Not raising a glass but it is a toast

A couple of weeks ago we went over to Extremadura. It's a while since we've been there and it's a nice part of the world. Easy to get to too. No planes, no passports, no luggage restrictions. Just tank up the motor and point it in the right direction.

We took the scenic route. We stopped over for the night in Andalucia, in Córdoba, before heading on to Zafra, Mérida, Cáceres, Trujillo and Plasencia. It's a while since we've been so far from home in Spain and it reminded me of something I already knew, but often forget, those small but significant regional differences.

Toast for breakfast. Usual, traditional, commonplace all over Spain. Near to home toast is, usually, half of a smallish breadstick or baguette. Just the half, media or, if you want the whole thing entera. The most basic version comes dry and you self add the oil and salt. The next step up, pricewise, is to add a layer of grated tomato (in Catalonia they usually rub the tomato directly into the bread). Richer people add serrano, cured, ham and even cheese. In trendy spots they offer avocado too. 

In Andalucia the differences from home are subtle. There is a tendency to flat slices of bread though "burger bun" molletes are also pretty common. Bread apart, the routine with oil and grated tomato is much of a muchness. Pork dripping, with or without paprika, wasn't on offer. In Sevilla and Cádiz it would have been. The next day, in Zafra, now into Extremadura, the tomato looked completely different. It had been mashed up with garlic and oil and then blitzed with one of those hand blenders. To be honest it looked a bit unpleasant. Our cats have been known to produce something with a similar colour scheme and texture. Fortunately I'd chosen to be radically local and I'd asked for the local paté, cachuela. Adding pork products to toast is big in Extremadura because of the fame of the local, cured ham - it's often quoted as the best in Spain. Maggie was stoic as she chewed on her toast with tomato. Next morning she wondered if they might have the Madrid (and ever so English) variant of butter and jam. In Madrid, where Maggie lived years ago, butter and jam was the norm. Usually in Madrid the bread has the same colour and consistency as a slice of Mother's Pride but three times as thick. Extremadura offered sliced bread too but from far less industrial looking loaves. In Trujillo they even offered brown bread. I wonder if there's a doctorate in this?  Varieties of toast on the Iberian Peninsula.

about this thing of trying the local variant I should mention my consternation in not noticing something in Córdoba before I ordered. When in Rome and all that. There lots of people were having pitufos for breakfast. I've only ever used the word pitufo to describe what we Brits call Smurfs but in Córdoba a toasted sandwiches with oil, cooked ham and cheese is a pitufo. I understand that they're more typical of Malaga. 

Now moving on to croquetas...

On message

We did a bit of a circular tour last week. Up to Albacete, across to Cuenca and back through Teruel before coming home. 

Along the way we  visited the winery in Fuentealbilla, run by the Iniesta family, (Andrés Iniesta scored the winning goal for Spain in the 2010 World Cup), we looked at the huge 3rd Century AD Roman Mosaic in the tiny village of Noheda and we stayed in Albarracín which has city status even though it's smaller than either Algueña or Salinas. We even visited some old pals in Fuentes de Rubielos in Teruel.

I often think Spanish written information is patchy or poor. I wonder why there is no list of the tapas on offer or why the office doesn't show opening times. I have theories; those theories go from the link between information and power to high levels of illiteracy in the Franco years to the much less fanciful idea that Spaniards simply prefer to talk to a person. There's no doubt that written information here is much better, and more common, than in once was but it can still be woefully lacking.

Raul, who showed us around Albarracín, was a pretty decent guide. He introduced himself, he asked people in the group where they were from, he modulated his voice when telling stories and he spoke louder when someone revved a motorbike or beat a drum within earshot. Nonetheless the information was a bit stodgy - there were a couple of stories but it was still, basically, dates and facts. Years ago, when Maggie worked in Ciudad Rodrigo she helped a couple of young women to prepare for their oposiciones, the official exams for local government and civil service type jobs. Both of them had to be able to present the "official" script, in English, for the cathedral or castle; any deviation from the script was considered an error and would cost them exam marks.

I have another story that ties in with this Spanish idea of memorising things as being good. The first time I came across the Trinity College Speaking exam in English was when I had to help a student prepare for the exam. Her talk was going to be about the first of the Modern Olympic Games. When she'd finished her presentation I asked her a question about it. She replied, in Spanish, that all she needed me to do was to correct the script which she intended to learn and regurgitate. That method was so common in Spain that Trinity changed the exam to ensure that it was a better test of speaking skills.

The tour of the bodega at Fuentealbilla, the introductory welcome to the museum house in Albarracín, the guide who explained the Roman mosaics to us and the volunteer guide who showed us around Albarracín Cathedral were all fine, maybe a bit monotone, a bit emotionless, but fine. There was good information. When the cathedral guide told us that the decoration had been done on the cheap, the marble on the wall was just decorated plaster, the marble columns in the side chapel were painted pine trees, I thought this may lead to a bit of interaction, a bit of story telling. But no. Under such circumstances I often think back to a tour I did around St Peter's in Rome. The story of Michelangelo lying on scaffolding, with Dulux dripping into his eye from painting the Sistine Chapel, swearing at the Pope and complaining that he was a sculptor, not a painter, as he was asked if he could turn his hand to building the biggest dome ever because the tarpaulin draped across the unfinished church was letting in the rain water and giving the Protestants a good laugh. There was a guide who knew how to engage his audience in a tour.

In the Ethnological museum in Cuenca. I was reading one of the "labels" by an exhibit. It was, at least, 500 words long, a side of typed A4 paper. It was full of Spanish words in the style of the English word ashlar. Who ever says ashlar? Isn't dressed stone a bit more accessible? Couldn't they write, ashlar,  finely cut stone, to help out we non architects? I reckon that there was as much reading as in a normal length paperback on the walls of that museum. It takes me a few days to read a novel. Again, all it needs is a bit of thought to do this right. 

