Moscatel tasting

I like to be active, not climbing hills or doing press-ups active, but doing something out and about. I'm not keen on work as a substitute. I don't need to paint walls or clean the kitchen, prune trees, shop, cook, clean toilets or keep drains clear to keep myself occupied. We're all a bit work obsessed in my opinion. I did a lot of it at one time, the paid sort, and now I look back on it and wonder why I wasted all that time. The pay, obviously, but that doesn't explain its centrality in British society.

So here I like to get out and about. We go to fiestas, we go to events, we visit castles, we go to the theatre and concerts and the cinema. We see exhibitions, we go to talks and tramp around forests for stargazing and to hunt out scorpions. Some things are never repetitive, even though you've done them before, because each event is different enough to make it potentially memorable. On the other hand there are some things which are so much of a muchness and start to blur into one. Bronze age sites, cathedrals and the like can be very similar unless they evoke some sort of emotional response. Excellent and varied as the Moors and Christians events are, or Fallas or the San Juan hogueras, each time it tends to sameness and repetition. It's got to the point, after twenty years of living here that far too many things provoke a bit of been there, done that sort of feeling. It can be comfortable at times but at others I sometimes wonder why I've dragged us out to watch this or that parade.

I was looking for something fresh, and I came across a wine tasting and town centre visit in Benissa. Now wine tasting is hardly something we've never done before. During several wine tastings in several bodegas, especially when I'm the driver, I've been close to slumping into stage IV sleep. I'm asked to suggest what this or that wine smells of (does it make a wine better that it smells of berries or chocolate?) and to tip the glass so I can suggest where the colour would fit on a standard pantone chart. I've never understood why any colour is better than any other. Maggie is very interested in wine and we have visited a lot of bodegas from La Rioja down to Andalucia. The only difference was that this wine tasting, in Benissa, was of Moscatel. I thought it might be interesting. Unfortunately that was because my knowledge was so flawed as to be useless and I started from the wrong premise.

I thought that Moscatel was sweet wine, a dessert wine. The one that restaurants tend to be hand out as a freebie at the end of a traditional meal in our home province of Alicante. Likewise I thought that the, almost treacly, Mistela, which is sometimes offered instead, was some variety of Moscatel. I was intrigued as as to how anyone could organise a wine tasting around such sweet wines. It's fine, alongside the pudding and perusas at the end of a meal, especially in a very small quantity, but this cata or tasting, promised six different wines. I imagined the participants, overloaded with sugar, behaving very much as Violet Elizabeth Bott always threatened to behave - vomiting that is. It's a fair way up to Benissa but I thought it may be different enough to be memorable.

It turns out that, like Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc or Riesling or Pinot Grigio  - Moscatel is simply the name of a white wine grape. It's white so, unlike our local red grape Monastrell, it can't be used to produce both white and red wines. Moscatel is only good for white. Depending on when the grapes are picked and how they are processed the Moscatel grapes can produce anything from a dry white through to the sweet wine I knew. So there was a much wider range of Moscatels than I knew about. 

The sweet Moscatel is made by only harvesting the grapes right at the end of the season when they have withered to look almost like raisins or sultanas and built up a really high sugar content. The other drink I associated with Moscatel, Mistela, turns out not to be a wine at all but a liqueur. It's made by adding wine alcohol, distilled spirit, to freshly pressed grape Moscatel called grape must or mosto in Spanish. So Mistela is just spiked grape juice. Adding the alcohol stops any fermentation and preserves the sugar in the must which is why it is so sweet.

So it didn't turn out to be that different. We were still invited to comment on what the various wines smelled of and even on their colour. First answer, alcohol, all wines smell of alcohol. I guessed at white as the answer to the second question but the group leader seemed to ignore my comment.

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Just in case you're too young to know what the Violet Elizabeth Bott reference is about she was a character in Richmal Crompton's "Just William" books. Her threat, if William and his friends did not include her in their schemes, was to “scream and scream until I’m sick!”.

Getting wed

Maggie suggested we should marry. It wasn't that, after a 32-year-long trial period and 28 years living under the same roof, we were ideally suited; it was because she thought it might be easier to arrange for care and nursing if we were legally bound. I was my usual enthusiastic and romantic self. I said fair enough.

The list of documentation for a civil marriage in Pinoso is not too onerous. Proof of identity and sometimes proof of address. Something to prove that you are free to marry – single, divorced or widowed plus a full birth certificate for each person. Foreign birth certificates need an apostille and have to be translated, by an official translator, into Spanish. That translated birth certificate can be no more than three months old at the presentation of the paperwork to the Justice of the Peace. On top of that we would have needed a couple of Spanish speaking witnesses when we handed over the documentation and later, at the ceremony, two more to sort of represent each side of the partnership. Obviously enough, we also had to choose a date and one of the available venues in Pinoso.

When we considered that, ostensibly simple, list of requirements we soon realised that it was going to be a bit of a paperchase. The ID and proof of residence things were easy but I'd never considered how I'd prove that I was, and always had been, a bachelor. The answer turned out to be by getting either a Certificate of No Impediment or a Marital Status Certificate from the British Consulate in Madrid. Different authorities ask for one or other of those two different forms. Maggie needed one of those too but also, because she'd been married before, she had to get a copy of her original marriage certificate from the General Register Office in the UK. It was one of the simplest and most obvious sounding requirements that set us on course to get married outside of Spain. We needed a translation of a birth certificate with apostille. Remarkable as it sounds the General Register Office was so slow to send out those certificates, in both our cases, that we feared that the delay caused by the GRO would simply cock everything up. Mix the GRO taking months to send certificates and the Spaniards demanding stuff translated into Spanish no more than three months old and we foresaw disaster.

We didn't make that decision straight away. We started to collect the paperwork together and the world kept turning as the GRO fannied about in getting the certificates we'd paid for back to us. By then my cancer treatment was well under way and my death didn't seem as imminent as it had a few months before.

One of the other possibilities we'd talked about was popping down to Gibraltar. There are a number of businesses there that will help with the organisation of the weddings - for a fee - because Gibraltar has a nice little business in quick and easy weddings without the need for Elvis impersonators. The wedding organisers will book the spaces, arrange for registrars etc. and to some degree process the paperwork. We would still need to have birth certificates, marriage certificate, proof of divorce and ID but, that apart, all we needed to do was to stay at least one night before or after the wedding in Gibraltar, and get a letter from the hotel we'd booked to confirm that. For exactly the same reason that the Pinoso arrangements had slowed to zero, because the urgency was gone, we didn't do much with the information that we'd got from the Gibraltar wedding planners.

Every now and again someone would ask us if we were still going to marry. In turn one of us would say, to the other, we should get married you know. Maggie too had suffered a couple of medical problems. I dug out the paperwork from the British Consulate and suggested to Maggie we should get on with it. Maggie countered by saying that it all seemed such a faff. We should go to Gib she said. Well, she never says Gib, I do, she says Gibraltar. I agreed. Much more of an adventure driving down to Gibraltar to get married, very John and Yoko. Besides, afterwards, we could have a few days in Andalucía. And suddenly we were back on task. I've already forgotten lots of the process but once we'd decided on one of the packages presented by the wedding planners -which ranged from very simple and basic through to all singing and dancing - and particularly when we'd handed over a couple of hundred quid to Sweet Gibraltar Weddings (what an odd name), it all became very real very quickly. 

All along I'd thought of the ceremony as being jeans and t-shirt, saying "I do" and going down the pub for a beer to celebrate. Maggie had other plans. What about rings?, she said, Sweet Gibraltar Weddings want to know whether we will be exchanging rings. I said obviously not. We went to a jewellers the next week and bought wedding rings. Are we going to write our own vows?, said Maggie, Sweet Gibraltar Weddings want to know. Obviously not, I said, and we didn't. We didn't invite anyone along either but we did tell people when and where and very soon a couple of people were crystal clear that they would be joining us. Somehow, magically, that turned into eighteen people. No gifts we said, no reception we said, in fact nothing organised at all. Most of that sort of transmuted along the way.

