Life in Culebrón

We’ll always be the “English neighbours”, no matter how much local paint I recommend or how many Spanish ministers I can name. That’s fine by me—but it’s not for everyone. A Scots bloke posted a video the other day—someone I’d never come across before—wrestling with his doubts about living in Spain. He was heading back to Scotland for a few weeks to test if it was still the place of his memories before committing to staying or going “home”. Reading between the lines of his eleven-minute video, what he missed was the easy comfort and deep-rooted sense of belonging from his past. Spain was great, but he felt he’d never truly belong. And frankly, I suspect he has a point. I’ve never once doubted our own move here. I’ve bought my funeral plan. I expect to end my days here. We didn’t leave the UK for negative reasons; we came to Spain for positive ones, and lots of those things still amuse me even now. It wasn’t even about chasing the sun—our initial plan in Castilla y León would have invol...

I went to the UK last weekend. I don't go very often but my mum moved, just before Christmas, into a care home and I felt nosey enough, or bad son guilty enough, to go and have a look at her new digs. A long weekend, Friday through Monday. My mum seemed fine and happy enough, given her 93 years and her circumstances, and it was good to see her. To make it even better I got to see my sister and brother and their partners. I just asked Maggie how long she considers I've spent in the UK in the last 20 years and she reckoned a month. I think it must be more than that but I'd be amazed if it added up to more than three months. This means the UK is a bit foreign to me. Obviously it's not really strange to me because I'm British and lots of stuff just got coded into my DNA - be that sausage rolls, drinking tea, double decker buses, Boxing Day or the winter sound of cawing crows. Just after we'd arrived in the UK, in the bus on the airport apron, a group of young people...