At the MARQ, the archaeological museum in Alicante, they do the British newspaper thing of a headline followed by an explanatory paragraph followed by the full story. An example. Let's suppose there are some hats and helmets and other headgear on display. The label title says Visigoth headgear. You can stop there if that's enough for you. Under the title the label says something like: Hats, helmets, scarves and other head coverings were worn by both men and women during the Visigoth rule in Spain (5th to 8th century AD). Whilst most of the headgear had some practical purpose, protection for soldiers, hygienic hair covering for cooks, a sun shade for shepherds etc. the style and decoration also emphasised the importance of the wearer in the social pecking order. Again, stop there if you will but if you're a millinery student looking for inspiration or simply a devout museum goer each exhibit has a longer, explanatory description.

But I would have forgotten all about the guides, and information and museums, if it hadn't been for the TV news yesterday. They said there were a shortage of place in FP courses. Now I happen to know what FP courses are but I wondered why they chose to use initials rather than use the full version. FP=Formación Profesional. The literal translation is Professional Training - it's the sort of training that is more directly work related. I was reminded of my potential blog topic and here it is.

Coffee break

One of the worst films I've ever seen in Spanish, and I've seen some shockers, is called Balada triste de trompeta by the director Álex de la Iglesia. There is one good scene in it though. The protagonists have just finished their meal. The waiter asks if anyone wants coffee and every one of the fifteen or so people around the table specifies a different type of coffee.

This is not the Starbucks/Costa/Nero thing. No big coffees served in everything from bucket sized mugs to drinking through a hole in a plastic topped, hand scorching, paper cup. No expensive buns either. No this is just common or garden coffee in a common or garden bar or restaurant.

It's one of those things I'd stop noticing but we were on holiday in Andalucia last week and I, we, noticed this very specific ordering because of the accent - the Andalucians have a way of swallowing letters - and because, as good holidaymakers, we were gawping around us.

From time to time people still ask about instant coffee, more  accurately what most do is stress that they don't want their decaff from a sachet but from the coffee machine. I suspect this is because when decaff first came on the market it was generally available in bars as one dose sachets of instant Nescafé.

Most Spanish bar coffee comes out of one of those hissing machines that pass boiling water through the grounds. If I have to name them I tend to say Gaggia or espresso machines. It's interesting that both forms are Italian. I suppose, as in so many things, the Italians marketed much better, much earlier, than the Spanish or the French and, hence, the generic name is the Italian one. So the English speaking world asks for caffè latte, caffè espresso or cappuccino even when the names are given an English language twist as in "Can I have a skinny latte, please?"

Spanish coffee has three basic types: solo for the thimbleful of thick coffee, cortado for a short coffee with a touch of milk and con leche for the milkier coffees. Some of the Italian names are also used in Spain. Americano, for instance, is what you'd usually ask for if you wanted espresso/solo watered down with hot water. The more traditional Spanish name is solo largo, a long solo. Occasionally, some waiter will feign ignorance of things Italian.

Some bars offer a couple of varieties of beans, maybe torrefacto, which is a coffee bean roasted with sugar, but in most ordinary bars you get what you're given. The plethora of possibilities come, mainly, from the amounts of coffee, water and milk. Most of the varieties don't have a specific name but there are lots of possibilities with the simplest probably being the proportion of coffee grounds to water. Some people complicate that a tad by specifying water temperature and, when the weather is warmer, it's very common for people to pour their coffee over ice. Next you might start adding milk: milk can be hot or cold, it can have varying amounts of fat or be lactose free and some people ask for a sort of milk that isn't really milk - the stuff made from soya or sawdust. People even specify the vessel; lots of people seem to prefer coffee in glasses rather than cups and the details of the glass design can become very specific. The only other variable I can think of is the sugar. White sugar in little sachets on the saucer is the default but asking for saccharin is common enough. I think I've only ever heard foreigners ask for brown sugar.

So, back in Andalucia, made special by that letter consuming accent. "Ponme un nubla'o, descafeina'o de maquina, con leche sin lactosa y en vaso, porfa" (Can I have a cloudy, decaff with lactose free milk in a glass please). Splendid.

Swarming things that swarm on the earth

A few days ago, in Galicia, where we were, you needed a light jacket in the evening. Daytime temperatures were low but, with the sun, it was perfectly pleasant. A Coruña was the worst, weatherwise. As we joined the crowds to protest the homophobic killing of Samuel Luiz it was bucketing down. I know it rains a lot up North but I'd underestimated the Northern Europeanness of the Galician climate, my shorts got a week off and I had to buy more socks. Sandals and trainers with invisible socks were just too Mediterranean.

Back in Alicante the sun was cracking the flags. The news was full of weather warnings for everywhere except where we were. Pinoso is quite high up and the temperature only got to about 38ºC but other places in the province got over 40ºC. On the journey back, and yesterday too, we had dust laden skies and high temperatures.

So we returned from temperate climes with greenery and rivers to the dustiness of Alicante. Yesterday was the first full day back so there were sweeping and garden tasks to be done. I don't like flies much at all but I really can't bear it when the little buggers land in the corner of my mouth for a quick feed. Horrid. They were doing it a lot yesterday.

After dark the flies go away but hundreds of other beasties come out to play. The room I generally use for my computer work opens directly onto a patio. Beetles, often caught up in the fluffiness of airborne seed carriers, process across the floor, the occasional lost ant runs around in circles, the moths settle on the wall not expecting the predatory small lizard and tens and tens of other small walking and flying and jumping things come and go. If it's true that 95% of all life on earth is plant then there must be an awful lot of plants.

I was typing. A small iridescent beetly shaped thing walked back and forth amongst the keys of my keyboard, a little moth had taken up residence below F6 and just above &, there was an ant too investigating the space bar. Something very, very small and white was negotiating the forest of the grey hairs on my forearm. The room was awash with life other than mine. I was tired, the blog wasn't going well. Time for bed I thought, I'll finish it tomorrow. As I headed for the toothbrush I saw something twiglike on the red cloth of one of the armchairs in the room. I presumed a cat had carried the debris in on its fur. I went to remove it and the cricket like beast, surprised by my touch, bounced into my face before disappearing under the bed.