Sweet Gibraltar Weddings checked, before we went to Gib, that we had all the documentation in place. With the stuff we'd got from the GRO and stuff we had naturally we had all that was required. British documentation was fine so no translation problems. The wedding planners also asked us other things like whether we had our own witnesses or whether they needed to drum some up. The only part that hurt was paying their fees. Oh, and the hotel. Paying for a proper hotel was a bit of a shock too.

The day before the wedding we were in Gib. We had an appointment with a legal rep, a Commissioner for Oaths, for Sweet Gibraltar Weddings. She collected together the paperwork in a sheaf which we then walked a couple of hundred metres down the road to the Gibraltar Register Office. The office checked it all over, asked about the number and type of marriage certificates we wanted – there was a charge of £35 for the ones with an apostille. We walked that stamped and receipted paperwork back to the Commissioner for Oaths. Apparently they had to do more stamping but we never saw it again. We left them to it and checked into our hotel. Our guests started to arrive in dribs and drabs. Some were in hotels, others in apartments. We had a WhatsApp group for anyone involved and it was amusing to watch as people arranged to meet or as they described the drama of landing on a handkerchief sized runway. There were quite a lot of us in the hotel bar the night before the wedding day.

On the day we put on our wedding clothes. My jeans and t-shirt had become a suit from the Outlet Centre down at San Vicente and Maggie had been shopping too. On the wedding morning Maggie and Jane went off to get their hair done, I hung around the hotel a bit and then wandered into town where I bumped into the newly coiffured on the main street in Gibraltar. Maggie already had a few of our cohort with her and, because Gibraltar is such a small place, a sort of natural coagulation took place. By the time we were in the shady square by City Hall nearly everyone was there. Maggie and I went to talk to the Registrar a few minutes before the 11.30 ceremony time. There was a photographer there, from the wedding planners, she gave us a buttonhole and a small bunch of flowers and introduced us to the Registrar. She checked we had witnesses and we were given a quick run through of what was about to happen. She smiled and grinned a lot. Most of the next few minutes is a bit of a blur. I know I fluffed one of the lines, I know I had a moment when the tears flowed and I was unable to speak, I remember doing the ring exchange too. But the very best bit, and one of those moments that I will never ever forget, was when it was suddenly all official and eighteen friends and family started clapping and whooping just for us.

The rest of the day went splendidly too. It just sort of worked as it should. Quite by chance there was an empty wine bar alongside the City Hall where we had married – it was a nice place, made even better when Beth settled the bar tab. We were on to a restaurant that Maggie had selected from reviews. It was a good choice. The owner was dead welcoming, the food was good and the price was very reasonable. The evening drinks place, down by the harbour, didn't quite live up to expectations but it was good enough. And that was the last of that and the start of something else. 

Thanks Maggie, Thanks Anne and Robin, thanks Barry and Kate, thanks Beth and Stef, thanks Cheryl and Nick, thanks Claire and John, thanks Garry and Lynn, thanks Jane and Rolf, thanks John and Tracey and thanks Jonathan and Odd.

Bursting at the seams

Maggie and I got married down in Gibraltar a couple of weeks ago. The chances that I won't blog about that are very slim so we'll leave the details for now. Anyway, after a few days on the Rock, with friends and family, our wedding party dispersed and we newlyweds toddled off to wander around Andalucía. Our first stop was Seville. 

Now I'm not sure how many times I've been to Sevilla but, without trying too hard, I can easily bring eight or nine visits to mind. The very first time I was there I stayed over three weeks and, as historic centres don't change much, I've always felt to know the heart of the city quite well. The terrible thing is that, looking back at my photo albums, it turns out that the last time we stayed there was fifteen years ago. Seville is a great place to visit. It's just full of Spanish clichés, it brims over with history, culture and life. I've had some interesting experiences in Seville over the years, not all of them pleasant and this time the town surprised me yet again. It wasn't the heat, I didn't get lost or have a run in with anyone. The problem was the sheer number of tourists, us among them, oozing from every nook and cranny. There was as much Korean spoken on the streets as Spanish and heavily accented English, spoken by non native speakers, was absolutely everywhere. A couple of days later we were in the relatively humble provincial capital of Huelva on a busy Saturday night where we were just more customers and not the cash cows we had been in Seville. I liked that much more.

I've mentioned Dígame before. It was a BBC Spanish language course with TV programmes, cassette tapes, a textbook etc. in the 1970s. It was based on the town of Cuenca in Castilla la Mancha. Through the BBC programmes students were introduced to the sights in Cuenca, to some local characters. We watched as people had a picnic by the river or bought their Sunday bread and paper. Because of the programme I went to have a look at Cuenca, for the first time, in, I think, 1984. The man driving the bus and the bloke in the tourist office were the people featured in the programme. It might have been 21 years before Google Maps first saw light of day but, from the dialogues in the course book about asking and giving directions, I was able to walk from the bus station to the Hostal Pilar without missing a beat.

Cuenca's relatively close to Culebrón and it's a nice town. I've just checked and we've been there 10 times in the last 20 years. You couldn't say we were regular visitors but I've still been to Cuenca more times than I have to Stoke or Bath. Cuenca has changed a lot in those two decades. The Plaza Mayor in the old town is now just for tourists and it is full of them. None of the shops there sell anything useful unless you need a fan or castanets and none of the "old men's bars" have survived. None of the artists who helped make the place famous are still alive and even the Casas Colgadas (The Hanging Houses which overlook the river ravine) seem to have been renamed in a grammatically correct fashion to become the Casas Colgantes. If you don't want to buy a donkey wearing a straw hat or drink or eat then you'll need to go to the new part of Cuenca where ordinary people live and still buy things in shops.

We've seen it all over and probably you have too; be it in Barcelona or Canterbury. On our first "pensioners holiday" in Catalunya we went on a trip to the Monastery at Montserrat. As we trogged around the place it was heaving with people but only until the coaches took all the visitors off for lunch. Montserrat reminded me of the early morning tourist throng in Karnak - everyone is herded off the boats as dawn breaks, to avoid the heat, but by midday it's completely deserted. In Zaragoza, the magnificent esplanade in front of the cathedral seethes with masses of shorts wearing, backpack toting, water swigging visitors and yet, only a street or two back, the city is still able to absorb the tourists painlessly. It's like that in lots and lots of places nowadays, in fact if you knew about the place beforehand it's more likely that it will be bubbling over with tourists than not. I'm not sure whether it's the right place at the right time or the wrong place at the wrong time. If it's a well known spot, from Prague to the Uffizi, from the Alhambra to Atrani I guarantee it will be flooded with people taking selfies. When we went on some Adriatic Cruise a couple of years ago I felt very much like one of the Mongol Hordes - despoiling Eastern Europe - as three cruise ships, ours included, dumped 9,000 passengers onto the the central streets of Kotor - population 13,500.

The Spaniards call it masificación. In Barcelona there are tourist go home posters and graffiti everywhere. Over the last couple of weeks the locals on Mallorca and the Canaries have been protesting about the invasion of tourists. Barcelona, and other cities, have changed several of the rules about tourist apartments to try to limit the numbers. Tourists are swamping the locals out. 

I'm not going to get embroiled in the debate about housing prices but it's pretty obvious that the recent trend to see flats as an investment, particularly as a way to generate money from short term tourist lets, is taking flats out of the ordinary rental market. Many of those flats are being bought outright, cash on the nail as it were,  by institutions with deep pockets. That must help to push up housing prices. The secondary concerns - that younger tourists are often rowdy, party well into the night, drink lots of booze, are disorderly and attract and sustain the dealers of illicit drugs - is additional to these visitors having no interest whatsoever in buying drill bits, or even bread. Their spending habits and needs mean that they change the faces of the neighbourhoods and leave the bleary eyed locals breadless and without ironmongery shops. Even the nice respectable tourists who traipse through cathedrals and museums, the ones who buy buy food in restaurants and take home traditional honey, cause crowding and queues where there were none before. And many of the jobs that tourism provides for the locals are temporary, low paying, unsociable hours type jobs which renders them useless when applying for a mortgage. Some 12% of Spain's GNP comes from tourism but there are both a lot of pros and a lot of cons to that business.

