Books, bookshops and libraries

Once upon a time we lived in Ciudad Rodrigo in the province of Salamanca more or less on the border with Portugal. It was a lovely spot but it was a long way from home and, to be honest, it was a long way from anywhere. Our nearest hypermarket was about 120kms away in Salamanca City and the nearest Mini dealer was in Portugal.

At the time I commented on the difficulty of buying a book in a bookshop in Spain. Since then I have bought and read quite a few books in Spanish and I usually have a list of books that I want to read; I am catching up on a culture after all. The routine now, when I go into a bookshop, is to have a quick look where I think the book may be, and then, when it isn't, summon up my courage and ask.

I wanted to take a couple of books on holiday. I'd heard a programme on the radio about an author called Carmen Laforet and one of hers sounded good. We were going to an area in Spain called the Alcarria and there was another book, written in the 1940s by Camilo José Cela, about a chap wandering that area. It sounded good too. 

Both Cela and Laforet are famous, if a little old fashioned, in the Aldous Huxley, George Orwell or Virginia Woolf sort of way. I didn't have sufficient time for an Internet order and the p+p makes that an expensive option anyway. I tried our local newsagent cum bookshops and, predictably, they didn't have the books though both were willing to order them. Instead I diverted a little from one of our trips down to the coast and went to Alicante. I tried Fnac, Casa del Libro and el Corte Inglés - all three big booksellers - and manged to get one of the two. I tried again in Segovia and Aranjuez and nearer to home in Monóvar. In each case asking for the book caused either shelf rummaging or several minutes of computer tapping. In Segovia I had three people working for me for a few moments. They were only slightly less in the dark about where the book may be on the shelves than I was. No book.

Holiday over I checked the online library database and found that Pinoso library had the Cela book so, when they re-opened after fiestas, I popped in. The book was on the shelves, in fact it's been there since 1958 and it was a little worse for wear. Nonetheless, it still had legible printed words on a page and did the trick nicely.

Not too long ago, on the telly, there was a campaign to promote reading amongst the young. The slogan was something like "If you read, they'll read." Those parents are going to need a lot of staying power to get hold of the books they want if my experience is anything to go by.

Snuggly and warm

Would I lie? The knife stall.

The fair and fiesta in Pinoso runs from the 1st of August for nine or ten days. When I suggested that the event was getting quieter each year and perhaps, not so important in the lives of Pinoseros as it once was a young woman, born in the UK but bred in Spain, was quick to reprimand me for my disloyalty in a "Go Home Limey!" sort of way.

Officially the fair and fiesta aren't yet underway. The official opening, the pregon, a sort of opening speech, will happen on Monday evening. But, weekends are weekends, and last night the stalls and fairground rides were in full swing.

The town's equivalent of running with the bulls, a sort of chase and be chased by a small terrified bullock around some waste ground, took place for the first time this year, or at least I understand it did, fortunately for both my boredom and cruel stupidity tolerance thresholds I wasn't there. Later the new Carnival Queens and their entourages were crowned in a ceremony that seemed to last for an eternity. As we strolled around the stalls and fairground rides the crowds seemed pretty sparse to me. We could have chosen to sit at almost any of the food and drink establishments from the 5€ bargain specials to the upmarket shining crystal and linen napkin places.

So it wasn't the heart racing, non stop fun event we may have hoped for. There was an odd thing though. We started by the Town Hall. "Nice lights," said Maggie - "not as good as the lanterns but better than last year." We said hello to someone we knew. Later, as we bumped into the first of the stalls and the commentary started - aah, I see the pots and pans man is here, and the knife stall. We avoid the free samples at the "Mr Galicia" ham and cheese stall and consider, for at least the sixth year, whether we should buy a grilled corn cob, the white chocolate crepe was my first. We have comments about so many of the stalls and bars - not there, they overcharge at fiesta time, that bloke with the waffles always plays heavy metal - what a character, crikey that Peruvian man's hair is even longer than last year but he looks so much older, look the jewellery stall isn't here - I wonder if she died, she was knocking on a bit, no way! - the chips are always cold and expensive there.

We've strolled those stalls a lot over the past seven years; we're old hands. Gently re-assuring in a small town sort of way.

The bin men cometh

On the track that runs besides our house there is a big green dustbin. As in all Spain there is no door to door rubbish collection in Culebrón. We take our rubbish to the nearest container and the bin lorries come and empty them.

In towns there is a daily collection often in the dead of night but in sunny Culebrón the lorry comes around two in the afternoon twice a week. Today was the one of those days - the other is Monday. Effective little service.