A friend commented on my lauding of the heat in Alicante but I must say it's glad to be home, sockless and coatless.

Expect cloud cover and drizzle

I've been to Skegness and Morecambe and Rochester several times but if Star Trek's Mr Scott were to transport me to one of them without warning I don't think I'd know where I were. It's exactly the same with Spanish towns and cities. Of the 50 Spanish provinces I've been to 49 of their capitals but the only ones I know well are the local ones. The one I'm missing is Palencia. In order to be a completist though I'm also short of one of the two autonomous cities on the African coast; I've been to Ceuta but not to Melilla.

Last week we went on a bit of a jaunt, 1,979 kilometres of mainly motorway plugging passing through 15 or so provinces. The plan was simple enough. Up to a village included in the 20 prettiest villages of Spain list for the first night, a village in Huesca more or less on the French border with views to the snowy Pyrenees. Next a couple of nights in Pamplona, the place where they do the bull running with the red and white clothes a la Hemingway, before a longer stay at Zarautz on the Basque coast just outside of San Sebastián. From there we'd head south, running for home with an overnight in Zaragoza. Being that way inclined we added in a couple of stops along the route and our seaside lodgings were the base from which to sally forth. Just as I've been to Skegness I've been to Pamplona, San Sebastian, Vitoria and Zaragoza before but the bits I remembered were few and far between. The smaller stops, such as, Ainsa, Alquézar, Anso and Zarautz were all new to me.

If you want to look at the snaps they're towards the end of the September album and at the beginning of the October album. Click the link words. 

As we packed the car in Culebrón, to head off, I thought it was a bit chillier than it had been so, at the last minute, I threw a pullover and a light jacket onto the back seat of the car and a pair of trainers to accompany my sandals in the boot. Anytime any of the Northern regions of Spain feature on the TV news so do the umbrellas and snow ploughs. I know this but somehow I failed to register it. Maybe, because we live in the same country I thought it unreasonable that the weather differences would be significant. The sandals remained unused but I certainly used the trainers, pullover and the jacket. It was chilly, cold at times, and it bucketed down more than once. I knew it, the weather that is, but I hadn't really acknowledged it.

With the holiday over, as we unpacked in Culebrón, I thought maybe the Northern weather had travelled with us. It was nippy. I've often argued that Spain seems to have these quite sudden changes, often calendar linked, in weather. October has arrived and the warm weather is kicking its last for the year. I wore long legged pyjamas to bed for the first time in months, the window we leave permanently open all summer is now closed and, as we watched telly the other night, I added a bit of low level aircon to raise the temperature a tad. Today I dragged the calor gas heaters from out of the garage and even hung a couple of woollies in the wardrobe. At the moment daytime temperatures are still high but the mornings and evenings are cooler. Before long the five or six months of chilly, or downright cold, Spanish Autumn, Winter and Spring will be back to remind me why it is I really, really enjoy those months when the sun beats down relentlessly.

Red Letter Days

The wettest April since Noah took to boating according to some news reports. We had Easter tide guests. We were confined to barracks. The Easter parades were cancelled. Sight seeing was off. We presumed the shopping centres would be closed for the bank holidays.

We Brits here in Pinoso seem to call bank holidays, Red Letter Days. I presume that's because the holiday dates are printed in red on paper calendars. I'm going to call them bank holidays because that's what I've always called public holidays. National Holidays are the same all over Spain. Most people will not work on those days but that doesn't, necessarily, mean that they will work fewer days in the working year. The Spanish logic is that bank holidays are not actually holidays, they are days when you don't work. So only the extra non working days need to be included in the holiday calendar. If, for instance, a National Holiday falls on a Sunday, like Christmas Day 2016, it will not be shown as a bank holiday because it is already a non working day. On the other hand Saturday is a working day so if Christmas Day were on a Saturday, it would be shown on the calendar as a day off and you wouldn't have to work. If you have a job that doesn't require you to work Saturdays there would be no extra day to compensate. There are up to ten days of National Holiday each year but usually only eight or nine of them are used because the others fall on Sundays - it varies from year to year. Additionally there are two days chosen by each Region. As we live on the border between two Regions, Valencia and Murcia, that sometimes catches us out. Last, but not least, the local Town Hall sets a couple of days off. Traditionalists, with a paper calendar stuck on the fridge might find that the one produced in Pinoso, in Valencia, shows as many as four holidays different to one produced in Abanilla, Murcia only a few miles away.

Yesterday, coming out of the the flicks, I was surprised to find the shopping centre, where the cinema is, open. Open on Easter Sunday? This morning, Maggie had arranged to show some people a couple of houses. She's heard Britons talking about how it's illegal to work on holidays and she was worried that the local police would drag her away in chains as today is a regional Valencian holiday.

I've written about this before but here it is again. I'm going to talk about Valencia. So, in general, in the Valencian Community commercial hours from Monday to Saturday should be fewer than 90. Businesses have to display their opening hours. Businesses can open up to eleven Sundays and bank holidays according to the annual timetable published by the Generalitat, the Regional Government of the Valencia Community. On those eleven dates the timetable is completely flexible and the hours are not included in the usual 90 hours per week.

For 2019 the designated Sundays and bank holidays are/were 13 January (for the sales), Palm Sunday (for lots of tourists), Good Friday (for lots of tourists), Easter Sunday (for lots of tourists), 23 June (two holidays fall close together), 7 July (sales), 12 October (which is a Saturday when two holidays fall close together) and, in the run up to Christmas and Three Kings, the 6 (Black Friday I think), 15, 22 and 29 December.