And, if anyone is keen to visit Culebrón Sergio and Blandine stand ready at Restaurante Eduardo and the bodega will be more than happy to sell on locally produced wine and oil.

Going to the back door

I wear contact lenses. Because my eyes are a funny shape they have to be "old fashioned" rigid contact lenses. Little plastic discs that float on the tears in my eyes. They're not a bit like the flexible contact lenses that most people wear. One of the consequences of their characteristics is that the liquids needed to clean and store them are not available at the local supermarket. The liquids generally come from an optician.

There are three opticians, that I know of, in Pinoso, and Maria, the optician for one of them, has the lens solutions I like most for my particular contacts. Maria must have had sex within the last nine months or so because she's quite pregnant at the moment. Someone had mentioned this to me - the pregnancy, not the sex - so I thought I'd stock up on lens solutions. Just in case there was none of that "having the baby behind the tractor before getting on with the ploughing" spirit of the old Soviet, and she closed the shop for a while. 

I got the liquids the other morning. At the time Maria said that, if I needed any more, I should send her a WhatsApp message and she'd ask her dad, who runs the shop next door to hers, to collect the solutions for me and sell them on so that I didn't go without.

Life in a small town has certain advantages.

Every cloud

Antoni Gaudí, was a well known Catalan architect; he's the bloke who drew the original plans for the Sagrada Familia. He's well on the way to being declared a saint; Pope Francis made him a Venerable earlier this year. Gaudí was knocked down by a number 30 tram in Barcelona on his way to his daily confession at Sant Felip Neri church. Apparently he was hit when he stepped back to avoid one tram but reversed into the path of another going in the opposite direction. He didn't actually perish at the scene but was so badly injured that he died three days later. 

As a result of Gaudí's death, a public inquiry was held in Barcelona. One of the people who played a significant role in this inquiry was Mercedes Rodrigo. Mercedes and her sister, María, were a bit like the Bronte sisters in that they achieved individual recognition at a time when women didn't. María was a pioneering Spanish composer, pianist and teacher; she was the first woman to premier an opera in Spain. Meanwhile Mercedes was a prominent Spanish psychologist. At the time psychologists who worked in the field of applied psychology were called psycho technicians - psicotécnico in Spanish. One of the key outcomes of the inquiry was the introduction of mandatory psychotechnical tests for all Barcelona tram drivers. These tests were designed to evaluate essential factors such as vision, hearing, reflexes and personal habits (for example, alcohol consumption) to ensure that only suitable individuals would be deemed fit to drive trams. Later, similar tests were applied throughout Spain to most drivers.

Today, everyone who holds a Spanish driving licence has undergone a modern descendant of the psychotechnical test originally implemented as a result of that inquiry. Interesting to think that a pioneering woman scientist and a visionary architect had a hand in ensuring that modern drivers play a sort of basic computer game keeping a little black sphere on track so that fewer people get knocked down.

Noises off

I typed the first draft of this when the lights were off - all over Spain. What a strange experience that was. We were fine but it did make us think about the number of things that would be difficult or impossible without power. You know the sort of thing - even if it were possible for the staff to get past the supermarket shutters to open up  they would find the the lights, freezers and cold displays off, the price scanners wouldn't work, the tills wouldn't open and even if the customers had cash there would be no way to compute the bill or store the loot. We imagined abandoned electric cars with depleted batteries, abandoned thermal vehicles with empty tanks (no electric to work the fuel pumps) and traffic chaos as all the traffic lights failed. Perhaps one of the oddest things was that, when we got in the car, the radio started up, as it does so often, and we didn't notice that the programming, which told us about the blackout, was being broadcast on what is normally a culture channel. We swap from news and talk radio to music radio all the time but, apparently for lots of youngsters talk radio was a bit of a novelty, never before experienced.

But back to topic. We went to the theatre the other night. We went to see The Mousetrap, the Agatha Christie whodunnit. Of course, being in Spain it wasn't the Mousetrap, it was La Ratonera and it was in Castilian Spanish. When we came out of the theatre, El Principal in Alicante, I turned to Maggie and said, well I understood about 10% of that. Maggie replied that it was because the volume wasn't loud enough. It must have been loud enough for the Spaniards around us though because they giggled or snorted or guffawed in all parts of the theatre including the seats round about us. I didn't think it was loud enough either and I did understand the couple of snippets that, because they were supposed to be a radio broadcast, were louder. But I come back to the fact that the Spaniards around us seemed to have understood it, low volume or not, while we didn't.

The weekend before we'd been over in Yecla for a guided tour of the San Francisco church. The guide was a woman called Alicia. It's not the first tour we've been on with the Yecla Tourist Office where she's been the guide. Her accent is pretty Murciano but she's easy enough to understand. Should I say she's easy enough to understand with a following wind. For instance if she's facing towards me, as she speaks, I find it much easier than if she has her back towards me as she points something out. If we're in the street, or close to the street, she's much more difficult to understand when a vehicle passes. If she bores her tour group or in some way causes them to disengage then it's much more difficult to keep up with what she's saying because of their chattering. That said the Spaniards in the group snigger and snort and guffaw together as she tells her stories while I blame the pesky background noise.

They're two examples but it happens all the time from missing the first few words that the server says to you in a bar to not hearing your name called as you wait in the hospital waiting room. And if someone, let's use Trump, is speaking English on the telly and there is a translator repeating what he's saying in Spanish then I find that I'm half hearing the English and half hearing the Spanish and I can make sense of neither.

Generally, nowadays, my Spanish isn't that bad. I often fluff my first lines or miss the first words and at times I come away from an experience, in Spanish, cursing my inability to master the @#$%ing thing, though, as I said, it's sort of OK. Just give me another twenty years or so and I'll have it cracked.

So is my lack of understanding based solely on my (decreasing) hearing ability? I think not. Put me in a situation where everyone around me is speaking in English but the background noise is high - a party, a sporting event, a concert, a crowded bar - and I can't hear properly either. The damage to my understanding is much less though and, in broad stroke, I can continue to communicate while in Spanish I would be completely lost. I think this is largely because I know the structure and the forms of my own language so well that I can fill in the blank spaces with educated and informed guesses. That's why a British film dubbed into Spanish is easier to understand than a Hollywood film similarly dubbed and both are much easier than a film recorded in Spanish. In the British example the word order, the unspoken cultural reference points and the probable responses to a situation will be much more like mine. I'm pretty well versed in United Statesian English too but less so than the British variety. And, of course, in the Spanish version the responses and attitudes are those of a Spaniard on the Lavapies omnibus which is quite a long way from Clapham.

It may have been that the volume at the theatre really was a bit low but the Spaniards started with an advantage even if I know who did it even before we got going.

Stand your ground

I once shook Desmond Tutu's hand. He didn't really shake mine back -  he was looking the other way and talking to someone over his shoulder but he was also shaking any hand that was thrust towards him, and mine was one of those. Our palms touched so I've always claimed it as a handshake. The truth is, but for that handshake I remember nothing else about that day. I presume Nelson was still locked up, I suppose Queen, and many others, were still playing Sun City. No matter - both Dessie and I thought we should be there that day and we were. Google tells me it was probably 1988.

That may be the last time I was on a big demonstration—the ones where I joined one of the coaches to take protestors to London. I'm sure I did some picket line duty into the 1990s, and I've been a half participant in a couple of things here about worker's and women's rights but my real demonstration days were Cruise Missiles at Molesworth, the Miners' Strike, Ban the Bomb, and the Anti-Apartheid protests of the Eighties rather than the Anti-Capitalist or Environmental themes of more recent times. Daniel Ortega apart, I have no regrets about the placards I waved and slogans I shouted back then.

