Life in Culebrón

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,...

I couldn't think of anything to write for the blog, so I turned to Facebook. Rob suggested I tackle the mystery of why vegetables often go missing from Spanish restaurant dishes, and Ruth asked about translating Spanish menus. I started to see a link between the two, so let’s see how it goes. Cheap, excellent vegetables are everywhere in Spain, yet they often disappear once you sit down in a restaurant, especially at menú del día level. Menús are inexpensive set meals available all over Spain at weekday lunchtime. First, there's tradition and hierarchy. In much of Spain, vegetables remain culturally secondary to the main event. A proper main course demands substance—meat or fish—with veg relegated to soups, stews or garnishes. Vegetable-led dishes feel like home cooking to Spaniards, not something you pay good money for in a restaurant. It's exactly the same idea that my dad would have had: that a proper meal was meat and two veg. Well, you see the similarity even if the ve...