Some businesses can open when and as they like provided they fall into at least one of the following classes. That the business occupies less than 300 square metres and is classed as a small to medium enterprise. That it's a bread shop or a paper shop or a petrol station type business - the list includes things you'd expect like cakes bread, flowers, plants, magazines, newspapers, fuel, flowers, plants and prepared meals. Convenience stores can open when they like (there's a definition). Shops in places where people are travelling by land, sea or air have free rein to open when they like as can shops that sell mainly cultural products. Businesses set up to provide services to tourists are also in the list. The big exception, the one that keeps whole swathes of shops open, at least during some parts of the year, is one that allows any shop to open provided it is in an area deemed to have a lot of tourists. The Generalitat says what the areas are.

So there's the reason the shopping centre was open on Easter Sunday. Last Friday, Good Friday, we could have taken our guests to the Aljub Shopping Centre down in Valencian Elche. On the other hand if we'd foolishly extrapolated our Valencian knowledge to the Murcian Nueva Condomina shopping centre we'd have found the doors bolted on both Friday and Sunday despite Murcia having 16 Sundays and bank holidays on its list of exclusions.

Got that then?

Days off or holidays

It's The day of the Valencian Community today, a day off work in Valencia. On Thursday it's the día del Pilar - officially the Fiesta Nacional de España - and that's a holiday in the whole of Spain. In Culebrón then, or anywhere in Valencia, just three working days for most people this week. I noticed that someone on one of the Facebook pages I read was complaining about "yet another" Spanish holiday.

In fact there are fourteen official days off. In England and Wales there are normally just eight unless some Royal does something. There's a big difference though. In England the holidays are holidays - you get your eight days off come hell or high water. So, if Christmas day were to fall on a Saturday and Boxing Day on a Sunday there would be substitute holidays on the Monday and Tuesday.

In Spain they are not holidays they are non working days. One none working day is the 25th of December. If that day happens to fall on a Saturday then you don't have to work. If the 25th happens to fall on a Sunday you don't have to work. But lots of people don't work Saturday or Sunday anyway. So Christmas Day on a Saturday or Sunday means, for most people, that it's just a weekend like any other. A Saturday Christmas Day would, of course, make a difference to people who normally work Saturdays.

There are fourteen days off work wherever you live in Spain. The National Government lists, in the Official State Bulletin, up to nine non working days - that's days on which people don't have to work. The Regional Government names three more and finally the local Town Hall names two. The last time all nine days were used by the National Government was 2009 though it was pretty close this year with eight. All the Regional Governments chose to name the 6th January as a holiday too so that, in effect, all of Spain will have been closed down on the same nine days by the time that 2017 ends. 2017 is going to be a good year for holidays. Out of the fourteen possible only one falls on a weekend so we'll actually get 13 out of the maximum 14. On bad years I think it can be as low as 10.

When the Government publishes its “unchangeable” list they also publish a suggested but changeable list. These are the holidays the Regional Governments can alter for local traditions or expectations. They include Epiphany on January 6th, Maunday Thursday at Easter and San José, Fathers Day on March 19th. Mother's Day is on the first Sunday of May so it's never a holiday. All of the Communities add in a day of the Community like the ones for Valencia on October 9th and Murcia on June 9th.

The normal National Holidays are New Year's day, Good Friday, Labour Day (May 1st ), Assumption Day (August 15th), National Day of Spain (October 12th), All Saints Day (November 1st ), Constitution Day, (December 6th), Immaculate Conception (December 8th) and Christmas Day (December 25th).

In Pinoso the two local days are usually the Monday after what we Brits would call Easter Monday, (which is usually a Valencian day off) and is named for San Vicente - in 2018 that will be on 9th April whilst in 2017 it was 24th April - and the 8th of August (for the Virgen del Remedio).

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The list for Pinoso for 2018 is 1 de enero (Año Nuevo), 6 de enero (Reyes Magos) como día retribuido y recuperable, 19 de marzo (San José), 2 de abril (Lunes de Pascua), 9 de abril (Lunes de San Vicente), 1 de mayo (Fiesta del Trabajo), 8 de agosto (día dedicado a la Virgen del Remedio), 9 de octubre (Día de la Comunitat Valenciana), 12 de octubre (Fiesta Nacional de España), 1 de noviembre (Todos los Santos), 6 de diciembre (Día de la Constitución), 8 de diciembre (Inmaculada Concepción), 25 de diciembre (Navidad)

I wave my hat to all I meet And they wave back to me

Somewhere I came across a newspaper piece about Los pueblos más bonitos de España, the prettiest villages in Spain. The organisation that promotes this list seems to be a not for profit organisation. Whatever its origins or purpose it gave us a simple holiday plan.

We have friends who run a casa rural, a country house for rent, which goes under the name of Vientos de Gudar in the village of Fuentes de Rubielos in Teruel. With a visit to our friends, and their house, as our ultimate destination we decided to do a mid distance tour from Culebrón up through the villages listed in the provinces of Castellón and Teruel with our end point being Fuentes.

The first stop on the list was Vilafamés then on to Peñíscola, Calaceite, Valdearobres, Morella, Cantavieja, Puertomingalvo and Rubielos de Mora. We also stopped off in La Fresneda and Beceite which didn't feature on the list but were recommended by locals.

The villages varied. Peñíscola for instance is a busy seaside resort with the old town built around the castle. Anyone who has seen, and remembers, the film El Cid with Charlton Heston and Sophia Loren knows the outline of Peñíscola old town. Morella too was packed with visitors, so many that the local police funnelled traffic into a huge car park. Once inside the walled town there were countless shops selling local produce and knick knacks, alongside tens of restaurants touting regional menus, all of them aimed fairly and squarely at tourists. Calaceite on the other hand, well the old town at least, was full of huge stone buildings and steep streets but there was hardly anyone around; we couldn't even find a bar to buy a cold drink. Valderrobres was something half way in between; more huge stone buildings, more steep streets and stone staircases lots of them almost deserted whilst, in the main square, the bars and restaurants were doing a brisk trade with we day trippers. Maggie says she liked Valderrobres best. Puertomingalvo was, perhaps, my favourite. More stone, more steps, a gigantic church, a small art gallery, a splendidly different restaurant and several people posing for snaps but still quiet enough to hear the birds singing.