The other week, I went on a demonstration for the first time in decades. This time it was in Elda/Petrer and it wasn't quite on the same scale as most of the protests I got involved in when my bones still didn't ache. I don't think there were many of us, in Elda, but with one of those wildly unsubstantiated guesses that we all make about numbers, I said to someone who asked on the day that I reckoned there were about a thousand people there. When I checked just now the local paper's estimates were about the same.

We were there to shout for better funding for the state health service, to shout to stop the drift of money from the public sector towards private health care and to shout against the scramble within Europe to spend more money on submarines, tanks, and all the other paraphernalia of war - because a deranged politician tells our governments they should - at the expense of basic services. Odd actually because that's another conversation I had recently, with the Spanish language AI application; all about the cost of tanks and submarines and destroyers and suchlike when cheap and cheerful one-way attack drones and torpedoes can do to them what inexpensive shoulder-launched SAM missiles did to high-tech Soviet Mi-24 and Mi-8 helicopters in Afghanistan. But I digress. 

I was there, in Elda, because I felt guilty when a woman I know, through the book club, was talking about how a coach, that the pensioner's club had arranged to go to an earlier pro health service march, had to be cancelled for lack of interest. She'd been disgusted at the terrible turnout. As she upbraided the population of Pinoso, I felt individually guilty because I'd meant to go that last time but chose a cup of coffee with friends instead. This time I didn't, I went to shout and march. I joined in with the chanting - it was a sort of call and answer system with the loudspeaker equipped car at the front setting go little couplets - Sanidad no se vende and we'd reply with Sanidad, se defiende - Healthcare's not for selling, Healthcare's for defending or Recursos a la pública - No a la privada - Resources to the public system - not to the private.

Spain has a free-to-users health service. Of course, that's not strictly true because the money comes from taxpayers, but it's what we all understand as a free health service. When someone gets ill there's a system to try and fix them up without profit being the driving motive. It's available to anyone within the Social Security system. Just like in the UK, there have been cuts to the service; there are shortages of trained staff; working conditions for the current workforce are criticised; and there is insidious but constant pressure from right-of-centre administrations to send people to private hospitals and clinics for routine tests and procedures rather than investing in the system of public care. It's strange—writing this piece reminded me that when I was teaching English, I had lots of conversations with Spaniards, unaware of the free health care system in the UK, who were quite sure that Britons came to Spain as health tourists to take unfair advantage.

I don't suppose a few hundred people walking down the road from Petrer to Elda in the rain is going to make Carlos Mazón (President of Valencia) suddenly change his mind and dig deep to fund local services but at least this time I didn't go for coffee. And, as I remember it, there are no cruise missiles at Molesworth and Nelson Mandela died a free man.

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The title I remember from a march in favour of the miners during the Miner's Strike. It started from a park in Leeds. The march was led by a brass band. A portly man wrapped in a tuba asked the bandleader - in a broad Yorksher accent. "And Brian, if the' start feetin' - what shud we do?" Brian's answer: "Stand thi ground lad, stand thi ground!"

Go wild, go wild, go wild in the country

The Pinoso Pensioners’ Club has a WhatsApp group. At times I wonder if the the application is totally under the organiser's control but the messages are often interesting. Anyway, a few days ago, there were a few lines on it exhorting me to join in with the upcoming Merienda de Pascua (Easter Picnic) at the Club HQ. The message suggested I pick up my wicker basket, load up on monas, get out my typical apron and headscarf, and come to share my victuals with my friends – to keep alive an old tradition.

Now, I have to say that I don’t like it when I don’t know stuff like this. What aprons? What baskets?

I did know about monas. They’re a version of toñas and a toña is a sort of sweet bread presented as a rounded loaf, some 20 cm across. I understand that one of the odd things about the toña is that it includes potato in the mix. The mona – which would usually translate as a female monkey – is the same sort of bread but with a hard-boiled egg set into it. Often, the eggs are violently coloured.

I had a vague sort of inkling what they were talking about because, a couple of years ago, we went on a walk out of Monóvar (a town that neighbours Pinoso) on a Thursday during Lent. The idea there was to eat the toñas in some country spot. We ended up picnicking on a muddy track underneath the viaduct for the High Speed Train. It wasn't exactly a bucolic idyll.

Also, when we lived in Salamanca, there was a tradition of going down to the river in the city to eat hornazo, a sort of meat pie, on the Monday after Easter. What has, nowadays, become a family picnic in the open air is based on the times when students from the University waited by the river for the return of the prostitutes after their enforced exile on the other bank during Lent and Holy Week.

I needed some Spaniards to ask, but I don’t really know very many. Then I hit on it, just as WhatsApp had started this, it could also provide the answers.

I’m in a book club and that too has a WhatsApp group. No sooner had I asked the question  – what is this “Easter Picnic”? – than the first reply came from Domingo (the only other bloke in the group), just four minutes after posting. He said that the Monday after Easter Sunday (which is still a local holiday), people went out to the countryside with their carts to have a bit of a communal picnic. The specific food he mentioned were the monas.

I responded, asking if it was a bit like the Salamanca tradition I mentioned above. That earned me a slight slap-on-the-wrist response from Loli Mar, who pointed out that Domingo had given me a perfectly good description, and that “Ir de mona” was to go for a picnic in the countryside with family and friends and eat things like fried rabbit, tortilla de patatas, the local broad beans, olives, hard-boiled eggs and longaniza seca – a bit like a very thin, dry salami. For pudding, brazo de gitano, which is quite like Swiss roll but with either a chocolate or creamy filling.

Jacinta came back with a summing-up: in reality, it’s a spring festival that fills the countryside with life, and it’s associated with the end of Easter.

Amalia added that she remembered that, when she was little, the aprons were made in school as a bit of a school project to involve children in the tradition. She also remebered that the mona was something that godparents gave to their godchildren. Later, in the countryside, the hard-boiled egg would be broken on the forehead of a friend!

Conchi joined in and said that the whole point was to spend a day out in the country with family and friends, and Inma repeated more or less the same thing.- neighbourliness and food in a healthy setting. 

Paqui said to me, “I love that you want to know about our customs, which in the post-war decades formed part of our culture. As children, we used to buy our alpargatas (espadrilles) and they would say to us: ‘Let’s see if they are runners…’. And to prove that they were, we would run... that’s how innocent we were... If you go out to the countryside to eat the mona, be careful, because, out of the blue, someone might bop you on the forehead with a hard-boiled egg – Happy Easter 2025.”

Clara, one of the group organisers, said that there had been an article about el Cabezo, which is a salt dome that is very much a symbol of the town of Pinoso, in the programme for the town's fiestas in 2008. She copied that 15-page article to the WhatsApp group because an awful lot of the text and photos centred on the tradition of heading up el Cabezo for this traditional Easter Picnic.

Strangely, that article mentioned that, for a while, as motor cars became more common, lots of people from Pinoso would go to Mahoya to eat the picnic – and Mahoya is some 25 km from Pinoso. The article had pages and pages of photos of local people taking part in the picnic and, not surprisingly, lots of the readers’ club recognised themselves or their friends in the snaps. Oh, and, in the piece, the breaking of hard boiled eggs on someone's head was mentioned as a bit too obvious, and maybe painful, courting technique!

So, I think we all have the idea now.

Caps, wineskins and fans

I was going through my hat collection with a view to throwing a few away. I came across an obvious candidate; a fluorescent Caja Rural baseball cap. It was a pale imitation of the original Caja Rural baseball caps (as in the photo here) that were briefly trendy among urban hipsters as a sort of cipher for their claim to family roots in a bucolic rural past. 

