Preparing to die

We had a will written in the UK years and years ago. A really tall, avuncular chap did it for us. His office was like something from Dickens with big ticking clocks, overstuffed chairs, a leather trimmed desk and legal documents tied with ribbons. Leeds Day in St Ives.

Spanish inheritance law is quite keen on blood. Distant relatives outrank unmarried partners by miles. For years, several years, we have been going to get a Spanish will.

Last week we finally got to a solicitor, un abogado. The chap who talked to us wore jeans and a T shirt and looked significantly younger than some of the clothes I was wearing. There were no ticking clocks. "We're more your juvenle delinquent and petty thief office," said the boy lawyer. "One of our colleagues down in Alicante can come up and help you write a will but why don't you try the noatary? If your will isn't tricky they can do the job faster and cheaper than us."

Notary sounds really old fashioned to me. Like scriveners. Something to do with Guilds and quill pens. Notaries are busy people in Spain though. Their services are used all the time. The notary's office in Pinoso never seems to have sufficient waiting space and people lean against the walls clutching sheaves of paper.

We waded through the waiting throng and spoke above the insistent telephone to get ourselves an appointment. We didn't need the notary apparently. It was the notary's secretary for us. She started by asking for various ID documents. The rest was very strange. I think she described to us, though we may have given her some clues, more or less exactly what we had written down in our notes. We apparently want just about the most basic and straightforward will imaginable.

Our notarial representative said that she'd give us a bell when she had a first draft ready. I have high hopes that all we'll have to do is correct some of the spellings of the names and we will finally be rid of at least one of those recurring summer jobs.

The story of a summer day

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

And mention of the UK gives me the perfect cue.

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

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

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

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

Exponential

Maggie needed a new mobile phone. She lost her old number as a product of the house move back to Culebrón from Cartagena. We cobbled together a solution but when her HTC phone, which she has never taken to, started to have software problems she decided it was time to get a shiny new phone and  a brand new number.

The range of offers was bewildering. Contract or pay as you go. Real or virtual networks. Household names like Vodafone and Orange or newcomers like Pepephone? Eventually the choice was made about which phone and which set up.

There was a last minute scramble when the device they used in the Yoigo shop to scan identity documents wouldn't take a British passport. The passport was much thicker than the Spanish ID cards the scanner had been designed to cope with. Maggie's Spanish ID was no good as it didn't have a photo. They managed in the end though.

The thing that surprised me was the number. Spanish mobile numbers are nine figures long and begin with 6 whilst Spanish landlines are also nine numbers long and begin with a 9. Well, that's the general wisdom.

The mobile number assigned to Maggie begins with a 7. A new series. In Cartagena our landline number began with an 8. Spaniards often thought I was having a language problem when I gave them the number. "No, fixed lines begin with a 9," they said. One chap went so far as have me phone his mobile to confirm the number. He was very apologetic.

I seem to remember that the number of combinations in a series of numbers is worked out by simple multiplication. So for a nine number sequence it would be 9 times 9 times 9 times 9 times 9 times 9 times 9 times 9 times 9 or 387,420,489 variations. The initial 6 cuts this down to 43,046,721 choices. That's a lot of numbers. On the other hand there are around 47 million people in Spain and everyone  from the eldest granny to the smallest child has a mobile so, when I think about it, I'm surprised the 6 numbers lasted so long!

The rest is silence

It's quiet in Culebrón. The wildlife makes a noise it's true but the chirping of the birds hardly constitutes noise pollution. On the other hand it's not quiet in the centre of Cartagena where we lived until just two days ago.

Oddly though I've noticed the noise here in Culebrón much more than I did in Cartagena. In town the passing crowds produce a constant background hum. Occasionally there are shouts and bangs but, generally the noise level is pretty consistent and almost unnoticeable.

Culebrón doesn't really have background noise. Culebrón is still and quiet. We haven't got our summer cicadas yet. I was outside the other night enjoying the warm evening air possibly with a brandy and a cigar to hand. Peaceful. Then a car passed, making a right racket, then another. Next the dog at the farm down the way went guau, guua, guau (Spanish dog you understand). An insistent and unpleasant bark. Our neighbours dog answered.

Time to get back inside and watch the telly I thought.

Oops! Ha, ha!

I seem to have started to say uuf! when something goes wrong. This is a difficult word to spell. It's not the same as pah! or oops! It's more like a phew!

Spanish cockerels go kiri kiri kiri. Obviously no Spaniard has ever heard a cockerel. If they had they would know that cockerels go cock a doodle doo. It's the same with the strange half words, half grunts that we, and they, use to express surprise, to explain away a small mishap to be sarcastic and the like.

PG Wodehouse knew that we Brits made specific noises under specific conditions. I remember the books emphasising HAH!! when the hapless hero was caught out by the stern and  haughty aunt long before his final salvation thanks to Lord Emsworth, the Port and Lemon or Jeeves. It is only in the last few days that I've caught on to the fact that Spaniards emit different non word sounds to us.