As I said, our destination was the casa rural owned by a couple of old friends. They had the house built from scratch and they have been running it as a business for a few years now. Our pals said that bookings for their house weren't bad but they thought that rural tourism seemed not to be recovering from the economic crisis as quickly as beach tourism. In summer their adopted village comes alive with summer residents. In the past, the bar at the local swimming pool has been run by a group of young women who wear harem pants, sport nose studs and cook things like hummus and cous cous - pretty alternative for Spain. We were looking forward to snacking there but it seems they were outbid by another outfit for this year's summer contract.

Now obviously, as we were away from home we needed somewhere to stay overnight. We've used a lot of hotels in Spain and it's usual to be able to find something decent in the 50€ to 60€ bracket and often less. The weekend before we set out on our road trip for instance we'd gone to Madrid. We stayed in a central hotel there and we were mysteriously upgraded so that our 57€ bought us a junior suite. Also this month I made a bit of a jaunt to Ciudad Real, a small provincial capital, where the centre of town four star hotel cost just 39€. When I was trying to find hotels or guest houses for our three nights in Castellón/Teruel I had to discount lodgings in several of the villages we were visiting because they were beyond my financial reach. The choice seemed to be either expensive or slummy. In the end we paid 60€, 63€ and 70€ for the places we stayed. All of them looked great from the outside but all had pretty dodgy Wi-Fi and one didn't have aircon. None of them were bad, or dirty, or unacceptable but only the 70€ room could be described as anything other than ordinary.

I suppose there are sound motives, from a business point of view, for the higher prices (and snail like Wi-Fi) in rural locations but I did wonder if one of the reasons for the slower recovery of rural tourism is simply that it isn't price competitive with either its beach or city rivals.

Holiday, holiday, holiday time

I was born in Yorkshire. Summer holidays were short as I remember, a week usually, and our standard destinations were close by - Scarborough, Brid, Cleethorpes, maybe over to Morecambe or even Blackpool. Relatively local with the occasional long haul down to Newquay or maybe away from the beach in the Lakes. Apart from the school trip to Switzerland I didn't get to Europe till I was eighteen and, even then, it was only to Paris.

Nowadays my pals back in the UK tell me that they've been to far flung destinations - Bali, New Zealand, Goa, the Maldives, Abu Dabi. To be different you have to give Skyscanner a good workout and head for Kazakhstan or Greenland and even then it's just another destination.

Talking to Spanish students about their holiday plans is a reminder of my Scarborough days. They seem perfectly happy to go to the nearest seaside resort, if it's not too far, or otherwise they head for some rural destination equally close to home. It's a massive generalisation of course but I read something today that backs up my perception.

The Spanish Holiday Habits survey carried out by Madison Market Research for Cerveceros of Spain found that 90% of Spaniards prefer to stay local during the summer holidays. Half of those interviewed, irrespective of their age, said that the beach was favourite though trying new cities and new cuisine was good for about a third of the sample. It's been the same for the past forty years.

The survey did note one change though. The family holiday home is now less popular than staying in a hotel. The other big change is what goes in your luggage. The mobile phone obviously goes but so too do the laptop and the tablet. It's no good simply going on holiday you have to prove it to your pals by posting where you are online. Facebook is the favourite social network followed by WhatsApp and Instagram.

Over four of every ten people said that their favourite holiday drink was beer. First day essentials were going for a beer on a terrace, the space outside the bar, and having a siesta. I suppose that they prove that you are on holiday and not caught up in the usual round of work and domestic tasks. 

And I forgot to buy cheese

In the end I wore jeans for both days. I'd packed shorts but they're not my favourite wear; I appreciate their functionality but I simply don't like them. I'd decided to go to Ciudad Real in Castilla la Mancha. I chose it because there is a train from our local station to Ciudad Real so, to be awkward, I decided to drive.

Castilla la Mancha is Don Quixote, El Quijote, country. A lot of it is a gently undulating plain covered with wheat, maize, sunflowers, vines and olive trees. There are other crops but as I couldn't identify them we'll pretend they don't exist. It's not that far from home, around 350kms. Most of the way I drove along long, arrow straight ribbons of almost empty tar surrounded by yellows, greens and earth redder than Tara. I drove with the windows open and a rebellious strand of hair whipping my face. I like aircon in cars less than I like shorts. I gurgled with delight at the openness of it all and the shimmering heat. I really like the flatlands of Castilla and it's dead easy to imagine Pancho, Rocinate and the Don trotting across the landscape heading for the next village. In Alicante and Murcia we have scattered houses all across the landscape, somebody told me it's because of the Moorish irrigation system, but in much of rural Spain people live in villages rather than in isolated houses. So La Mancha is generally empty land peppered with villages.

I thought this little snatch of poetry from Caminera by Enrique de Mesa sums it up nicely. Apologies for the translation.

Sol de mediodía. Castilla se abrasa.
Tierra monda y llana: ni agua, ni verdor,
ni sombra de chopo, ni amparo de casa.
El camino, blanco. Ciega el resplandor.

Noonday sun. Castilla bakes
Pared and flat, no water no green,
neither shade of poplars nor the protection of home.
The track, white. The brightness blinds.

On the day I set out the news was full of stories of an ola de calor, a heat wave, and one of the places predicted to be as hot as hell was Ciudad Real. In the end it wasn't that bad, it only got to 39ºC, but it was warm enough. The Tom Tom and Google maps were both confused as to the location of my hotel. The reason, it turned out, was that it was in the dead centre of the city in a pedestrianised zone. I asked a policeman for help and I followed his car up restricted entry roads. He left me on the paved area outside the hotel and the only way out was between a newsagent's kiosk and a flower stall and across a couple of pavements. Ciudad Real wasn't exactly boring, nice enough city, but not a lot to look at. In fact, for something to do, and to sit in the cool, I went to the pictures, Infierno Azúl, the one with Blake Lively and a shark - it was watchable enough.

