Panic buying

The siege is upon us. For at least a fortnight: no nursery, no school, no university, no cinema, no theatre, no fiestas, no bars, no restaurants, no bingo and no church. Maggie will be working  from home next week. Even my accountant has locked his door. We are nearly in a "State of Alarm" which means that tomorrow the Government will more control than it had this morning. The world as we know it is coming to an end. Markets are crashing, we are locked out of several countries.

Time to panic buy. Obviously. We went into Pinoso. Lots of traffic for a Friday afternoon and the supermarkets were awash with people. The Indian restaurant seemed to be bursting at the seams and I can only assume that some of my fellow Britons were getting in a last vindaloo before the quarantine (it had to be Britons as no Spaniard would consider eating at 6pm). The thought of two weeks sitting in front of the telly to watch Sálvame Banana and Supervivientes had been enough for me to think only of stockpiling. A bottle of brandy (the first since Christmas), a couple of bottles of wine for Maggie and several packets of cat food were our haul. There were people with masks. The cashiers had nitrile gloves and seemed to be drinking water in copious quantities. There were customers with trolleys full of bog roll. I can only suppose they were thinking of the effects of terrible telly too.

It's quite strange how quickly it all crumbled. This morning and for days before it has all been nonstop virus news but I was still expecting to meet my sister tomorrow given that she's on holiday nearby. We'd obviously have eaten out, because that's what one does in Spain. My sister apart it would be an odd weekend when we didn't go to the cinema. There were also a couple of possible events for the weekend including a do at our local restaurant and a charitable walk. Next week the only things on my list were the language club and a trip up to Valencia. Originally I'd been going to Valencia to see some of the (cancelled) Fallas celebration but that had transmuted into an opportunity to take in the Counter Culture exhibition at the Modern Art Institute in the city. Not anymore. The country is closing down. My email and WhatsApp are full of messages cancelling talks, concerts, events and exhibitions that I'd booked up. For one singer that's the third cancellation. She's a young woman; I'm sure she'll survive the virus but who knows if someone as frail and old as I will?

So, from now on, for a while, I'll be trying to remember not to touch my face and to wash my hands thoroughly. And, of course, every cough and every twinge is a sure sign that I'll soon be calling the freephone number to get advice on self quarantine so as not to block up the intensive care unit too early. The more I think about it the more obvious it is that I need to crack open that brandy and get in my last few episodes of a splendid Spanish soap whilst I still can.

It's not Pat's

We've had a cat hanging around our garden for a while now. At first it was nasty to our own cats so we chased it off but, of course, with time it wore us down (more me than Maggie - Maggie's tough). To begin with we gave the cat occasional bits and bats of food and then it became almost regular feeding. What our spoiled cats didn't eat we gave to the garden cat.

Next came the name. Our neighbours said they called it Jess. The cat was crossing the garden - "Ah, here comes Postman Pat's cat," I said, "Hello, Jess," said Maggie. "How did you know that?" I asked. Postman Pat? Black and white cat? I didn't know. Impoverished upbringing you know. Or maybe I'm just too old.

She's a strokeable cat. There's always the possibility that she might turn and bite or scratch but usually she purrs. We're all a bit wary though. Especially our cats.

Jess has been hobbling for the past couple of days. I went to the vet and asked how much to strap up a broken leg. Around 50€ with the X-ray said the receptionist. The cat was surprisingly easy to catch, surprisingly docile inside the cage and well behaved on the journey in to town. Pets need a name at the vet's for their database. She's called Yésica I said. The bilingual version.

The vet suspected an abscess from the start; wild cats and fighting and such. There was pus everywhere. Knockout drops, antibiotic injection, anti flea and tick treatment and my credit card lighter by 68€. I left her in our living room in a cat basket to sleep off the anaesthetic but now she's back in the garden and walking much better.

Out for the day

I went on a bit of a trip yesterday. The title of the event translates as something like From the Vinalopó to Exile. Vinalopó is the name of our mighty local river which trickles into the sea at Santa Pola and which gives its name to the area. The theme was the end of the Spanish Civil War.

We were shown things in Petrer and Elda but the bit I liked best, apart from eating, was going down the air raid shelters in Hondón. Hondón is a very small village just 9 km from Culebrón. Not the most obvious place for an air raid shelter dug 40 metres into the ground and with space for 250 people.