This explains why one of my colleagues often seems to dismiss most of my humorous comments as mere tomfoolery with a half mouthed, half nasally blown khah!

Up to now I'd thought it was because she thought I was a fathead.

Lavatorial humour

Sorry to be indelicate but imagine we are in the toilet. No, not we, you or I, separately, apart,  in different but similar toilets. The sit down toilet, not the stand up one.

This toilet is in Spain and on the wall there is a notice which says "Do not throw the paper in the toilet" - well it says it in Spanish but the translation is good. Now paper, papel, is a bit of a multi purpose word. For instance the car parking tickets are often papeles and you can use it for receipts and other things made from paper. The very first time I saw it I thought ah, they mean paper towels and the like but no, alongside the stool was a wastebasket full of soiled toilet paper.

Now Spain is a country blessed with an interminable supply of flies. Unsurprisingly they are attracted by this copious quantity of food. The original concept of  the waste basket isn't particularly pleasant but add in a cloud of flies and it becomes decidedly nasty.

For years I presumed that this was because of dodgy plumbing especially as there are fewer and fewer of the notices nowadays. A few sheets in the pan and the resulting flood could be even more disgusting  than the piles of soiled paper. However, the other day, I was in a high tech building, the sort where the lights are controlled by motion sensors as you walk past yet there was the notice. Surely modern Spanish plumbing can deal with modern toilet paper designed to more or less dissolve in water?

All I can think is that the notice was there because that's how we do it. Not me I hasten to add. 

Maxi Banegas

Pinoso is definitely going all out for the tourist trade. Back in February we got the new street furniture and today we got the Maxi Banegas route. Veritably a seething cauldron of tourist activity.

But who, you ask yourself, is Maxi Banegas? Well, a couple of years ago, I asked that same question and I drew a blank. But tonight I got a clear answer.

Maximina Banegas Carbonell was born on September 15th, 1923. She grew up in her father's barber's shop at Monóvar street, in a warm and family atmosphere, humble but educated, surrounded by books and newspapers, ideal for Maxi's formation and imagination.

Her family's sacrifice and her desire for bettering herself, in spite of the difficult times during and after the Civil War, bore fruit on September 29th, 1951, when she graduated as a Primary School Teacher. She taught in Bacares (Almería), Monóvar, different municipal districts from Pinoso, and finally at San Antón School, where she stayed until her retirement in 1999.

Her nearly 40 years of teaching career left an imprint on the people from Pinoso. As a sign of this, the 'Maxi Banegas' Poetry Contest was created in 1997, currently nationwide. Moreover, in May 1999, Pinoso's Public Library was given her name, and a year later this garden was dedicated to her.

She died on March 27th, 2002, after spending her whole life next to her beloved sister Conchi. Her teaching and her poetry were her legacy.

During her life she wrote eloquent lines, some of which are compiled in her book ‘Entre Pinares’ (Among the Pine Trees) (1999). In her poetry predominates sincerity and the simplicity of her figures, personal feelings and everyday characters from our village, remembering its festivities and devotions, the landscape, her dreams and hopes, which reflect the woman and the teacher.

So now you know as much about Maxi Banegas as I do.

The route, which I went to see opened this evening, is marked by a series of lecterns which explain details of various spots in Pinoso. Each stop also features a few lines of Maxi's poetry about the place. There were seven stops along the route. Each lectern carries a QR code so, if your phone has the right app, you not only get the information in Castillian, Valenciano and English but also the route shown on Google maps so you can't get lost. Pretty go ahead I thought. The text above is the English page for the board in the Maxi Banegas garden.

I'm sure the busloads of tourists will be with us very shortly.

Gran Canaria

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

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

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

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

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

The Real Spain

We were probably as guilty as anyone. We wanted the Real Spain. That's the one where dark skinned men ride donkeys and raven haired señoritas swirl their skirts. Houses should probably be whitewashed and bougainvillea trimmed. A BMW xD35i would be a cause for young boys to point. Benidorm and Torremolinos would, like Bhopal or Fukushima, be places to avoid.

Not a lot of donkeys in Cartagena.  Though we did get the Friday off work because it was Dolores  - Nuestra Señora de los Dolores - Patron Saint of Cartagena. There were bands marching up and down the street getting ready for the processions, fine tuning their timing for Holy Week. They were surrounded by shoppers. All next week it will be big time Catholic ritual as the brotherhoods, dressed in robes that became the model for the Klan, parade around town carrying huge religious statues. One of my students told me that he dislikes the religious parades but he loves being in Cartagena for Holy Week. The town's alive he says.

On the way home to Culebrón we stopped in the industrial estate between Santomera and Abanilla to go to the restaurant that shares a metal box type industrial building with a sweet manufacturer. Lovely sugary smell as we left. We reckoned the restaurant would have a cheap set meal because there were lots of production line workers sitting at the tables outside having a smoke. We were right; the bar was heaving and the food was cheap. There were maybe five blokes behind the bar and the waiter dealing with our section was actually running between tables. It was as typical a bar as you could possibly want though there wasn't a whiff of bougainvillea.