On the way home I went to Aldea del Rey, Almagro, Villanueva de los Infantes and the wetlands near Daimiel. Almagro is famous for a theatre season, for a colonnaded main square and for a "Shakespearean" type theatre but all the villages I went to had big red stone churches, the grand houses of rich families, rows of white houses with balconies and fancy ironwork and shops with impossibly old fashioned window displays. It wasn't that sunny but it was plenty warm and I wandered around taking snaps and drinking copious amounts of non alcoholic beer and a sort of hand made lemon slush puppy called granizado. The bars were, like Andalucía, very generous with the tapas.

Daimiel, as well as being a village is the name for one of Spain's fifteen National parks. It's a wetland fed by the Guadiana River and a place with lots and lots of wildlife, particularly birds. I got there at around three in the afternoon and I fully expected that it would be locked firm shut but, although the information office and the shop were closed, there was nothing to stop me wandering around to my heart's content. Nice place I thought.

And that was it, a bit of a jaunt, something to break the routine for a couple of days.

Just a note, it's a long time since I drove along it but I think it's the A9 in Scotland, possibly the bit in the Cairngorms looking at a map, that is just lovely to drive. Good surface, swooping bends with the occasional stag to be spotted alongside. The N322 from Villanueva de la Fuente to San Pedro doesn't have as many stags but that's a hoot of a road too.

Life in Berlin

We've just got back from a few days in Berlin. Like Passepartout I left the gas fire on all the time we were away!

Comparing Culebrón to Berlin would be a little unfair. One is the capital city of of one of the most powerful nations of the last two centuries with a population of three and a half million and the other has a postbox. I wouldn't presume to compare two countries either. I have around a hundred hours recent experience of Germany, glimpsed through the distorting mirror of a capital city, against eleven years in Spain. So these are no more than personal impressions of limited interactions in a strange language at an odd time of year.

People in Germany don't like serving other people. We've had some very abrupt service indeed and, with two notable exceptions, very little helpful, friendly or even indifferent service. Indifference would be how I would pigeon hole Spanish service. The waiter, the person in the shop, the doctor says hello, asks what you want and gives you it. Not effusive, gushing, subservient, friendly or hostile. A transaction. In Berlin the reaction seems to be slightly antagonistic bordering on confrontational. As though we are a nuisance asking for things on the menu or wanting to spend money. I suppose I must be misinterpreting the body language or something. This is quite at odds with the general treatment we have received - mostly people have been very pleasant and helpful. One Syrian family connected to Google maps to help us out, a young man gave up his seat to Maggie on the bus and everybody seems able and willing to speak to us in English

.

Berlin feels much more modern than Spain. Now this is a difficult comparison. We live in a rural Spanish backwater but Murcia and Alicante are biggish places and it's not as though we've never been to Madrid or Barcelona. Just your average coffee shop or shopping centre or cinema seems a bit more with it there. I can't really justify the feeling. The ticketing system on the trams in Murcia is very similar to the system on the tram in Berlin, the cars are similar, half the shops have the same name but, nonetheless, that's my impression.

One of the big things we tourists do, other than get footsore, is to eat and drink. This place is like the UK. "foreign" food is everywhere. There are the inevitable burger chains of course and all the other US foodie stuff like fried chicken, doughnut and ice cream places. After the Americans, almost as inevitably, come the Italians with pasta and pizza. Not much of a difference so far then but there is Vietnamese, Thai, Chinese and Indian on every corner. If I'd recorded them I would remember more but I have seen French, Turkish (not just kebabs), Lebanese, Mexican, Greek, Korean, Arabic, British (well a chip shop) and stacks more. Very little German food in the sense of German cuisine except currywurst and schnitzel which I think is German, though it may be Austrian. So it's much more like the UK with food from everywhere. In Spain it's still very much Spanish cuisine as the principal offer. It's like the UK too in that the food has been plentiful but very, very ordinary. Best by far as a meal was the Vietnamese though the home grown pastries, sandwiches and sweets have been good.

Far too many times in Spain, following someone on foot down the street or in the car, they will hurl rubbish to the floor. I have seen exasperated parents snatch packaging from children's hands and toss it on the floor. I suspect that such behaviour would be unconscionable here. The place may be a bit grey but it certainly isn't dirty. People throw rubbish into rubbish bins and clear tables in places without waiter service. Oh, and for the record it isn't cold either. I saw Bridge of Spies a few weeks ago where Berlin looked very cold so I brought layers of coats, gloves, scarves and hats. It's been a bit chilly but nothing worthy of remark and I keep thinking that maybe Spaniards were wearing more wintery clothes in Alicante than the Germans are in Berlin.

I know we're poor. We're pretty poor even in Madrid with our provincial wages. We are paupers in Paris and we're poor in the UK too though there we're a bit more clued up there about the potential bargains to be had. We're relatively poor in Berlin as well. Four or five Euros for a beer and another three or four for the sandwich isn't exactly bank breaking but the same deal in Murcia would cost me half the amount. My money is disappearing at an alarming rate. About twice as expensive seems to be the norm on transport, food drink, entry fees. All things we tourists do. There is a definite difference too in prices in the tourist haunts as against more ordinary bits of town.

I was going to say that it seems pretty multicultural too but I think the World is now. If there are 42 rationalities in Pinoso how many more in any big town particularly the capital city of an economic superpower? So it is but that's not really remarkable.

Bit disappointing on the car side. I've only seen six Porsches in three days and one was a seventies classic. One Lambo, one Bentley, one of those fast Mercedes (is it an SLR?) and one Maserati. Hardly capital city stuff in the Chief I Spy mould. Lots of nice modern buildings, lots of rebuilt older stuff too. Nothing of note about the Berlin fashion sense. Maggie pointed out though that there were very few fat people, in comparison to the UK or Spain, which seems at odds with the potato eating and beer drinking reputation. The steadfast way in which people stay on the kerb at traffic light controlled crossings until the green figure shows fits in with my idea of German discipline though.