So it's March 1939, right at the end of the Spanish Civil War (The result of an army rebellion in 1936 against the elected Leftist Republican Government) the Republic is in tatters. The President, Azaña, reckons the only chance is to hang on long enough for the Nazis to start the Second World War so that the French and British may stop looking the other way and come to his aid. Then Republican Barcelona falls to the Francoist troops and Azaña runs away, resigns, and never comes back.

With Azaña gone the ex Prime Minister, Negrín, takes over as President. The Republican Government has moved its headquarters to Elda which just 25kms from Culebrón. The main reason is that Elda isn't being bombed non stop though there are other reasons like decent communications and a strong manufacturing base. Meanwhile Madrid is, miraculously, still in Republican hands. It won't fall to the rebellious Francoist troops till right at the end of the war but in Madrid a Republican Army Colonel, Casado, mounts a coup. He and his pals reckon that all is lost and waiting for the French and British is a stupid plan. They want to cut a deal and save their skins. Franco doesn't talk to them. They have nothing to offer.

So it's all gone pear shaped, the elected President has run off, half your army is caught up in some Communist rebellion and it's pretty obvious that you've lost. Negrín decides the jig is up. He's in Elda. The nearest aerodrome (think of a mowed and level grassy area rather than tarmac runways) is in Hondon, or as we now seem to call it el Fondó using its Valenciano name. The big cars drive in from Elda with a famous writer and poet in one, a fiery Communist Party woman orator in another and Negrin himself in a third. They clear off in a couple of aeroplanes along with some pals. Later that night the remnants of the loyal Republican Army command meet with the left over political big wigs and the next days more planes leave taking them away - generally to Oran. Though it may not seem geographically obvious Algeria is less distance than any other safe country especially for a flimsy 1930s plane loaded to capacity.

That's where our tour ended and about three weeks after those planes left the last few Republican cities - Alicante, Cartagena and Almeria - fell.

________

If you look at the comments below someone wrote to say that there were a couple of incorrect facts in this piece. One was that Negrín was never President and the other was that Azaña wasn't holding out for an Anglo French "rescue". Have a look  at the comments section if you're interested.

Mostra de la Cuina del Pinós

I don't know if modern, young Britons still eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday but I'm pretty sure that Yorkshire Pudding is alive and well on the Sceptred Isle. As I remember it pancakes and Yorkshires share the same simple mix - eggs, flour, milk. The sort of things that any self respecting house would have had in the larder at almost any time in British history.

A lot of traditional Spanish food has a similar backstory. When we lived in Salamanca pig products were big in the local cuisine, up in Asturias they use the local beans for one of the traditional dishes and all over Spain there are variations on bread crumbs fried up with tiny scraps of meat which, folk tale has it, was a food for shepherds who ended up with a lot of stale bread. Combining the ingredients readily to hand. It works for speciality foods too. Xixona makes turrón, a sort of nougat essential to celebrate Christmas, and turrón comes from combining eggs, honey and almonds all of which abound near Xixona.

Pinoso, like everywhere in Spain, is proud of its food. The star dish, without a shadow of a doubt is the local paella, only a couple of grains of rice thick and whose main ingredients, after rice, are rabbit and snails but flavoured with local, easy to find, products like garlic, thyme and parsley. Even the cooking style, over open fires fuelled with bundles of twigs from pruning the vines, adds those subtle, but essential, tastes.

Second up in local fame is, almost certainly, a rabbit stew served on and with shreds of a thick pancake, made from wheat flour, water and salt, which goes by the name of gazpacho - the same name as the completely different cold Andalucian soup. There are lots of other local foodstuffs from wine and sausage to cakes and biscuits. With an eye on promoting tourism Pinoso has an event to celebrate the local food.

The idea of this event, called the Mostra de la Cuina del Pinós, is that the town's restaurants, five this year, offer the same food on the same day - meatballs on Tuesday, stew on Thursday etc. Every day of the event they also serve the same entrees (slices of sausages and pipirrana). They are allowed to let their imaginations run wild on the four starters and on the puddings. The price has gone up over the years but it's still a very reasonable (given the quantity and the quality) 30€ per head (well except for one restaurant that has broken ranks and is charging 40€).

I'm not going to describe most of the dishes but just for any Spaniards reading the main courses are: Gachamiga, Fassegures del Pinós, Ajos Pinoseros con conejo y "picat", Gazpachos con conejo y caracoles and Arroz con conejo y caracoles. Still time, as I write to book up for a feed.