I was thinking about these hats as I talked to my AI Spanish application. Billy-no-mates that I am, I've quite taken to talking to this gadget on my phone. One of the things I like is that, as well as practising my Spanish, the AI is backed by the internet so it knows all sorts of things. It makes for a strangely informed conversation. I asked if it were true about Caja Rural hats and  if there were other things that were everyday and boring but considered to be very typically Spanish. It came up with botijos, porrones, botas de vino and abanicos.

It just so happens that we went to an open day at a pottery museum in Agost a couple of weeks ago and they were singing the praises of botijos suggesting that modern designs of botijos could be an environmentally friendly replacement for cooled water in plastic bottles. A botijo is an earthenware jug or container made from clay fired at low temperature so that it doesn't totally vitrify. This allows water to seep into the interstices of the pot. Once the water reaches the surface, it begins to evaporate, the process draws heat from inside the container and so, the water cools down. The result is that the liquid typically reaches a temperature of about 15°C without needing refrigeration. Obviously enough botijos are suitable for multiple use. The truth is that you don't often see botijos in use, but they are all over the place as decorative items.

Botas de vino are, on the other hand, still very much in use—at least they still get regular outings. They're wineskins, traditionally made from goatskin, used in communal situations. The place where we usually encounter them is at the fiestas in Santa Catalina here in Pinoso, where someone always offers us a drink of wine from one. The advantage, of course, is that the wine comes out as a stream so that the bota itself never touches anyone's lips. Botas also get an outing during romerías (a sort of religious picnic), and rural workers still use them when bringing in the harvest and sometimes for ordinary field work. Indeed they're very much alive and well in rural areas. I have to admit to being a bit hesitant about drinking from a wineskin because I always expect to miss my mouth, but with a confident approach, it's not actually a difficult technique.

Just because the AI told me this, you're going to get instructions on how to prepare a new bota.  First fill your with warm water and leave it for two or three days so that the skin swells and seals any small fissures. Next, you fill it with cheap wine and empty it several times over several days. This removes tannins from the leather and absorbs the taste of pez (a resinous product derived from pine trees traditionally used to seal the interior of botas). The whole process—cleaning the inside with water and then refilling over and over with cheap wine—should take about two weeks. The test, of course, is to put some decent wine into it and taste it; if there’s no difference in flavour, your wineskin is ready to go.

A porrón is basically a glass version of a bota. It has a bulbous glass base that holds wine and a long glass spout that provides a nice, steady flow of wine. Because they’re made of glass, they have the advantage of not adding any taste to the wine but are much more fragile than botas, making them really only suitable for table use.

I thought the AI suggesting fans, abanicos, as being very Spanish was a bit twee. After all, their origin is Japanese. The first thing the AI stressed, rather than the waft of moving air they produce, was a lot of malarkey about the language spoken with them. I rather suspect it's like that symbol that's supposed to be available to women—the one where one hand is held up with the palm facing outward before tucking in the thumb and folding down four fingers over it to form a fist - to show that they are in imminent danger. It's a great idea but only works if both sender and recipient understand its meaning. 

Nonetheless, I have to concede that fans are absolutely commonplace in Spain. Go to any event during summer months, and you’ll see non-stop fluttering fans everywhere. Everyone seems to have one—heaven knows where they’re kept when not in use—but they appear as if by magic when needed! What surprised me was that, supposedly, there are different styles from different regions and that the Valencian Community has important centres of production, which is presumably the reason for there being a fan museum in Aldaia just outside Valencia. It seems that our local fans traditionally have wooden or mother-of-pearl spines with hand-painted cloth featuring countryside scenes; Andalusian fans frequently feature flamenco or floral designs with lace or sequins; Castilian fans tend toward less bright colours with geometric patterns while Catalan fans often showcase Art Nouveau designs. 

Now I thought all modern day fans were made of Acrylonitrile Butadiene Styrene and were mass-produced somewhere like Guangzhou Township in Eastern China. But this new information means I can now add fans, from Valencian manufacturers with a hundred years, or more, of history behind them, like Abanicos Carbonell (1864), Abanicos Folgado (1906) or Abanicos Vibenca (1910), to my list of local and typically Spanish potential gifts. Or, I suppose, I could get a copy of a Caja Rural baseball cap from Amazon and spend less!

It tolls for thee

Villena is a town forty minutes up the road from Pinoso. It's a town I like: there's often something going on there. The theatre is lovely, there's a train station in town and another, the quietest AVE station in Spain, in a field near enough to be called Villena and, of course, it has 22 kilos of Bronze Age gold—the Villena Treasure. And if none of those are enough, then Ferri, the huge ironmongers, is really good for any unreformed men with all those tool belts and strange bits of machinery. I also find the occasional mispronunciation of the name quite amusing; when I think that someone is off to the Austrian capital rather than popping up the road for a new pool pump.

Anyway, I'm listening to Nieves Concostrina doing one of her little history slots on the radio. She's talking about the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492 with her usual mix of dry humour and anticlerical sarcasm. It's pretty obvious from her description that the two kingdoms that would later go on to be the bulk of present-day Spain—Castile and Aragon—were in a sort of racial and ideological turmoil. The interactions between Muslims, Christians and Jews were labyrinthine and Machiavellian, to say the least. And that's before the Inquisition got its teeth in and began to undermine the power and influence of any socio-religious group that wasn't staunchly Catholic. Remembering that 1492 is a pivotal year: it's when the last Muslim stronghold finally falls in the peninsula, over 700 years after the initial invasion, and it's the year that the world changes forever when Spanish money sent Colón (Columbus) off to find the spice route—and he inadvertently bumped into the continent which would later give us Donald Trump.

Suddenly, in the radio story, there was a little aside about Villena the town and the Marquis named for it. The Marquis of Villena is, like one of those top dog British lords, named for a county, that pepper so many Shakespeare historical plays - "and thee Essex, get thee to Northumberland". Now Juan Pacheco, 1st Duke of Escalona, 1st Marquis of Villena—was an important man at the time of Isabel and Fernando, the Catholic Monarchs. Despite wearing tights, he had castles and land all over the place. He was rich and he was powerful. Later, one of his descendants, Juan Manuel—another Marquis of Villena—would go on to found the Real Academia Española, the organisation that publishes the Spanish dictionary of reference and tries to maintain order within a language spoken worldwide.

When Enrique (Henry if you prefer) IV of Castile died in 1474, there were two claimants to the throne of Castile (by this time Castile was probably about 75% of what's now Spain). The struggle was between supporters of Joanna "la Beltraneja," Henry IV's (probable) daughter, and his half-sister Isabel. Our Marquis, Juan Pacheco, originally sided with Joanna. 

Back in Villena, one of the Marquis's relations—Pedro Pacheco—was the warden of the castle there. He gathered together a bunch of people who had allegiance to the Marquis. The story goes that many of these people had converted from Islam or Judaism to Christianity to hang on to their wealth. They were not well liked by old established Christian families—to keep sides clear I'll call the people in the castle the New Christians. Meanwhile, the general population of Villena, the people in the town, or the Old Christians—had decided to side with Isabel and against Joanna and the Marquis.

As things came to a head, the New Christians planned to attack the Old Christians as they went to Sunday Mass. The plot was discovered as was the agreed signal that would tell the New Christians when to attack—the ringing of a bell five times. When the Old Christians heard that bell they knew what was coming. They were ready and armed to the teeth. There was a pitched battle in the streets of the Villena and nearly all the New Christians were slaughtered. Somehow Juan Pacheco managed to wheedle out of having backed the wrong side when Isabel finally came to power and hung on to his wealth and lands.

And to remember that fateful day the Santa María Church in Villena is unique in Spain in sounding the bell five times for Mass. Apparently it's usually three.

Oh, and the other Marquis of Villena I mentioned—the dictionary-writing one—also initially picked the wrong side when the Spanish crown was up for grabs again during the War of Succession (1701–1714). He supported the Austrian claim rather than the, finally victorious, French one. Like his ancestor though, he somehow sidled out of that disgrace.