At Alicante airport as we waited in the afternoon sun for the car park bus and I listened in on peple around me talking in a language I can just about understand I felt very pleased to be home.

Choo choo

We've just had a bit of a holiday. You know the sort of thing where you drive hundreds of kilometres, 1617 in fact, stay in lots of hotels, wander from bar to bar and church to museum and put on weight in lots of restaurants. We were in Lerida, in Cataluña, and we wandered around the Valle de Arán up in the Pyrenees and we even spent fifteen minutes in France. On the way home, with the garbox on the Mini sounding like it was going to fall apart, we stopped off to see the place where the Ebro, the river with the second greatest volume of water after the Duero and the second longest after the Tajo, flows into the sea.

We were there principally to go on the Tren dels Llacs, the Train of the Lakes, but we didn't.

It went like this. I'd read somewhere about this train. It sounded a bit like the Settle Carlisle line. A line with lots of bridges and tunnels to cross difficult terrain for a train. There were pictures of old diesel locomotives, apparently often referred to as ye - yés, pulling old carriages. The dates when the historic train ran were few and far between but the 22 August was one of them. Maggie took the time off work and I rang to reserve the tickets. The special train was full but ordinary service trains run along the line every day so I bought the tickets from RENFE, the state railway, on one of the standard diesel multiple units and we had the basis for a holiday.

I presumed it was a train with history, you know the sort of thing, the train that hauled saltpetre or iron ore or something  but it seems to always have been a passenger train from the very limited information on the website. In fact the first part joining Lerida to Balaguer was opened in 1924 and it was extended to Pobla de Segur in 1951. It must have gone out of service for a while because there was a re-opening in 2007. Anyway when you are on it the 41 tunnels and the 31 bridges are just part of the route. The scenery was nice - running alongside rivers all the way with lots of green lakes and orangey brown cliffs but I can't say I was overawed.

It's one ticked off the list though. Caminito del Rey next.

Not looping the loop

Maggie was most definite in the manner in which she declined to go on the roller coaster that flipped people over and did barrel rolls. She kept reminding me about the Icelander who had died on a similar ride in the same park just a couple of months ago. Later though, by herself - I was too macho to join her - she went on the teen size roller coaster. Emboldened by her experience she agreed to go on the old style big dipper. All Billy Butlin at Skegness. Apparently built of criss crossing wood like the rail bridges in classic cowboy films and with sit up and beg cars. It rattled and shook, it rocked and rolled. Maggie didn't seem to enjoy it much.

She did enjoy the boat ride type roller coasters though and she let me go on one of those bungee jump type rides and the one that spins around a central pivot.

In fact we had a thoroughly enjoyable time at Terra Mitica theme park. The place is based on the motifs of Ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome. The park has an unhappy financial past. It was haemorrhaging money when I last heard. It certainly wasn't exactly bursting at the seams today and, in the afternoon, we hardly had to queue for rides. It's just outside Benidorm so it has a pretty international clientele but all day long we were generally treated in Spanish and served by Spaniards. The themes are pretty loose to be honest - the Lair of the Minotaur was a sort of ghost train and the Nile Falls or some such was the name of one of those boat rides. Maybe the big, old roller coaster was a Titan something or other. Food was expensive but acceptably so and the atmosphere was everything to everyone whoever you were. I'm sure that to the teenagers it seemed designed for them, the same for the families and at least one old codger felt perfectly at home.

It's the first time that I've actually been there when it has been open. I went to a Van Morrison concert (deadly dull) maybe eight or nine years ago but somehow I'd never eaten one of their burgers or drunk their coke since. 

Nice day out.

Badly informed - as usual

People tell me I complain. I usually think I am commenting or, more often, guffawing, at the preposterousness of whatever it may be. For instance in Of no fixed address

Anyway, as usual, I was wrong. Just ask Maggie. Always wrong. My address wasn't the real problem. True I had to go to Elda about 25 kilometres away where I was sent from one office to a second but once I was in the right place it took only a few seconds to change my address with the Social Security, with the Health people.

Back at the computer I applied for my European Health Card only to have the application turned down again. So I rang the helpline. I enjoyed the music and the mix of information and encouragement to not go away as the minutes ticked away.

The woman told me that I'm not employed, I'm not a pensioner and I'm not unemployed so I can't have a card. I explained that I have a job. She couldn't find me on the system and it took a while before she did. Ah, your contract ended at the end of June she said. Well, yes and no I replied. I have one of these fixed discontinuous contracts so I presume that although I'm not being paid I am considered to be employed. Not quite apparently. I have the right to claim unemployment pay and I would not be added to the unemployment statistics but unless I actually claim the dole I have no right to a health card. I checked that there was no problem with ordinary health care here in Spain and that was fine. I can get sick at home but not whilst I gad about Europe.

These contratos fijos discontinuos are designed for people who work in seasonal businesses. The job is yours when there's work but apparently the idea is that you go and draw the dole when the firm doesn't need you. Despite being entitled to unemployment pay people on these contracts are not registered as unemployed. A very odd situation and very easy for the firms to abuse I would have thought. Employ someone for eleven months until the summer holiday period, kick them loose with no need to pay them whilst they draw the dole and then take them on again when they have a nice tan. The other side is that people who have these contracts are unlikely to do much job hunting whilst they are temporarily out of work so they are a dead weight on the public purse. Apparently most of us on these contracts are women and lots of us work in food production, education and tourism.

Obviously my personal situation is a little strange. I'm sure that my boss would keep me working over the summer if I wanted to work. The truth is that it suits me and him for me to take a couple of months off. I avoid work and he doesn't have to employ somebody at a slacker time of the year. It has never crossed my mind to claim the dole.

I'd just better not get sick when we cross the border into Portugal over the summer.

Keeping schtum

Everyone knows that Brits in Spain wear socks with sandals, go bright red in the sun and swill beer. One of those conversational topics, designed generally to use comparatives in English, with students is about countries. We always agree that one difference is on the Tube. In London everyone keeps to themselves, reading or simply looking grim faced. In Madrid on the other hand the babble between passengers is drowned out only by the occasional impromptu musical jam session.