So we went on Thursday, the Ajos Pinoseros day. We thought we knew what we were getting and we expected a sort of fry up of rabbit and wild garlic. We were completely wrong. The obvious ingredients of what we ate were rabbit and chickpeas served in a shallow dish with a fair bit of gravy or broth that you spooned ali oli into. Ali oli is a thick emulsion that we Brits usually describe as garlic mayonnaise. I really enjoyed it and I thought we'd eaten but, as we downed the cutlery, we were presented with a soup in which floated croutons and pieces of boiled eggs. That was the picat and my guess is that it uses the broth from cooking the rabbit.

Now I know that describing food dishes isn't particularly interesting but why I noticed it was that it was a bit like the cocido that Maria Dolores cooked for us just a little while ago. We thought we knew what we were getting but we were wrong. Still so much to find out and so many calories doing it!

Two legs bad, two wheels good

The first time I went abroad independently was with a couple of University pals to Paris in about 1972. We went on the train. We drank filter coffee from bowls, just like Jean-Hugues Anglade, we struggled with the language, climbed thousands of steps and walked and walked and walked. I was very soon hobbling. I'm prone to blisters and foot damage in general. When I wandered around Spain in the 1980s and 1990s using public transport I would always pack all those patent foot plasters, bandages and balms designed to keep one's feet in tip top condition.

We were planning to walk the Camino de Santiago. We still are. Maggie has booked flights and a room and a couple of friends are bound for Galicia at the end of May beginning of June. To be classed as having done the pilgrimage you only have to walk the last 100 kms and that's what Maggie intends to do but I have more time. I fancy the Pamplona end of the French route much more than the Galicia end so I'll do one end and then join Maggie at the other. A chum from around here has signed up to come along, actually it's probably the other way around, I'm probably joining him as he walks regularly and does yoga and badminton and stuff that makes me tired just thinking about it as I flip the pages of my book.

So we were planning and walking became cycling. Like me, Bobby, for that's his name, has problems with his feet. To qualify as a pilgrim, we need to go 200 kms on a bike. That didn't sound like much. First things first though. If I were going to ride to Santiago I'd need a bike. The one I had in the garage came from a supermarket, weighs the fabled ton and cost me 40€. Not really suitable. It was easy to get a replacement. Lots of people think a bike is a good idea until they have to go uphill. There were lots for sale and I bought one - it's one of those half mountain half tourer jobs. I put on some panniers and saddle bags and a cuentakilometros, an odometer. I couldn't hold it off for ever though and I had, eventually, to ride it rather than just tinker with it. I bought padded underwear.

I have pals who don't like to cycle unless the route includes near perpendicular climbs. I see the Facebook pictures of other chums who ride vast distances to go to distant tearooms and take photos of wild flowers. I smoked for forty years. I am reminded of this when, on the slightest incline, I sound like, well I sound like an old bloke with wrecked lungs gasping for air in order to keep his vital organs from failing. I also notice that my legs don't work quite properly when I get off the bike (and what's with this modern form of dismounting where you have to step forward because the saddle is so high?). I also worry that the light headedness which comes over me as I stop and pant may have me blacking out again and earning another ride in an ambulance. I somehow suspect that steep gradients and immense distances are some way in the future or, more likely, in Peter Pan's homeland.

Nonetheless I'm trying. Only 12 kms the first day but today, fourth time out I did just short of 30 kilometres which sounds reasonable enough until you turn it into a bit short of 19 miles and then you add in that the difference between the lowest and highest point on the route was only 80 metres. Worse still I only averaged about 17 km/h. Approximately the same speed as a pig can go when it gets a move on.

Running on fumes

Coming home from Torrevieja on Saturday night the fuel warning light came on on the car. Seventy kilometres of fuel left. Fair enough, we were near the coast, which is pretty built up, and we were on a motorway where there were service stations before our turn off.

Even though the sign on the road said the services were open from 0 hrs. to 24 hrs it was obvious, as we pulled onto the forecourt, that the garage was closed. The pump had a bank card payment facility but it wasn't working. Error message - software failure.

