Life in Culebrón

It was in Vilanova d'Alcolea in Castellón that I really thought I was going to be burned alive. I ran faster that evening than I have since I was fourteen when I was being chased around a cross-country course by some deranged PE teacher who beat me with a stick if I tried to slow down. Then again, only last weekend, in Novelda, a group of men and women, dressed as devils, were making as though to set me on fire. Here in the Comunitat Valenciana, from tiny villages in Castellón to the bustling streets of Valencia or on the beaches of Alicante, people like to set things on fire and to set off pyrotechnics—fireworks of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. It's not just the Fallas in Valencia or the Hogueras de San Juan in Alicante; it's absolutely everywhere - even in the streets and villages of Pinoso. Valencianos always seem ready to put another log on the fire or light the blue touch paper and stand well back at the drop of a hat.  I hoped to find an organised and methodical way t...

My theory is simple enough. Spaniards like to talk. A corollary to that may be that Britons prefer to read. I suppose that Spaniards like to interact with other people, whenever possible. I mean, for goodness’ sake, why else would anyone going into a post office, or a hospital waiting room, feel the need to say hello to the room in general? Or why on that quiet woodland stroll does every sport clothes clad passer-by offer a greeting? I know walkers do it everywhere, but this is for the walk from the car park to the neolithic cave, not a trudge along the Pennine Way. It is, I have to say, possibly true that this universal truth is not so universal where the pace is hustle and bustle. It is right for our little corner of the world, but it may be that nobody in Zaragoza says hello as they enter the bank, although I suspect they do. I mean, otherwise how would they queue? We Britons stand in a line. There is a physical marker. No need to communicate. All we have to do is look up from our p...

I was watching the TV news and guffawing slightly as egg-throwing ratepayers tried to pelt the mayor of Morrazo in Galicia. She was escorted to her car by police officers crouching behind transparent shields. The unpleasantness was caused by an increase in the rubbish collection rates. How much the price was upped depends on which source you believe but it was probably about 70%. All over Spain, rubbish collection charges have been going up. If you live in Pinoso, you will remember that the town doubled its rubbish charge to 120€ from 60€ in 2024. I vaguely recall that Orihuela residents took to the streets a little while ago when their water and rubbish charges went up a lot and I think there are other local examples too. Pinoso residents did not go a burnin' and lootin' in 2024. These increases are driven by European and Spanish legislation that requires town halls to ensure that individuals and businesses cover the real cost of processing the rubbish they produce. Subsidies ...

Often, on the Pinoso Community Facebook page people, who are considering moving to this area, ask - 'What's Pinoso like?' So, as a nice easy blog, I thought I'd give my answer to that question for those people. First off, Pinoso is more a big village than a small town and expectations should reflect that. The town is in the province of Alicante, part of the Comunitat Valenciana, but it's right on the border with the Murcia region. Pinoso, like all of Spain, speaks Castilian Spanish which is the Spanish spoken worldwide. However, because it is a part of the Valencian region it also speaks a local variant of Catalan called Valenciano which is taught in all the local schools. You will hear Valenciano all over the place. Increasingly the town hall produces information primarily in Valenciano. The population of the municipality is a bit short of 9,000 people, and that includes all the people living in the satellite villages or pedanías that surround the town. Culebrón, w...

I've never worked out tipping in Spain. Or rather, I have. Usually though I'm with Northern Europeans, and I wouldn't want them to think I learned my economics in the austerity-strapped and vindictive 80s of the last century. So I leave more. When I've asked Spaniards, they usually say you have to be mean, stingy. Don't pick up the shrapnel, that's all. For many Spaniards it's not even a question: why would you worry about tips? The people who serve you are already paid; why would they need your donation and a couple I asked about tipping last weekend said they thought it was dying out, because of credit card payments as much as anything. So, you get a couple of coffees and the bill comes to €3.40. You leave the 60 céntimos and you're a big tipper. If it were €3.80, then the 20 céntimos is more in the normal range. But pick up the change and nobody will bat an eyelid. They'll serve you the next time you're in. I tend to round up, but I sometimes ...

The other day, on the phone, an old friend, due to visit from the UK next month, asked if I wanted her to bring anything — she was thinking teabags, mint imperials, Horlicks, and the like. I did think of something, but my initial reaction was a simple "no." It’s not that we’ve become Spanish — we’ll always be immigrant Britons here; but choosing oil on toast over butter is hardly akin to burning my Union Flag boxers. It's just that so many things have become so normalised and routine that, ironically, it’s the British way that I now find a bit strange. Many still imagine Spain as somewhat "Third World." We notice when our guests try to haggle over the price of things on a market stall or doubt the drinkability of the tap water. It's true that water from a well, a storage tank, or irrigation water is not, necessarily, safe — but that's equally true in rural Cambridgeshire. The mains water in Spain, the stuff that flows from the taps in 98% of urban homes ...

I identify as male. This means that in a piece describing Spanish public toilets I face an obvious problem. I wouldn't usually consider entering about 50% of the facilities on offer. I have had to extrapolate. That said the other day, in a department store, I went into the toilets, said hello to the woman cleaner, and wondered about the absence of urinals. I did what I needed to do, and while washing my hands, the cleaner drew my attention to the door, well to the pictogram on the door. A tiny stick-figure woman, skirt barely discernible. It hadn't clicked, I'd got the wrong room. I apologised. My quips about kilts or zaraguelles - those traditional baggy culotte trousers - fell on deaf ears. Public conveniences in Spain are like oases in the desert. You see one in the distance from time to time but they're often a mirage. Generally public toilets are locked except for special events. There are also a few of those tardis like plastic cabins on street corners, the ones ...