I was in Madrid the last couple of days and I'm sad to report that everyone on the metro is now glued to their mobile phones. For business suits and skaters alike their thumbs are dancing across screens catching or killing things. Earphones are everywhere to block out the surrounding world. Mobile phones, the great leveller.

Madrid looked very green too. Trees all over the place and that's without going anywhere near the Retiro. Busy of course but then, if you lived in Culebrón, most places would seem busy to you too. And expensive; it's not that paying 2.20€ or 2.50€ for a bottle of beer or 4€ for a tapa is too bad really but we generally pay about half of that so the final bill can be a bit of a surprise. And exciting - flash motors on the street, odd and stylish characters in equal measure, galleries, museums and events everywhere. And, best of all in the recently renamed Aeropuerto Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas Maggie popped out of one of the doors with a cartload of luggage which means she gets to eat pork and drink wine and I get my playmate back.

The story of a summer day

It's definitely summer now. I suppose summer is a special time of year around the world but here, on the Mediterranean coast, it seems to have a distinct significance. The expectations for summer are somehow much greater than they were, for instance, in the UK.

And mention of the UK gives me the perfect cue.

We were in the UK last week. I've spent less than a couple of weeks there in the last nine years so, as things change, at times I found myself feeling less like a local and more like a tourist. Interesting place I thought. Full of life, lots of bright ideas all around. Very dynamic. It was also all a bit frenetic. Full and in a hurry. Traffic was incredible, cars everywhere and the poor old TomTom was going mad with beep beeps for radars. I was deeply impressed with being able to wave my credit card at the terminal on the bar and pay for a pint of bitter without codes, PINS or ID. I was a little less impressed with paying three quid for a bottle of water.  It was nice speaking English though sometimes people didn't understand me or I didn't understand them. Even when that happened though I knew that what I was saying was correct and the problem lay elsewhere. I liked the casual - treated as equal - style of the people in bars, hotels and shops though it was sometimes a bit oppressive - as though by being pleasant they had a right to ask personal questions or comment on things that were nothing to do with them. Much less bowler hat and firm handshake than the England I left though well done to that man at passport control who wished me good afternoon as a greeting and a pleasant day as farewell.

So being in England delayed doing what all proper Spaniards do for the summer which is retire to the country or retire to the coast for the months of July and August. Obviously they don't really. They have to go to the office, go to the supermarket, get their cars serviced and fill in time sheets. Not on the telly though. There everyone drinks beer (in moderation) and leans their good looking semi naked body against the good looking semi naked body of a person of the opposite sex as they grin happily surrounded by friends and family engaged in a never ending barbecue or communal meal. The setting is usually on a beach, in a back garden or at a swimming pool. People with mobile phones behave similarly. Yogurt eaters too. Those with indigestion are able to get back to the fun with the help of appropriate medication.

Our summer sees us back in Culebrón. Wage slave work is forgotten for a couple of months though in my case so is a pay packet. The chittering birds and Eddie the squawking cat ensure that there are no long lie ins but who needs to stay in bed when there is no timetable to keep? The sun shines. It really does. It shines every day and when it doesn't there is something very wrong, The colour turns ochre and yellow. There are more village and town fiestas, performances and events than you can shake a stick at. We do all those jobs that we have avoided all year. In the last couple of days I have finally bought that fire extinguisher for the kitchen, given the palm tree a short back and sides practiced a pagan form of topiary on our ivy hedge, done a nonseasonal pruning of the fruit laden fig, peach and almond trees and worn shorts and sandals. I bet George V never wore shorts. I avoided them for years. This summer though I've decided I'm going to look like every other man in Spain and abandon the long trousers. I've drawn the line at flip flops. Even those fun loving Princes surely don't wear flip flops in public? We'll have to visit people as well, maybe buy some new furniture. We have other, serious, jobs to do too. This year we are determined to finally get a Spanish will after trying halfheartedly for the last three or four summers. Yep, lots of important jobs. I hope I can wear long trousers when we go to see the solicitor. I'm not sure shorts are appropriate when negotiating the price of a Welsh dresser either.

But first, as just reward for all that pruning and lopping, digging and dragging, I think a glass or two of local vino is called for.

Gran Canaria

We went on holiday last week to Gran Canaria one of the Canary islands just off the coast of Morocco and the Western Sahara. The islands have been Spanish for a long, long time so, despite being geographically in Africa, they look and feel like Spain. Chris Columbus stayed over for a while in 1492 on his way across the Atlantic to what turned out, to his surprise, to be America.

Gran Canaria is a smallish sort of island, round in shape and about 50kms in diameter. The island is volcanic and hilly. If you think of it as the summit of a volcano sticking up out of the blue grey ocean you'd be about right. It has a motorway system joining all the main towns on the coast and a mish mash of little roads twisting up hillsides to connect the hundreds of small settlements inland.

We drove around the island in an underpowered and hired VW gawping at banana trees, sugar cane plantations and the carpet of spring flowers before stopping to eat wrinkled potatoes with a spicy sauce. It was nice and warm and I took to driving around with my left arm out of the open window of the car. Before I knew it my arm had turned pink and peeled. I still look like a proper Benidorm guiri a week later! Surprisingly we Brits appeared to be outnumbered by Germans and Norwegians especially in the seaside resorts.

Anyway, enough Arthur and Sheila Miller travelogue. Time for the wry humour. My advice, if you ever decide to hire a car on Gran Canaria, is to take a parking place with you. There certainly aren't many to be had on the island. We spent hours looking for somewhere to park and often paid through the nose for the pleasure of doing so. In one town even the gorillas, the chaps who make their living from guiding drivers onto every available inch of possible parking space, waved us away.

To be honest it wasn't a particularly memorable break. I suspect that my overwhelming memory will be of crowded roads and terribly limited parking and of the surprisingly good deal offered by the pop radio branded travel agency.