Whilst I dithered about what to do next a man, who had been shouting into his mobile phone in a rather disconcerting way, came over and asked if he could use my phone. His accent was a bit working bloke and it took us a while to tune in to his accent and forthright style. Basically, his car was old and it had lost all its lights. He was unable to continue his journey back to Albacete, about 170kms away, with his wife and kids on board. He'd been trying to phone his insurance company to get either a mechanic or a tow truck but his phone was refusing to work with the 902 number. 902 numbers are those non geographic numbers used by companies and organisations so you don't know where you're phoning - like the 0345 numbers in the UK. They are sometimes not included in call packages. On mobile phones especially they can end up adding a lot to your bill, or eating up your pay as you go credit, as you listen to tiddly pom music, get told about busy operators and how important your call is.

I suspected some sort of ruse from Mr Albacete so, rather than handing over my phone and him running off with it or surreptitiously phoning a sex line in Rwanda, I let him use the hands free inside the car. In the end it turned out to be an absolutely genuine call from a man having a much worse evening than us. As we drove away, he asked that God be kind to us for our generosity.

The Almighty didn't seem to be on hand to help with the fuel problem though. Petrol stations in Spain tend to close at 10pm. There used to be ones with night windows, there may still be, but I suspect that nowadays the tendency is to have a card reader instead. It's been a while since I last needed to refuel at night. We're old you know. We stay at home with cocoa.

We were closeish to Elche and I know that city well enough to know the location of quite a few petrol stations. Big petrol stations. The one in the supermarket said 24 hrs. on the sign. The card reader said it couldn't read my card. The second was closed, the third was behind a system of labyrinthine one way roads that had us going round in circles for ten to fifteen minutes before I gave up. We drove to an industrial estate with more petrol stations. The dashboard display now said we were good for only another 15 kms. I presume the system tends to pessimism but it was, nonetheless, a little worrying. Another big and busy Repsol station was closed as we passed but there were lights on at one of the cheap garages on a service road. And the pump was happy to accept my credit card.

The usual system with credit card pumps, when you want a full tank, is to tap in a higher figure than the value of fuel you expect to need. When you're done the credit card and pump talk to each other and refund the difference. My receipt says something like 70€ credit, 48,33€ served. Just what I'd expect. At the moment though my credit card account shows that I paid 118,33€ for the fuel. I'm sure the refund will come but somehow it seemed like the perfect end to a simple and routine journey home.

Crossing in style

At the kerb, halt! Eyes right, Eyes left, Eyes right again. If the road is clear, Quick march! - that was my generation; military. Then there was a squirrel, Tufty Fluffytail, and later the Green Cross Code Man. Or it may have been the other way around. I forget.

In Pinoso they have just painted some symbols on the zebra crossings. Apparently these symbols are there primarily to help people with autism but they reckon they may be of help to people with learning difficulties and also to we older, vaguely aware, people.

My experience is that Spanish drivers habitually stop for pedestrians on crossings - there's no cat and mouse to it, no gamespersonship. If you are waiting at a crossing or approaching one then cars will stop. It even works in big cities. Spanish people have sometimes told me that I'm wrong but one's experiences are one's experiences.

I mentioned the new symbols to my pal Jesús as we nattered over a coffee the other day. They've got it wrong he joked. The symbols say Stop, Look, Car stopped, Cross. That's not right. Why should the pedestrian have to stop or look? The instructions should just say Cross! It's up to the cars to stop.

I sniggered but I have to say that, when driving, the number of people who do not slacken their pace as they walk from pavement to zebra can be quite alarming. My personal favourites are the ones pushing prams before them as they stare at their mobile phone.

Good result

Seventy days ago someone from the health service rang me to tell me that my routine poo stick test showed traces of blood. I saw the doctor a couple of days after that and, in the same week, I got some blood tests. Do you remember when dentist's used to give lollipops to children after fillings? Well in Pinoso Health centre they gave me a big box. "Oohh, laxatives, just what I've always wanted".

The appointment for the colonoscopy was today at Elda Hospital. I was worried about what it might show but I wasn't at all worried about the process. This is the third time that doctors have thought I might have cancer and my concern was that, statistically, the odds must be shortening. So, the 54 hours of fasting and the Ajax like scouring effect of the laxatives passed off normally enough given the abnormal situation.

Three young woman were in charge of setting up the patients ready for a colonoscopy. They told me to strip below the waist, to leave my socks on (so far just like a 70's porn film) and to come out wearing the towel. "NO, NO, not THAT towel!!!! There was a much larger towel hanging over the screen than the one I'd found on the chair.