Fiestas again

Friday evening. With this solemn act I now declare the 2011 Culebrón Fiesta open. Thus saying Inma popped a couple of ice cubes into a plastic glass ready for the vermouth. Inma is our "mayoress" and it was fiesta weekend. Blow the ceremony - on with the party. Drinking vermouth, a traditional local drink, was the kick off. The event was a bit of a damp squib because it rained. Rain in July in Spain. Mind you María Luisa kept us entertained.

Next we had the big race. Saturday morning. Five and a half kilometres of either walking or running. Two separate starts half an hour apart but the first runner home was only seconds behind the first walker. There was a little lad walking home swinging his hips, like someone from a "Carry On" film, apparently in second place but as soon as he crossed the line the judges disqualified him; they said he'd run. It was odd, hundreds of people there but hardly any of the usual suspects from the village.

Gachamigas are poor people's food. Flour, water, garlic and oil traditionally cooked in a big deep frying pan and tossed like pancakes. There was a gachamigas competition as part of the do so we expected to find a few people cooking around open fires but instead we encountered a picnic. We'd eaten at home and we hadn't taken any food or drink. We were invited to almost every table for a drink and a bite to eat. We felt like spongers. Maggie spent some time talking to and eating with people up from Alicante to visit relatives but we really sat with Enrique and Victoria's family. Good choice as Enrique's gachamigas carried off the first prize.

Missed the football competition but we were back for the evening meal. No main dish this time just lots of little snacklets - maybe not the best food we've ever had in the village but good company and a good event. Luisa made us feel particularly welcome. The Mayor and a few other politicians from Pinoso are always invited to the meal at each of the village fiestas and it was good to see new faces there after the PSOE victory back in May. Eli, who I once worked with and who is now a councillor, introduced me to Lázaro the new Mayor. I like that sort of thing.

We were too lazy to turn out for the hot chocolate and sweet bread on Sunday morning but being so devoutly religious we were back for the Sunday mass. The fiestas are for our patron saint, St. James, so I suppose the mass and procession were, technically, the main event of the weekend but my reason for turning out was that I'd been asked to take a few snaps. The photos weren't good - always a stray tractor in the background or a telegraph pole out of someone's head. It was a chilly evening. Eli, processing with the other politicians, commented on the coolness. "Well, it is July," I said. The look on her face suggested that she misinterpreted my English humour for a linguistic failing.

So that's it then. All over. The village can get back to normality. Definitely the village fiesta at which I have felt most welcome since we first arrived here. People were uniformly kind and friendly. Smashing.

Down the village on a warm summer's evening

20€ a year to join the Village Association. A bargain. Subsidised meals, sometimes a trip and the always enjoyable AGM where nothing gets done and nothing is resolved.

This is the best though. The meal the weekend before the Fiesta. The food is sometimes good and sometimes ordinary. Sometimes I feel to be a part of what's going on and sometimes I feel like an outsider. But whatever happens, for me, it is the quintessential image of summer in the village. Much more intimate than the Fiestas, so much more Spanish than the November meal

The neighbours are there. It's warm. The lights are strung up from the village hall. There is hubbub as everyone talks and laughs and drinks and eats and comes and goes. A little oasis of people enveloped by the dark summer evening.

Even when I don't enjoy it I appreciate it and last night I did both.

Así es

Someone recommended a book to me but, as it had been written at the turn of the 19th Century, and as it wasn't one book but a whole series I decided that the library was the best option.

My library card had expired so I expected to have to re-enrol. I took a new photo and all the documentation I thought may be necessary, sheaves of the stuff. Well, actually, I forgot the library card on the kitchen table at home!

"You may think your card has expired but it's not quite true we just keep renewing them," said the librarian. I asked if I could borrow a book as I didn't have the card - "No problem" she said. We dug out the book I wanted. The binding and typeface were very 19th Century. The librarian was sure she had a more modern version but the only one she found was a reference book - not for loan. "Don't worry" she said "We can jump that little rule." She wrote the return date on a Post It, in pencil, and stuck it over the reference only sticker. The return date is during the town's fiestas so I asked about returning the book. "Don't worry," she said, "a few days over won't hurt:"

Large library book under my arm I went to the local driving school to ask them to exchange my UK driving licence for a Spanish one. It's about time. The process was fast, efficient and reasonably expensive (75€.) "How long do you think it will take?" I asked "Well, it's summer, don't expect too much to happen before September," said the man.

And the sun's shining, and I'm on holiday - what more could one soul ask for?