As usual with these legends there is a lot of contradictory information. I tried to pick my way through it but do be aware that this account may be complete rubbish.

Les Velles de Sèrra

I don't think I'm unusual in keeping my diary on Google calendar. It reminds me of the repetitive jobs, it reminds me of important appointments and it reminds me of birthdays. In fact it's probably one of the main banes of my life with its constant nag, nag nag. I also use the diary to jot down something interesting that I've missed. In that case I put a note to myself, at some appropriate time in the future, to check the details/dates/blood type of the missed event so that I catch it this time around. 

A reminder turned up a couple of weeks ago that said check Les Velles de Sèrra in Elche. So I did. There were several newspaper articles and bits on websites that talked about reviving this ancient tradition. It turned out to be a bit like the scarecrow competitions in the UK or Día de la Vieja in el Cantón with large dolls or mannequins dotted around the streets. In the case of the Velles these were, apparently, mannequins set in a tableau with some sort of commentary on modern life.

I couldn't find any specific information beforehand on where the mannequins were but, when I left home, some 45 kms from Elche, I was optimistic that they would be in central locations. Luckily for us, as we turned up just after 2pm the tourist office was still open. I asked, in Spanish, if there was any information, specifically a map of locations, for Les Velles de Serra. Now my Valenciano is weak to non existent so I had no idea how to pronounce Velles de Serra and the woman behind the desk obviously thought I was asking about the Valencian Fallas which, in Valenciano, are Falles

"Ah, no", said the woman, "They're in Valencia, not here." "No, what I'm after are these scarecrow type dolls that are in the streets here today" "Ah, Velles, no, those came and went." "I don't think so, I'm pretty sure that they are today, I've read a couple of articles that say they happen today until 5pm." At this point the woman checks her computer, "Quite right, today." (Knowing that this is a stupid question) "Do you have a map or a website address with locations?" "I don't think so but my colleague who is in the bathroom at the moment may know." The colleague, a man, joins us. He tells me that I missed them, the Velles that is. The woman puts him right and tells him that the computer says they are on today. He suddenly remembers that he saw some of the mannequins in a school yard this very morning. "They may be on in the centre, or el Raval," he says. I ask him if there are any repetitive locations. He says no. I ask where el Raval is. The woman draws a circle on the map. Thank you, very kind, I say.

We walked around the centre by the Basilica, by the Town Hall, in the old Flower Market. We walked around the central bits of el Raval. We had a coffee in el Raval, the server had never heard of Les Velles de Serra. As hope faded and we headed back towards the parked car, by a purposely circuitous route, I noticed some mannequins outside a shop. The sign with them started with "Che" which I'm pretty sure is a very common sentence starter in Argentina. Good to see the Argentinians keeping their end up for a bit of ilicitano culture. Only a couple of hundred yards further on we found another mannequin tableau about the recent floods in Valencia and this one had a woman guarding it. She told us there were 36 sets of monigotes spread across the city but she didn't know where they were except that some were in some schools.

A bit of a disaster really then. Or maybe it was a triumph in that we found any. Either way the gap between promotion and information seemed somewhat surprising.

On fish 'n' chips

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, young people wearing sports clothes, with modern haircuts and rings in their noses were were talking about looking forward to a decent cup of tea and ginger nuts, or maybe chocolate digestives. I felt welcomed by that conversation.

One thing I always appreciate in the UK is about being able to speak English. Even if the person I'm talking has a different heritage I'm confident enough of my English to find it easy going. There are always new constructions, new words and new phrases that I've never heard before but it's simple enough to catch on to most and I can always ask if I don't know. I can overhear conversations without listening in and I can gauge whether making a comment on that overheard conversation is appropriate or not. I'm still miles from that confidence with Spanish.

Like all tourists some of my main interactions in the UK are with places selling food and drink and with a different range of prices. Paying upfront before someone pours my tea or prepares my Kurdish breakfast is still a bit surprising even if I've adapted to paying for the smallest item with a card or with my phone. I suspect that I will never adapt to drinking through a plastic lid atop a cardboard cup while crockery still exists. I was also surprised this time that I needed to keep my coat on in so many under heated caffs and pubs presumably as a response to high energy prices.

I talk to a woman called Ana most weeks through a video call. I speak to her in Spanish and I was telling her about my trip. I was saying to her that my Britishness still jars with Spain from time to time. I was mainly thinking about my little verbal asides. For instance, only a week ago I was trying to buy a flat hose. The sort of hose pipes they have rolled up in a wired glass cupboard that say Fire Dry Riser. I went to the two agricultural supply stores that we have in Pinoso. It was pretty obvious, after the response in the first, that they wouldn't have one in the second so, when the woman said, "No, sorry," I wasn't surprised and quipped "What a shame, I so wanted to play at firemen." The woman serving on looked at me like I was a blathering idiot - and it wasn't my Spanish. I've been told that it's nothing to do with Britishness and that it's just that I'm a bit odd in my verbal ad libbing. In my defence I'd give the example that last Monday, when I joined the end of the "Non Priority" queue at Stansted Airport to get on a Ryanair plane, I asked a woman if she were the back of the steerage queue. She understood, she smiled a little, she didn't think I was blathering. 

Ana said she understood the steerage line too. To emphasise the differences I then repeated most of the stuff I've written in the last few lines - drinking through plastic from cardboard cups, paying for the smallest item with a credit card, living off takeaway food and ordering up an Uber. She said that those things were dead normal to her life in the Barcelona area where she lives. Alright I said, and I told her the hosepipe story. She laughed which rather confounded my theory of a different sense of humour. Finally, I said about the insecurity of speaking Spanish as against English and she told me that was nothing to do with my level of language competence but because I was a big baby.

Maybe lots of the difference I think of as a British/Spanish thing are more between the bits of England I visit and the Spain I live in. After all home is an almost unpopulated satellite village of a small town which is still, very much, in a bit of a time warp. 

Just after that video call I was listening to a podcast from a bloke called Ben, who lives in Madrid. He was talking about going out for a menu del día, the cheap lunchtime set menus so typical of Spain. He was talking about how the food was usually traditional offerings. He obviously felt the need to be a bit more precise about that. He went on to say that nowadays Madrid is rapidly losing the traditional places and is full of fast food and restaurants offering cuisine from all over the world - not just the long established Italian and Chinese places but lots of South American, Eastern European, Middle East and Asian restaurants. That's exactly what I'd seen on Mill Road in Cambridge the other day. Then, for good measure he mentioned the "midday pause" the two or three hours that businesses close in large tracts of Spain, and how that too was now very much a thing of the past in the big cities.

Oh well, what do I know.

Ouch!

You may have noticed that the tagline at the top of this blog has changed. It used to say old, fat, white haired. Through absolutely no effort on my part I've lost a fair bit of weight. In fact so much so that there was some doubt about whether my feeding tube could be removed today. Patri, the nutritionist, obviously thinks I'm not making enough effort to pile in those calories. I'd like to think it was my vivid description of what I'd eaten on the tapas trail in Yecla yesterday or the slightly inflated description of the nature of Shepherd's Pie, which swung the balance. Actually it probably wasn't as my Spanish was particularly stumbling and faltering today. 

The nutritionist didn't remove the plumbing herself. She had to call for a doctor. I could see why. It was specialist work. The tube I've had in since August last year looked exactly like that clear plastic stuff that blows bubbles in home aquariums. The tube was about 30 cms long had a junction at the end with a couple of hard plastic screw caps where I connected the bags loaded with liquid food and where I had connected syringes to push clean water into my stomach. At first the water was a way of keeping me hydrated and later it was just to keep the pipework clean. There was a plastic clip halfway up the tube to help make sure my stomach contents didn't leak all over the floor if I forgot to tighten up the plastic caps. Up against my stomach there was a plastic disc about 2 cms across to stop the tube sliding back inside my guts. Apparently inside my stomach there was a smaller plastic disc up against the inner wall. Getting the tube fitted had been a full on affair - pre-ops, general anaesthetic, mob handed operating theatre - the works. I guess they made a hole in my stomach and then pushed the smaller, interior, disc through the hole a bit like a button in a buttonhole. As the wound healed it closed around the tube; I suppose.

