Life in Culebrón

Subsidising my holiday is one thing. I can see the justification. We poor old people need to get out of the house; we need a bit of social integration rather than a life shuffling around in worn slippers and worn out dressing gown among unwashed pots and smelly laundry. It may keep us active and, of course, it keeps people in work when those jobs might otherwise disappear with the ebb and flow of the tourist seasons. But subsidising my alcohol intake is quite another thing. True, the wine wasn’t good—in fact, bad may be the better adjective—but, acidic as it was, it had the inestimable quality of being, to all intents and purposes, free. A bottle with lunch, a bottle with dinner. Just what the doctor ordered—actually, I forget—was it two bottles or two glasses? Indeed, didn’t the spoilsports downgrade that to just two, or even one, glass, and was it only red? Never fear, it's still two bottles, any colour, for we oldies in Spain. It’s the third time we’ve done a holiday with the IM...

My mum, that's really our mum but I often claim ownership, lives in Cambridge. She's 94 years old and she doesn't remember much. Telephone conversations between us are often very, very short and completely non sequitur because she doesn't really know who's talking to her about what. Most of the responsibility for caring for Mum falls on my sister. I'm happy to believe that the main reason for that is because she lives closest but I know that the real reason is because, between the two traditional sexes, just one usually gets lumbered with anything associated with care. The other has a pressing need to pop down the pub. To salve my conscience, and, I suppose, to see my mum, I've taken to popping over to England to visit her every couple of months. Well, that may be being a bit economical with the truth. I think I've done three trips between December and the first week in March and the next one is planned for May. Because of where Mum lives, I can do the w...

I was thinking about oil the other day. When I say oil, of course, I’m not thinking about Castrol EDGE C1; I mean olive oil. In Spain, you can buy other oils—sesame, corn, Castrol, and so on—but oil, for most purposes, really means olive oil. The oil came to mind because I was in our local winery this week. They have a small supermarket there which features a gourmet section devoted to high-price, high-quality local foodstuffs. One of the star products is olive oil. Good olive oil is made by cold-pressing olives to produce extra virgin olive oil. The best olive oils are monovarietal. The comparison with whisky is obvious. Blended whiskies can be very good, but the experienced tippler is likely to prefer a single malt. Equally, with olive oil, some of the blended, or coupage, oils are very tasty, but if you pay your money, you will end up with single oils made from, for instance,  Arbequina, Picual, Hojiblanca, Manzanilla, Cornicabra, Empeltre, Verdial, Lechín, Riquela, or Blanqueta...

I went to see a magic show last Sunday. I’ve never liked performing or being on stage, and it’s obvious that, in a magic show, some punters are going to be pulled out of the audience to become part of the act. With that in mind, I chose where to sit, hoping the magician would hardly notice me, let alone single me out as the person who supplied him or her with a wristwatch to pulverise or magic rings to test as being forged from pure titanium—and it worked. Dylan hadn’t been so careful. I think he said he was eight years old. Among other things, Dylan had to draw a picture of the magician. Just before he did that, he was asked how good he was at plástica. The answer from young Dylan wasn't a description of his abilities but a simple numerical response: 7 or 8. For me, before I came to Spain, both those answers would have seemed odd. For a start, I’d have expected the question to be how good I was at Art—plástica sounds like something for recycling and, as to my abilities, I would ha...

It was a curious delight to discover that Jumilla (well, actually they said Yecla but that turned out to be wrong) — so near to Culebrón, scarcely forty kilometres away — was once a haunt of daring highwaymen. Perched where the old kingdoms of Valencia, Murcia, and Castile once met, the town’s rugged hills and twisting roads made it a natural stage for adventure and intrigue. In centuries past, Jumilla played host first to the ruthless marauders of the 17th century, and later to the gallant caballeros of legend — Spain’s own Dick Turpins, whose charm could steal a heart as deftly as a purse. By the 17th century, Spain had sunk to her knees, hollowed by famine, plague, and unending war. Across the sun‑scorched fields of Valencia and Murcia, farms lay abandoned and soldiers, weary of empty promises, melted away into the hills. Desperation deepened when, in 1609, King Philip III turned against the Moriscos — Christian converts from Islam whom suspicion still branded as “secret Muslims”. B...

Alberto Chicote—Chicote to one and all, except perhaps his mum—is a Spanish chef and TV celebrity. He came to fame with a Spanish version of the Gordon Ramsay show Kitchen Nightmares, or Pesadilla en la cocina. That's the programme where Gordon/Alberto is invited to a restaurant, orders some food and, based on what he eats, how he is served, what he sees in the kitchen, and what he gleans from talking to owners and workers, sets about a plan to make the restaurant more successful. In both Spanish and British versions, it seems absolutely essential that there is a lot of swearing. Chicote has often said that croquettes—croquetas in Spanish—are the ultimate litmus test for a restaurant. He always asks for croquetas if they are on the menu. His idea is that a good croqueta is a sign that the cook knows something of kitchen technique and uses quality ingredients. He's looking for handmade croquetas, not the horrible mass-produced and frozen ones that we are so often served. He is q...

There was a time when blogs were cutting-edge rather than faintly quaint. I first heard of them in an episode of The West Wing — something about Josh and a gas-guzzler, if I remember rightly. They began to take off around the start of the millennium and, by the time we arrived in Spain in 2004, were still new enough to feel vaguely adventurous. They sounded interesting. I’d kept a diary for years, so that slightly dutiful “captain’s log” approach — more record than invention — was already second nature. The difficulty was not how to write one, but what on earth to write about. No one was going to be gripped by the news that I’d been to the shops or that the car was making an unfamiliar noise. That changed once we began to settle into Spain. Suddenly there was an avalanche of things happening — new customs, new frustrations, small triumphs, daily absurdities. I assumed, with only a mild dose of egocentric bias, that if I found them interesting, someone else might too. Apparently I still...

Just next to the Red Cross building in Pinoso, where the Badén either starts or ends, there’s a modest structure with a sign that reads La Amistad El Pinos – the clubhouse for the local pigeon fanciers and, so far as I know, still very much active. A little way away, in the Santa Catalina district, just above the school where Calle Centro climbs past Calle López Seva, and about a hundred metres on, as the tarmac peters out, a cluster of beehive-like structures crouches on the left. Both places are associated with those pigeons you see from time to time painted in brilliant fluorescent hues, colours that make the Guinness toucan look positively dowdy. In these corners of Pinoso, the centuries-old Spanish passion for pigeon fancying lives on, dividing into two worlds that rarely meet: the rigorous, athletic Colombofilia and the vibrant, theatrical Colombicultura. For a cloth-capped British pigeon fancier accustomed to the quiet dedication of the garden loft and/or the great adventure of ...

On Sunday, 8 February 2026, Pinoso inaugurated its Bicentenary Fountain — a heartfelt tribute to all the Pinoseros and Pinoseras who came before us. Once again, water flows in the heart of our town square, from a fountain recreated as a faithful replica of the one built at the end of the nineteenth century in what was then known as the Plaza de la Constitución. It also serves as a living homage to the many women who would leave their daily tasks behind to queue patiently with their pitchers around the basin, waiting their turn to carry home the essential water of every day. To honour that memory, a bronze sculpture of a woman water carrier will now stand at this spot, reminding us of those early mornings when filling a pitcher meant far more than a domestic chore — it was an act of life itself, and a moment of connection among neighbours. Originally, the water came from the Encebras springs, channelled through a gallery that supplied the town for generations. Later, when water ran low,...