San Juan

The festival of San Juan is associated with midsummer and fire. In Alicante neighbourhood communities band together to employ craftspeople to build sculptures made from papier maché and other flamable materials which are set on fire to on the night of the 23/24 June.

Someone told me they will be burning about 18 million euros worth of sculptures this year. The fiesta starts a few days before.

John Moore and I went to Alicante to get a beer and to see what they were up to. Apart from hordes of people heading every which way we saw a parade as part of the "floral offering". The end of the procession for each person involves walking in one end of the Cathedral and out of the other and, as they do so, they hand over their flowers to a team of blokes who place them on a frame. The frame has a sort of pyramidal shape which,I think, ends up as a representation of the Virgin Mary - the colour of the flowers that each person carries is carefully orchestrated to provide the necessary colours for the final design.

Maggie phoned to say that her San Juan had been a bit different. As she was strolling home she realised that the local fire station was having an open day - the patron saint of firefighters, logically enough, is San Juan. She was offered the opportunity to slide down the pole but she politely declined!

Mind you, as I remember it, for the festival of San Juan in Santa Pola unmarried virgins have to wade into the sea and successfully leap nine simultaneous waves to capture a husband who will help them make a baby. I understand there are fewer and fewer participants each year.

In training

The national pastime for old men in Spain is to sit in the shade and natter. You can just make out a small lad sitting between two old chaps in this snap. Best to start the training young I suppose.

Apologies for the snap. I once read in a photography magazine that there are two ways to take a candid photo. You either sneak the picture somehow or you look fierce, as though you and the camera toughed it out in the last few days of Dien Bien Phu. I've never been to Vietnam hence the dodgy picture.

Summer at last

This was the sky over Culebrón today. Not a cloud, no rain, 30ºC. Miracle.

¡Published!

Until recently I went to a Spanish class at the local college. Every now and again we were given homework to write a short piece about something or other.

Somewhere else in this Blog are a couple of posts about the Adult Education Days where students from the various adult classes in the area come together and wander around the host town. As a part of those days the colleges club together and produce a little book.

One of my homework essays was printed as a part of that book so I can now claim to have been published in two languages as I had a couple of articles in MG magazines back in the UK and now this. Polyglot or what?

The big advantage is that most of you won't be able to read the drivel but, nonetheless, here it is:

Así es la Vida

Al chico nunca le gustaban los estudios pero era muy trabajador y durante su carrera universitaria, más o menos, vivía en las aulas y biblioteca de la universidad. Cada día solía estudiar hiciera sol o lloviera Quería sacar buenas notas, buscar un buen trabajo, llegar a ser rico y casarse con una chica guapa.

Un martes se encontró con una chica al otro lado de la estantería en la biblioteca de la universidad. Empezaron a hablar. Chismorrearon. Ligaron. Ella fingió timidez y él ser hombre del mundo.

El noviazgo no duró ni siquiera unos días. Cenaron en un restaurante de lujo debajo de la luna bebieron un lago de vino y coñac. Fue suficiente. El hombre la pidió matrimonio. Ella estaba un poco borracha; dijo sí.

Antes de tres semanas se presentaron en el altar de la iglesia parroquial. Él llevaba un traje y corbata prestado de su hermano. Ella parecía un merengue en un vestido hecho por su abuela. Se enlazaron.

Echaron un polvo un par de veces; eran jóvenes y aun no tenían muchos quehaceres en la casa y no había nada por la telé. De pronto llegaron los niños. ¡Tuvieron suerte y vinieron dos – los gemelos - ¡qué bendición! La pareja estaba muy contenta.

El varón intentó ser un buen marido - desempeñó su papel de nuevo hombre con gusto – cuidaba de los niños, barría el suelo y llevaba zapatillas para evitar traer el polvo de la calle a casa.

Los dos trabajaban muchas horas cada día, tenían que contratar a una niñera, nunca jugaban con los niños. Aunque la pareja llegó a ser más rica, y más bien vestida empezaron a discutir. Ya padecían la deuda de un pequeño país, tenían bastantes quehaceres en la casa y demasiado trabajo en la oficina, y no les quedaba suficiente tiempo, o deseo, para cuidarse, mimarse o hacer el amor de vez en cuando.

Un día la mujer se compró una ropa muy rara, un billete de avión al Caribe y se despidió de su marido y los gemelos con una sonrisa y un saludo con la mano

El hombre volvió a trabajar y, sentado en su sillón de ejecutivo empezó a buscar por Internet – necesitaba encontrar a una nueva mujer para cuidar de su casa, de los niños y de él.

Christopher Thompson
Castellano para extranjeros II

I have to say that I preferred lots of the others so, I thought, as I'm being even more self indulgent than usual, that I'd print one I liked here.

Una parada en Castilla la Mancha

Son las cuatro de la mañana. El autocar está aparcado fuera de una estación de servicio cerca de Albacete. La cafetería tiene un olor leve de vomito y lejía y está, más o menos desierta - hay una mujer en la caja, un hombre con una escoba y nosotros.

El hombre que estaba sentado a mi lado en el autobús podía ser etíope o somalí – tiene el aspecto de ser de aquella parte de África - pero como no habla ni castellano ni inglés nunca lo sabré. Hay marroquíes también – muchos marroquíes – y latinoamericanos, la mayoría ecuatorianos. En Albacete un hombre con gena en la barba y una de estas camisas largas, llevando el obligatorio chaleco de poliéster, bajó del autobús y desapareció en la noche. Y, por supuesto, hay unos españoles. Pero nadie me parece rico. De hecho la mayoría tiene un aspecto de pobreza - desaliñados y cansados. Como la regordeta que lleva los pantalones negros de esquiar, muy ajustados, tacones altos y complementos amarillos. Uno conjunto que grita “puesto de mercadillo”.