In a bad mood

I'm going to complain about Spaniards, or rather about Spanish behaviour, so, if you're Spanish and you're easily offended this is one entry to skip.

We were in the Mercadona supermarket car park in Yecla. It's a tricky little car park, all wrong angles and sturdy pillars. As we stowed away our purchases I noticed that the car across the way was getting ready to leave. Another car turned the corner and could easily have waited for us both to go - reversing lights and open doors on the car were a dead give-away as to our intentions. But no, this bloke couldn't possibly wait a few seconds to make it easier for him and easier for us. He had to plough on blocking both of us from leaving. As the newcomer began to manoeuvre into the free space next to me he was within centimetres of bumping into my car. I didn't know where the horn was but I found it just in time. He decided to do a circuit and let us both go.

A little later we were at the "Feria de la Tapa" - lots of stalls selling lots of snacks. Spaniards and eating definitely go together. I usually enjoy the crowds, the life, the hustle and bustle but today it just seemed that everyone was determined to slam into me. I was standing quietly at a counter waiting to get some michirones. I wasn't looking forward to asking, I was sure that, given my mood even the simplest phrase would elude me and I was cross with myself because of that. Suddenly a fat, fifty something woman purposely barged into me in an attempt to get past me and to the front. I repulsed the first onslaught and with a quick shoulder movement sent her staggering backwards. She just picked the wrong moment. She's probably complaining on her blog about the rude foreigners as I type.

Obviously these are a couple of isolated events but I've been noticing a certain disregard for other people recently. For instance, years of training means that I tend to give way at doorways and hold doors open for people. It upsets me that Spaniards don't. It upsets me that, door in hand, people behind me take the opportunity to push past or that the person crossing the threshold decides to stop mid manoeuvre to turn and chat to their friend who is following behind. I learned years ago that Spaniards seldom say thank you for such a common courtesy but there is something extra disrespectful about being discourteous in the face of courtesy. It's the same on zebra crossings when people purposely dawdle as they cross - as though they are fingering their nose at you.

Maybe it is a difference between their tribe and mine or it could just be because I'm a grumpy old man who has been in a bad mood all day.

Bars again

Back at the end of 2009 the Government introduced some legislation which said that bars shouldn't be cooled below 26ºC in summer or heated above 21ºC in winter. Obviously the measure was designed to save power and to help reduce the country's carbon dioxide emissions.

I remember thinking at the time that 21ºC wasn't very warm. Spanish bars can be cold and unwelcoming spots in winter with their tiled floors, tiled walls, hard, unpadded chairs and open doors.

Fortunately the bar owners have taken no notice. Only the other morning I was warming my frozen hands around a hot cup of coffee in a nice warm bar and later mentioned to Maggie how much more comfortable bars are than they were only a couple of years ago. But now some consumer group has been going around stirring things up and publicising the fact that the bars are failing to stick to the law.

Killjoys.

Getting a hair cut

I popped into Alfredo's in Pinoso this morning to get a trim. I don't like it when the hair grows over my ears. Up to that point I don't really notice my hair except for thinking that it's very white. Alfredo does a perfectly decent job for a very reasonable 8€. The conversation usually centres on the weather and Cartagena.

As I waited an oldish chap pottered in and Alfredo called his dad to deal with his client. I watched and marvelled as with shaking hands he wielded the cutthroat and hair trimmer. A trust established over the years I suppose.

There's nothing special about a haircut in Spain. I've been to trendy haircutters here where they offer coffee and wash my hair before and after and where young women with piercings and low slung trousers quiz me carefully about the style I want before cutting my hair to look the same as it always does. I've been to lots of those nondescript places that once had pretensions to trendiness but where time and clients from the neighbourhood have taken the shine off. Mostly though I've gone to proper barbers where a middle aged man wearing a barber's smock talks about football, holidays and football. My regular barber in Ciudad Rodrigo was keen on politics. It's a while since I've been to Alfredo and it was nice to get back to normality.

A New Era

We haven't ventured out at all today but the next time we do it will all be different. From 2nd Jnauary the new anti tobacco law will be in place in Spain.

About five years ago a no smoking law was passed in Spain which made it illegal to smoke at work but gave public spaces, like bars, the option of being either smoking or non smoking within certain limits to do with the size of the space. It was all a bit of a mish mash and, basically, it meant that the vast majority of bars and restaurants remained smoky. Lots that tried to go no smoking saw their trade collapse and quickly went back to ashtrays on the bar and fag ends on the floor.

The new law is much more straightforward and says that nearly all enclosed public spaces will have to be smoke free. The terraces of bars continue to be smoker's havens but even there the definition of when a space is enclosed is quite strict and some of the more weatherproof terraces will be non smoking.