The title is from a line in a John Betjeman poem about a nightclub. It always makes me think of red velvet and brocades and big casement windows and that, in turn, reminds me of some provincial hotels I knew in the UK and of some of the casinos we know locally. Once elegant, now faded. Once plump sofas, now with springs that poke you in the bottom. And the warped wood and chipped paint of those grand windows that no longer close quite properly. And a slight mustiness in the air. Living in Culebrón, our two nearest, obvious casinos, the one in Monóvar and Novelda, are a bit like that. One welcomes non-members through its doors at all times; the other is still, generally, membership only. Others, like the very grand casino in Murcia, generate income as a tourist attraction—first the cathedral and then the casino. Lots, like the ones in Cartagena, Torrevieja, Alicante and Aspe, make their terrace bar available to the general public to generate income to keep the buildings open for their m...

We’ve been watching Spain burn for the past couple of weeks. It must be absolutely terrifying to be close to such huge areas on fire. You only need to think about the heat from a puny municipal bonfire to imagine watching the equivalent of a thousand or two thousand, or however many, of those bonfires race through the treeline towards your town, your village, your farm, your house or your family and animals. My good fortune has been only to see it on TV. Something I noticed, among the reports centring on the firefighters, the Guardia Civil or the crews of the water planes and helicopters, was that there were the occasional references to Civil Protection. Not as heroes on the ground nor as any sort of active participant but nonetheless there, lurking in the background. For instance, when the rail service between Madrid and Galicia was about to be restarted the news channels mentioned that ADIF, the people who look after the rail network, were waiting for the say-so of Protección Civil...

The last time we had a Partido Popular (conservative) Mayor in Pinoso, some 14 years ago now, on the hustings, at a public meeting in a bar called the Hub, he lied to me directly in the question and answer session. He promised that the mains drains, about to be laid in El Culebrón, would extend as far as our house. As I said, he lied; we still have a cesspit, a black hole, though we've been paying the drainage charges to Pinoso Town Hall these fourteen years. I'm told that simple cesspits are no longer legal and, should we ever sell the house, we would need to install a septic tank system or — and this seems much better — dig that trench and put in the pipework to connect us to that tantalisingly close main drain. From time to time we order up a lorry to come and suck the gunge (nearly slipped up there) out of the bottom of the pit. Last time, the lorry driver suggested I should start pumping out the liquid part myself, to save money, and to add a bit of texture to the soil of ...

Do you remember that Guinness advert with a bloke on the surfboard? He waits. I can do that, not the surfing thing but the waiting. I don’t start to get cross or feel I need to check that someone knows I’m there. I just settle back and wait. I always say it’s because I’m a trusting sort of chap. I rely on the kindness of strangers. I expect people to get to me in the end. If I were on a tube train that ground to a halt in the darkness, I wouldn’t be one that decided to get off and walk. I’d expect someone to come and get me—sooner or later. If it were a lift, I’d prop myself up in the corner and wait rather than getting all Bruce Willis. It helps that I expect to be kept waiting. I always take something to do as I wait - usually a book. I’ve covered quite a lot of pages in waiting rooms recently. Health appointments are a bit like rabbits—every one breeds several more. In order to speak to some sort of specialist, there are any number of steps to be taken beforehand. From time immemori...

If news headlines are anything to go by, it seems the UK is battling a real knife crime problem, with over 53,000 incidents last year. Spain isn’t entirely in the clear, there are knife attacks here too, and in some cities, particularly Barcelona, there has been a big jump in stabbings this year. Nonetheless the problem is much less marked here than it is in the UK. It’s a case of one country dealing with a major crisis and the other keeping a cautious eye on a growing trend. I don't think of myself as having criminal tendencies. I might admit to the odd traffic infringement now and again and I probably pinched a few envelopes when I was working but I'm no Samuel Little. The other day though I found myself in a situation that hardly registered at the time but might actually have gone remarkably pear shaped. I went, with a pal, to the Foreigners Office in Alicante to help him with the renewal of his identity card. Before going through the security scanner to get into the buildin...

As I get older and older, I often find myself remembering one thing from another. The link may be tenuous but that doesn't stop me. So, we'd just been to see María Terremoto in concert at the ADDA, and very good she was too. We'd done well; we'd driven through Alicante in both directions without putting a foot wrong, and parking had been dead easy. As we eased back onto the motorway heading for home, I commented on the white lines. They were nice and bright. They reminded me of a trip many years ago when the lines were far from bright. It was 2007, and Maggie had moved for a job in Ciudad Rodrigo. I was going to join her when a building job on the house in Culebron was completed but, for now and for the coming long weekend, I'd got a bus ticket to go over to see her. It's a long way to Ciudad Rodrigo, more or less on the Portuguese border, but I was hoping to get my head down on the bus. I knew the bus station in Elda; I went there for the 2 a.m. bus. It never c...

Every country has some sort of ritual, some sort of symbol, that pulls at the heartstrings and brings tears to the eyes of the true patriot. Maybe it's as the Stars and Stripes ripples in a gentle evening breeze, moments before the flag is struck, standing, hand on heart, thinking land of the free and home of the brave. It could be a Promenader at the Royal Albert Hall on the Last Night exercising their lungs to sing "Land of Hope and Glory". Sometimes the thing is official – "La Marseillaise" for the French almost anywhere and everywhere, or the adulation of the potato, the official state "vegetable" of the good folk of Idaho – and sometimes it's just the ink-black silhouette of a bull. If you've been to Spain you know how that one-dimensional bull stands sentinel over the roads and motorways of the country. If not, maybe you have friends – they may not actually be good friends – who have brought you back the mug with that black bull firmly as...