºC and there were seven days in the month when the temperature was over 30ºC. The lowest temperature was 10ºC overnight between the 28th and 29th. The mean daily high was 26.6ºC and the mean daily low was 10.8ºC which all averages out at 20.2ºC. 

The rain dumped 78.6 litres of water on every square meter in September though one day, the 7th, was responsible for 30 of those litres. 

We had 15 days of clear, sunny skies and another seven with sunny periods. Even with all that rain there were only three days when it was completely overcast.

Not enough meat for a post

I was trying to decide whether there was enough material for a post or not.

I went on a tram. I parked outside of town and rode in on the tram to save car parking fees. That's it. That's the nub of it, the kernel. I don't think it's enough. It doesn't have the lurid appeal of "I Married an Alien" nor the biting, if misplaced, immediacy of "Gotcha"

Maybe I could pad it out? Details about the Murcia City tram system: length of line, stuff like that but just reading the information was boring enough - test line in 2007, opened 2011, only one of the four lines built, 21kms in length etc.

What about a trip down memory lane? Illuminated trams in Blackpool dresseed as rockets, Lisbon trams scraping past walls or Huddersfield trolley buses passing through Elland on the way to the terminus in West Vale. Hardly appropriate for Life in Culebrón.

Something on the organisation of public transport perhaps? The Alicante to Jumilla bus that stops in Culebrón? How, within towns at least, there is a fixed fare scheme nearly everywhere in Spain. About the per kilometre price for main line trains with slower trains cheaper than faster trains? Even more yawn inducing. Anyway I seem to remember a remarkably tedious post about a narrow gauge railway somewhere.

No. Not enough for a post. And the photos were blurry anyway because it was so dark and dismal in Murcia.