I know it's happened all over the World but Spain and smoky bars just seem to go together. It will be interesting to see whether there is any sort of revolt. We've certainly been in lots of bars that have no smoking signs all over the place but where the clientele have taken no notice at all. Years ago when Corte Inglés first went non smoking they had to use signs which said something like "No lighted cigarettes, pipes or cigars in this store" because so many smokers were arguing that they weren't smoking just carrying a fag or that the sign showed a cigarette and not a pipe etc.

You just know you'll be in California soon

Over the past couple of days we've passed the Giralda a couple of times, we've seen the Torre de Oro, the Maestranza bull ring, we've drunk sherry, eaten salmorejo and today we were in the Mezquita and on the Roman Bridge. For those of you who have as much trouble with geography as I do that means we've been in Sevilla and Cordoba; we're in Andalucia.

Andalucia is the part of Spain that provides all the tourist clichés - the swirly frocks, bullfighting, sherry, flamenco, prancing horses and castanets.

We were strolling the old streets of Cordoba, we weren't the only foreigners. In fact the visitors may well have outnumbered the home crowd. We passed a bar (something I try to avoid) and sounds of flamenco floated out into the street. For once we weren't put off by the little knot of people huddled around the door. We pushed through, leaned against the bar and listened as some old chaps passed the guitar between them and took turns strumming and wailing flamenco. Several of the crowd joined in. It was like being in Dingle without the Guinness or the fiddles!

Summer

Summer in Spain is an odd time. Whole towns and cities more or less close down. Rural villages fill up as people move to their country houses often inherited from relatives, now dead, who worked the land. Even the shops and offices that stay open generally change their opening times usually doing just the morning shift rather than re-opening after the long lunch break. All to avoid the heat.

Summer lasts two months, from the first of July to the thirty first of August. The Guardia Civil, who deal with traffic, mount special campaigns because there are so many traffic movements. Madrid, for instance, more or less empties its population to the various coasts and inland resorts. Once upon a time people would take a whole month off, more or less their whole holiday entitlement, but that seems to have become a couple of weeks in summer with the rest spread around the year particularly at Easter and Christmas. Spain is in the midst of a financial crisis so not everyone can get away but even then family visits and time with friends offer some compensation.

Fiestas, the local carnivals, are in full swing. They are everywhere. For instance today we could have gone to the big wine harvest celebration in Jumilla or to the much more modest events in la Romana, Chinorlet or Paredon all of which are only a few kilometres from home. There are lots more.

Our summer has been excellent. Maggie's teacher holidays are two full months and with me not starting work till September first I've been sunning myself too.

Apart from the week and a bit on the boat and the weekend in Castilla la Mancha we've not been away from home overnight but a quick skim of the photos shows that we've spent a lot of time doing this and that and we've seen a lot of friends.

Very nice.

International Day Against Noise

I didn't hear about this till it was too late. April 28th was the International Day Against Noise

The organisers of the day were very upset about the noise levels in Spain. They say that Spain is the second noisiest country in the World, after Japan.

I've heard that statistic before, in fact I've quoted it to Spaniards when we've been laughing about the noise levels in some Spanish bar or other. I wonder though how and where you measure noise levels? Is the noise level in a country, say Spain, made up of averaging out the noise levels in the centre of Madrid and atop Mulhacen or do only places with at least so much noise count?

It is absolutely true that Spanish people know how to make plenty of noise. Keeping quiet does not come easily or naturally to them. Their mopeds can be heard for miles. Their discussions about the qualities of this or that recipe carry through the walls of most flats. On the other hand I have often parked up somewhere to take a photo or to simply stare into the haze of a summer's day and been struck by the almost absolute silence of Spain - humming insects or the noises of the countryside toasting maybe but no human activity save my own.

Maybe those International Noise people should get out of town more often.

Dead in their beds

We moved into this house on 1 April 2005. Today I put up our very first smoke alarm. It was an advert on British TV the other night that made me think to get one. I'd have got more but they don't seem to be readily available in the shops

Smoke alarms and carbon monoxide monitors aren't exactly conspicuous fittings but I'm not sure that I've ever seen one in a private house here. Certainly there are none of those publicity campaigns to persuade people to buy and maintain them. It's a strange difference.

Perhaps Spanish houses don't burn or maybe because the majority of the windows in the majority of Spanish houses are barred people prefer to die in their beds silently slain by smoke, rather than to die scorched and screaming pinned flat against unyielding iron bars.