Por lo menos cuatro continentes – deriva continental.

Y yo, estoy aquí también, un mileurista, perdido en un país extranjero, otro inmigrante, los pobres que luchan para perdurar. A las cuatro de la madrugada en el autobús con rumbo a Madrid.

Food for thought

When it rains, and it has rained an awul lot over the past six weeks, these beasts break cover. And the locals go out, hunt them down and cook them for tea with a bit of rice and rabbit.

This one is safe though: he's on the top of our new compost bin.

More on quill pens

The bank said, finally, that Maggie and I could borrow money if we wanted to. The interest rate seemed OK to me, 1.75% above base rate but there is a set up fee, an administration fee and they are demanding that we take both the "in case of death" insurance and the "in case of dole" insurance. But, when all is said and done, that's just the way it's done here so no real complaints about any of that.

However, the loan agrement has to be notarised, goodness knows why, as the contract would still have the same force in law with or without the notary's stamp. Maybe it's just the mania that Spaniards have for rubber stamps. Even the lorry drivers, when they deliver things to the shop, are really concerned that I just sign the delivery notes rather than stamp them.

Anyway, so the contract needs notarising. I asked the bank how I did that as Maggie and I are seperated by some 750kms. Do we use a notary in each town for a signature, can the notary from one town confirm to the notary in the other town that everything is above board? Answer, no: there is no way, other than Maggie and I being in the same place as the Pinoso notary, for the contract to be notarised.

Scratch, scratch - pass the carbon paper and my powdered wig will you?

Trillas

This rather fearsome bit of wood is called a trilla. We have two or three of them in the workshop at the back of the shop and I was cleaning them up ready for sale.

The shape is a bit like a sledge or sleigh - narrower at the front than the back and with the front part curved up slightly - like Ali Ba-Ba slippers. Underneath there are rows of sharp flints hammered into the wood and, on the newer ones, there were a couple of serrated metal runners too. On top there are lots of hooks and fastenings so that the sledge can be fastened behind a cow, ox, horse, mule or donkey and dragged round and round your wheat harvest to smash it up on a hard circular surface. A farm worker would sit on a chair placed on top of the trilla to add a bit of weight and to guide the animals.Once the harvest was cut into little bits it was thrown into the air. The light stalks blow away and the heavy seed falls to the ground.

To be fair

I often complain about Alicante province. About the Town Halls that seem happy for constructors to pull down nice looking old buildings and replace them with concrete boxes. Anyway, today, I went for a bit of a drive round to cheer myself up. I went to Castalla and Biar, on to Onil, Alcoi, Tibi, Agost and back to home ground around Novelda and Petrer.

I'd forgotten just how breathtaking the scenery around here can be. I passed ripening wheat fields, olives, vines and cherry orchards, I went over at least one pass that was more than 800 metres high (Snowdon is about 200 metres higher) I drove through fog, hail and brilliant sunshine, I watched the steam rising off the tarmac as the rain hit it and I stopped for a couple of splendid coffees that cost less than a quid each. And Biar, as the snap shows, isn't all concrete boxes.

The Republican Heartland

I suppose that George Orwell gave me the idea that Catalunya was the heartland of the Republican cause in the Spanish Civil War and, as such was the last city to fall to the conquering rebel armies of General Franco. In fact Barcelona fell in early February 1939 and Madrid on March 27th. The last strongholds of the Republican Government were round here. Alicante went on 30th March and Murcia fell on the last day of the war on 31st March.

Someone had mentioned to me that, towards the end, several key Government figures, like Negrin (one time President) and Dolores Ibarruri "La Pasionaria" used a house about 10kms from Culebrón as their headquarters and that there was an old aerodrome and some underground bunkers on the same site. On the way home I stopped to take a few snaps. It looks as though someone is doing the house up.

Modern banking

The last time I remember getting a bank loan I was driving the MG across the fens when my mobile phone rang. They wanted to sell me some money, I wanted to buy some and five minutes later it was a done deal. Well they did send me papers to sign but basically it was done.

I wondered if we may be able to borrow money for the roof. So I went to the bank where we have an account. I wasn't actually asking for a loan just for the information about the possibility of a loan.

In order to do this both Maggie and I had to supply our annual tax declaration, two payslips, property deeds for the house and a signed declaration allowing a credit history search with the bank of Spain as well as the usual identity documents. All the documents had to be photocopied and for good measure they photocopied my contract as well. The decision will take a couple of days.

I'm told there will be a set up fee for the loan, as well as the obvious interest, and the contract for the loan will have to be notarised.

It feels a bit like there must be rooms full of men sitting at high desks with quill pens waiting to process the application.

Planning the fiesta

Someone had the good grace to invite me to the planning meeting for the village fiesta in July. I didn't feel much like going along as we'd just had the quotes for the roof and I was toying with the idea of downing a bottle of Scotch or two, but it seemed churlish not to try and do my bit.

There were about 20 people there and maybe five or six babies and children. Usual sort of meeting with more conversations than people, lapses into the local Valenciano language at machine gun speed for individual group discussions and lots of exchanges along the line of "Well Pepe's lad could do the tables - Silvia charged us too much last year" which obviously left me completely nonplussed as I don't know many names. I kept up for a while, I even wondered about making a suggestion or two but I was too scared to speak, and then of course I started to lose the thread - my thoughts drifted back to the whisky.

Recent experiences with attempting to participate in community meetings have all been pretty disastrous. I'm wondering if I shouldn't join the Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding brigade - stick with my own.