So the doctor comes in, says hello, checked I'd not eaten a hearty breakfast and tells me he's going to tug the tube out - it may hurt a bit he quipped. He wrapped the tube around his hand and jerked. Ouch. Ah, it didn't come out. I'll have another go. Jerk. Ouch. Hmm, I think we might have to find another solution. I'll have one last go. Jerk. Ouch. It's out. The nutritionist mopped up the blood from the wound and put a couple of those steri-strips, on to hold it together then a big dressing over the top and, a few moments later, I was on my way. The first time I've not had some sort of plumbing dangling from me in months.

The Town Council in Pinoso

One nice thing about living in a small Spanish town is that it's pretty easy to be on nodding terms with most of the local councillors. Not that it's really such a great thing but at least it means you can appear integrated when you have visitors from the old country. I often think it must be quite difficult for them, the councillors that is, not the visitors, because they have no easy escape. I saw one councillor, for instance, obviously in a hurry and trying to buy a couple of things from a local supermarket yet he was being harangued by someone, most forthrightly, about something. 

There are thirteen councillors in Pinoso. As with all Spanish municipalities the number of councillors is determined by population. The way it's done, in most, is that there are population bands that determine the number of councillors. Pinoso has between 5,001 and 10,000 inhabitants so it gets thirteen councillors just like Banyeres de Mariola with a population of 7,255 people. It's always an uneven number. Madrid has fifty seven, a village with a population under one hundred gets three.

At the moment all of Pinoso's councillors are from political parties with a national presence. In the past some councillors were from local parties. The Socialists, the PSOE, Partido Socialista Obrero Español is in power with eight councillors and a clear majority. The centre right Partido Popular, the Popular Party, has three councillors and the extreme right, VOX, has two councillors. 

The voting system in Spain is based on political parties and lists. Each party puts forward a list with sufficient names to cover all the potential seats up for grabs often with a couple of supplementary names that may provide a bit of extra publicity. At the national level the party will put its "stars" at the head of lists in different locations. At the local level that list of names will be known to a lot of the electorate. At the regional and national level it's very unlikely that most people will know anything about the people on the list with the possible exception of that first, star, name. Only the politically very aware will know anyone further down the list. Who gets elected depends on a complicated mathematical formula that is designed to provide a form of proportional representation based on the votes cast. This means that the voting pattern in the local and national elections can be quite different because people choose to vote for the party nationally and for people they trust locally. For instance, last time around, in 2023, there were local and general elections but at different times. The hypothetical makeup of the Pinoso Town Council, based on the General Election results, would have seen the PP in power with seven seats. PSOE would have got four and VOX, two instead of the actual PSOE majority.

The term of office for a council is four years. The last elections were in 2023 and the next ones will be on Sunday May 23rd 2027. When the councillors have been elected the council meets to elect a mayor. If one party has a clear majority then it will usually elect the mayor. Where no one party is able to govern alone the parties horse trade until they have the necessary majority to elect a mayor and to form the governing council. In Pinoso with the clear PSOE majority the party elected Lázaro Azorín as Mayor. Once the makeup of the council is known then the councillors in the ruling party, or coalition, are given various responsibilities - education, health, employment etc. I've put the list with the current councillors and their responsibilities at the bottom. Some of the responsibilities were difficult to translate into English.

Lázaro, the mayor, has a second job, he's also a PSOE Diputado in the Congreso de los Diputados in Madrid. For we Britons he's the equivalent of an MP. Lázaro was number five on the PSOE's list for the 2019 General Election as a potential diputado from Alicante. The PSOE won sufficient proportion of the votes in the province for them to send four deputies to Madrid. Later, when the head of the list, Pedro Duque, Science Minister and ex astronaut, resigned (for tactical voting reasons in parliament) Lazaro, as next name on the list, became an MP. In the 2023 elections Lazaro was number three on the lists and he was elected on the proportion of the vote won by his party.

It is the council itself that decides on the payment levels, expenses etc. for the various councillors, though there are guidelines to avoid profiteering. I kept a note of the salaries reported after a council meeting in 2023. I wanted to make sure I was fair in mentioning those salaries here but I cannot find any reference to salary on the labyrinthine Pinoso Town Hall website. There's a section on the website called municipal transparency, transparencia municipal, but I find it somewhat less than transparent! Anyway, given that this information will probably have changed over the intervening years, and given that it may never have been correct, you should take this information as potentially inaccurate. I think that four of the councillors get paid a full salary, for a full working week, and four get paid a partial salary, equivalent to working about 10 hours per week. The full time salaries range from a bit above 48,000€ down to a bit below 34,000€ with the partial contracts paying around 11,000€ per year. 

So far as I know Lazaro waived his salary as mayor because he gets paid as a diputado. Actually he gets paid less as an MP than he would as mayor (a diputado gets a bit below 44,000€ a year according to Perplexity.ai) but they also get tax free expenses of around 24,000€ a year if their "constituency" is outside Madrid and quite a few other perks from taxi allowances to travel costs. Again, according to Perplexity.ai most common or garden MPs get paid between 4,000€ and 5,000€ per pay cheque remembering that, in Spain, most workers get 14 payments in a year.

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Pinoso Town Council

Lázaro Azorín Salar: Mayor.

Silvia Verdú Carrillo: Culture and Youth, Staff, Treasury, Education, Waste, Agriculture, Police, Civil Protection and Traffic, Forestry and Quarries

María José Moya Vidal: Social Services, Equality and LGTBI+, Protocol, Health, Pinoso Social and Health Associations, Local Media

César Pérez Cascales: Senior Citizens, Archive and Library, Heritage and Historical Memory, Foreigners, Citizen Participation, Social and Health Care Collectives

Neus Ochoa Rico: Local development, Tourism, Trade and Commerce, Markets and Consumer Affairs, Cleaning of Public Buildings 

José Ángel Pérez Verdú: Parks and Gardens, Outlying Settlements, Roads, Water and Water Resources, New Building, Technology and Street Cleaning

Elisa Santiago Tortosa: Fiestas

Raúl Pérez Albert: Cemetery Industry, Housing, Street Lighting and Urban Development

2024 Population in Pinoso

This was such an obvious blog, but one that had been published on the various Pinoso Town Hall websites, that I decided not to do it. Then, in casual conversation to Maggie I mentioned that it was easy to remember that there are now 345 Dutch and Belgian people in Pinoso (it's a topic of conversation amongst the Brits here, the obvious increase in the numbers of these two nationalities). She replied that she'd seen the article but not really taken it in. So, I decided to take the easy blog.

Pinoso had, at the close of 2024 a population, according to the statistical department of Pinoso Town Hall, of 8,836 people or maybe 8,846 (as the various figures in their article don't quite add up) but we're only talking about 10 people so I've used the higher figure to work out the figures in the next two sentences. Of that population 6,758 are Spanish (76%) and 2,078 people are foreigners (24%). There are 3426 Spanish men, 1039 foreign men, 3342 Spanish women and 1039 foreign women. The figures do not include the possibility of someone choosing not to be classed as male or female. The foreigners include people from 65 nationalities though four countries - Japan, Gambia, Yemen and Zimbabwe - only have a single, I hope not too lonely, representative here.

The biggest group of immigrants is still we Britons (801) followed by Moroccans (235), Dutch (210), Belgians (135), Rumanians (81), Ukrainians (64), Irish (43), Germans (38), Chinese (28), Polish (27), Algerians (25), Bulgarians (22), Italians (21) and Pakistanis (20). 