We've got builders in. There are a couple of blokes plastering as I type. They'd said they'd be here around 10.30 and one of them did show up pretty punctually for a builder at 11.10. Before coming here they'd been to check that the solar powered hot water system they'd installed somewhere else yesterday was working properly. One of them couldn't come straight here after he'd checked that job because he had to take his daughter to her swimming class.

So, you see, we got the real Spain after all.

Filling up

I try to avoid the single petrol station in Pinoso if I can. They aren't ever actually unpleasant but they are a bit offhand. The staff sort of vaguely ignore me or talk across me to another customer. It's common for them to beckon for my credit card rather than ask me for it. Their reasoning may be that very few of we Brits speak any Spanish so it's not worth trying to talk to us but, whatever the reason, I don't like their attitude much.

It's not a cheap petrol station either. The diesel cost 1.439€ per litre today and the price comparison sites says that if I'd hunted out the cheapest petrol station in the province I could have saved 13 centimos per litre and got it for 1.309€.

According to the reports if I want to save money I should avoid Galp or BP stations where prices tend to be the highest. Repsol stations, which are the most widespread, have widely variable prices and the best bet for lower prices are the independent brands including the hypermarkets or Cepsa, the second most common brand. There is a common belief in Spain though that cheap fuel from the independents isn't to be trusted because it lacks the essential additives of the big names.

Apparently if I really want to save money I should make sure that I tank up on a Monday with diesel in a hypermarket in the province of Huesca. Conversely I should avoid stations at weekends, especially just before a Bank Holiday and especially on motorways or in rural areas. It's a Bank Holiday in Alicante on Monday and of course Pinoso is a small rural town.

The Monday thing is interesting. The EU asks Member States to report fuel prices on Mondays and Spanish prices are habitually a couple of percentage points lower that day. The petrol companies say it's because demand is lower on Mondays so they drop their prices to attract more trade. Critics say they do it to make their prices seem more reasonable.

Most of the petrol stations in Alicante and Murcia still seem to be attended service. The last few times I've filled up before today it's been in a service station near Fuente Alamo in Murcia. The first time I went there I didn't see anyone on the forecourt wearing the distinctive blue and orange overalls, I looked for, but didn't find, one of the signs to say service was attended so I set about serving myself. The pump fired up OK but as the fuel began to flow and I stared vaguely into the distance I felt a hand close on mine. "How much do you want?" said the attendant as he gently, but firmly, relieved me of the nozzle.

The fuel market in Spain is controlled by three big firms. Repsol and Cepsa  have well over 55% of the total outlets between them with BP being the third big player. Nearly all the refining capacity is with the same companies so that even independent stations and hypermarkets are ultimately buying their fuel from one of the big three.

Most people believe that these three companies operate a form of price fixing policy by not really competing too hard with each other. Even the independently owned but company branded stations get a message everyday to suggest appropriate pump prices.

But cars won't run without the stuff and we can't all live in Huesca so we mutter gently but ultimately pay up.

Back to Benidorm

It cost more this year. 15€ more to be precise. We set out earlier and I think we maybe got an extra meal. Otherwise it was very much the same. In Spanish style we stuck with what we know and went to the same hotel. Benidorm remains as unique as ever.

Maggie said the best part for her was in a bar with a motorbike/Hell's Angels theme and live music on the seafront. I think the bit I enjoyed most was when someone asked us if we wanted to go into a bar - free drink he said. He wasn't the first to ask nor was he the last but, for some reason, we went into his place and not the others. There was a group of girls on a hen party and later a bunch of blokes out for a stag night. They were all in fancy dress and it seemed a bit desperate as they tried, so hard, to have a good time in a tacky bar on a coolish evening in a quiet Benidorm. There was a bloke who took off his shirt maybe in the hope of attracting one of the girls with his six pack. Unfortunately for him any physical plus was nullified by the minus of his drink fuelled inability to walk.

On Sunday we crossed the whole length of town to the Gran Hotel Bali, until recently the tallest building in Benidorm and for many years the tallest building in Spain. There are four taller skyscrapers in Madrid now but Benidorm, amazingly, still has the most high-rise buildings per capita in the world. We intended to go to the observation floor of the tower but the cloudy day and the draw of the paid for school dinner quality food in our hotel were too much and we didn't make it. A treat for next time.

We were with the Culebrón Neighbourhood Association of course. Just like last year. Actually we didn't interact with our Spanish neighbours as much as last time because of our unwillingness to initiate conversations in Spanish so it wasn't really as interesting. We have nobody to blame but ourselves and we still had a good time.

Finally, a word of warning. The Benidorm City Bus Tour has to be one of the least informative tours in the world with, apparently, nothing of note along the whole length of the journey.