I think I should mention, because someone said it against one of the Facebook entries, that there are quite a few Canadians!

The last time I did this, at the start of 2022 (so 2021 figures), there were 56 different nationalities living in Pinoso. At that time the UK was way out in front with 835 people or nearly 10% of the population, the next most numerous group were Moroccans with 199 people. There were 71 Dutch, 69 Belgians, 66 Rumanians, 51 Ukrainians and 41 Ecuadorians. 

Atishoo!, atishoo!

On a Tunisian holiday we ate lots of carrots and lots of strawberries. They were in season, they were cheap, they were tasty so the hotels bought barrow loads of them for their guests. It's the same with lots of garden crops. They come in shedloads, all at once. Suddenly you have cherries or plums or green beans coming out of your ears. With us it was only ever figs. We've never done well with our garden - most things are early for the next extinction event. The figs were an exception but most of our garden is either dead or dying. We had three trees: two big ones and a smaller one. The big ones produced two crops a year. I mean, seriously, in the UK I'd occasionally see figs in Waitrose and buy them as a bit of a novelty. It was a novelty that lasted for maybe half a dozen figs over a couple of weeks. What does any individual do with thousands of figs? There are only so many jars of fig jam or fig and cheese starters that any one person can eat and most of the possibilities make little economic sense - fig wine in an area awash with proper wineries? You can't even give them away because everyone else has mounds of figs too that they are fed up of freezing and pairing with cheese.

So most of the figs would fall on the ground and had to be raked up. They overpowered the compost bin. It was the same with the autumn leaves. I know we're not supposed to rake leaves up anymore, pile them around tree roots and what not, leave them to mulch down, but these big trees produced knee deep leaves. And fig trees grow quickly. They produce a lot of new wood each season so they'd have to be pruned and what's to be done with all those lopped branches?

I do most of the graft in the garden but it's Maggie who takes any notice of it. She'll try new plants, new flowers, she'll harvest any crop there is and put it to use. I just prune, weed, rake, dig, hoe, curse and bleed. One day Maggie asked me if I'd noticed the white spots on the fig leaves. I hadn't. It turned out they were Cerosplastes rusci, sometimes called wax scales; here they are known as cochinilla. 

When I looked closely all three of our trees had these parasites on the leaves and bark, sucking away on the sap from the trees. At the local agricultural suppliers I only had to say the word higuera (fig tree) and the bloke was reaching for some sort of chemical to see them off. He told me that the chemicals weren't particularly toxic for humans,  so anyone could use them, but he recommended overalls, a hat, goggles and facemask while I sprayed. Each tree needed about 30 litres of two different chemicals. It was August and it was quite hot inside a boiler suit, a woolly hat, goggles and facemask especially with each backpack full of insecticide weighing in at close on 20 kilos. At the start it wasn't too bad but by the end, determined to finish in one fell swoop, I was swaying gently and on the point of collapse. I was probably quite close to being one of those four line stories on the National TV news, slightly longer on the local radio, about some sixty odd year old dying from heat exhaustion.

For a while the trees seemed to be saved. They recovered, they gave fruit, the leaves stopped dropping off and then, suddenly, one of the trees tree just lost the will to live. It died in a couple of weeks. I lopped off all the really weighty branches and left it as a climbing frame for the cats. Later it became a support for the solar powered fairy lights that Maggie likes to festoon the building with. It wasn't till a couple of seasons later that I noticed cracks in the trunk and branches of the other tree, boreholes and all sorts of signs that the tree was doomed. The destruction wreaked by the tiny parasites is truly incredible.

So the two big fig trees were now dead. Again, with the second one I lopped off lots of branches to leave it looking like one of those John Ford Sonoran cactus. Stark.

There was a bit of wind a couple of weeks ago. As always it blew some chairs over, whirpooled leaves into mounds in certain spots of the garden. The wind also blew the first fig tree down. 

I sawed, I spent ages splitting the trunk with steel wedges to make the remains manageable enough to cart away to a large pile of garden waste that I'm unsure what I'm going to do with. Probably it will go the way of the supposed witch in that Monty Python sketch - well it might when the controls on garden fires are eased up.

Tax and minimum wage - today's news

Something in today's news about income tax completely flummoxed me. I think I've got it worked out now. I may be wrong so don't take my ramblings as gospel but I thought you may be interested too.

The current Spanish Government is a coalition. That coalition can usually garner support from other parties to approve its legislation, but not always. Today, one of the news stories was about a row within the two parties that make up the Government. Yolanda Diaz, from SUMAR, has done a deal with the Unions to put the minimum wage up to 1,184€ per month. Because there are 14 payments in the Spanish year that's a total income of 16,576€ per year. At the moment the minimum wage is 15,876€. Yolanda Diaz also pushed through legislation which dropped the working week from 40 hours to 37.5 hours for the same pay. The majority party in Government, the Socialists or PSOE, argue that, as the minimum wage is now a reasonable income, it should be taxed like other incomes. SUMAR argues that as it is still a low income the workers on it should be offered more protection. In recent years the minimum wage has been exempt of the IRPF or income tax.

This news confused me because I know that Spanish income tax (IRPF) is paid in earnings bands with different percentage rates. The lowest rate, on taxable income between 1€ and 12,450€, is 19%. The next band goes from 12,450€ and 20,200€. The tax on that is 24%. There are other tax bands, the highest is for incomes of 300,000€ or more which are taxed at 47%. If the lowest tax rate was 19%, and that applied from the first euro earned, how could a wage be tax exempt?

I also knew that there were tax allowances. For someone under 65 it's 5,550€, increasing to 6,700€ for over 65s and 8,100€ for the over 75s. There are other tax allowances too, for dependants and for married couples. The bit I didn't know was that if the total taxable income was below the minimum wage then there was no tax to be paid at all. Even now that seems a bit odd as it clashes with the idea of the various tax bands.

And that's the change. Presuming that the legislation goes through, in the tax year 2025 even the people on minimum wage will be taxed. As we are just about to have the pleasure of paying our tax bills for the tax year 2024 the rest of this explanation uses 2024 as an example.

1. Exemption for incomes below the minimum wage

Individuals earning up to the annual minimum wage do not have to pay IRPF. In 2024, this exemption threshold was set at 15,876€, equivalent to the annual minimum wage. So, people on low incomes, particularly those earning at or below the minimum wage, are not subject to income tax.

2. The 19% Tax Band

The first €12,450 of taxable income is subject to a 19% tax rate under Spain's sliding scale tax system. Taxable income is calculated after subtracting personal allowances (the 5,550€ and so on) and other deductions. Because of the personal allowances and the exemption for incomes below the minimum wage, many low-income earners do not reach the taxable income level where this 19% rate applies.

3. How the exemption and the 19% tax band Interact

There is an apparent dichotomy which arises because the 19% tax band starts at €0. In practice, no one pays this rate on their first €12,450 of gross income unless their earnings exceed both the personal allowance and the minimum wage.

For instance: A worker earning €15,876 (the minimum wage in 2024) would subtract their personal allowance (€5,550 for someone under 65), leaving a taxable income of €10,326. Since this taxable income is below the exemption threshold (€15,876), they pay no IRPF.

If their gross income exceeded the exemption threshold, for instance if they earned €16,000, they would begin paying IRPF on their taxable income above €5,550. That would mean they would have 10,450€ of taxable income. That figure falls within the 19% tax band (which goes up to 12,450€) so they would pay 1,985.50€ in taxes. (10,450 x 19%)

You can see that, in this case, a small increase in gross pay produces a significantly increased tax bill.

You can also see that there are two possible arguments about whether people should pay tax on their total income or not. The one that has won, at the moment, the PSOE one, is that the personal allowances and the tax bands provide a fair taxation system without needing any extra protection for those on the lowest wages. The PSOE reckons that only about 20% of the people on minimum wage will pay any tax in 2025 and those will generally be single people without dependants.