Once I was on the bed I with the towel arranged sarong like to give easy access I got all the usual sort of control questions - allergies, medical history, favourite musical as well as a bit of a third degree about my fasting and toilet habits. I was having a conversation about the band James with one of the women, who had done a work stint in Leeds, whilst one of the others poked and prodded me in an attempt to find veins for the cannula. She tried both arms, five attempts all together. It's an old problem, deep veins. At one point, as I clenched and unclenched my fist to pump up the veins, one of the women told me to relax, she obviously didn't think I relaxed enough - NO, RELAX. I replied that it was a bit difficult to relax knowing they were going to shove a tube up my arse. All three laughed as though I were the first person to ever make that comment. More likely, they were laughing at my Spanish. Now we're going to put you to sleep. Think about something nice.

The next time I knew anything one of the young women was saying hello and suggested that I should rub my stomach hard to get a bit of farting going. I asked what time it was, Maggie was waiting outside as I wasn't supposed to drive, and it had only been about forty minutes from start to finish.

I asked about results as they shooed me into the corridor. "The doctor will be with you shortly," they said. And, true enough a young woman doctor came and handed me a note for my GP. "Obviously we can't be absolutely certain until we've done the biopsy but all we found was a very small polyp which we've snipped off. You're in the clear".

Trying to get an ID card

In Spain you have to carry ID at all times. For Spanish nationals they have an identity card, the DNI and for foreigners there is a TIE, the Foreigner's Identity Card. EU citizens, within an EU country like Spain, are neither Nationals nor foreigners. This means that EU citizens have to carry the form of ID in use in their country. Now we Brits are a little odd in that we don't have an ID card so Brits are supposed to carry their passport with them at all times in case the "Competent Authority" needs to see it.

As well as the need to carry identification EU citizens, living in Spain, have to register. When the scheme was first introduced the registration certificate was a bit of green A4 paper but later it became smaller and more card like, something like the old UK paper driving licence.

A couple of weeks ago the UK left the European Union. Consequently the registration document became a bit of an anachronism for UK citizens. Nonetheless with the transition period, the limbo time, we're neither fish nor fowl. Quite what's going to happen is a bit moot. As everyone else in Spain carries ID then Britons are obviously going to have to do the same in time. There are a lot of us though, nearly 366,000, so if we all popped out to get our new ID between now and the end of the transition period it may all get a bit congested. Currently the idea is that the process for exchanging the green certificate for something more like the Spanish or Foreigners card, will be quick, cheap and easy.

Getting an appointment to go to one of the offices where ID cards and the like are handed out has become a bit of a problem. Most of the time it doesn't matter much to we (relatively) wealthy Brits, it's usually no more than a minor inconvenience. Not always though. It can sometimes make life very difficult even for we haves. For the have nots who need to rent a flat or find a job it can be disastrous.

The few weeks I spent in the Cub Scouts taught me to be prepared. I applied for an appointment back in November to get myself a new identity card appointment after the Brexit date. Clearly stating that I was British and I wanted the Foreigner's Identity Card, the TIE, I got an appointment. I'm not isolated though; I read the press, I have been keeping up to date with the Brexit information from the British and Spanish Governments as well as checking the Citizens Advice Bureau Spain stuff. I knew that the process wasn't going to be generally available on the date of my interview.

I came very close to cancelling the appointment. In the end I asked the Citizen's Advice people what they thought, expecting the answer to be that there wasn't a chance. What they actually said was along the lines of - you've got nothing to lose by having a bash, have a go and tell us how you get on.

I went, yesterday. The appointment was in Benidorm. The policeman on the front of house information desk was acting as gatekeeper asking all sorts of questions before allowing anyone to stay. I thought that was quite positive. He was turning away well over 75% of the people for being in the wrong office, not having an appointment or not having the basic documentation.

I got seen half an hour after my appointment time. I told another police officer what I was there for. He looked at the paperwork and said no. He reckoned it would be September before they started to process we Britons. It took him about 2 minutes to turn me away. I wasn't surprised, I wasn't shocked or angry. It was just a bit of a waste of time.

Hang on, let's say he's right and they get cracking on September 1. The end of the transition period is 31 December 2020. That's 121 days (we'll pretend there are no holidays or Sundays) so if there are 365,967 Britons resident in Spain my arithmetic says they will need to process 3,024 people a day.

Olive, the Other Reindeer?

When you buy a beer at a bar in Spain they usually give you something to go with it - olives are favourite. In fact olives are everywhere in Spain. They come in salads, they grow in the fields beside the road, they get milled over the road in Culebrón village and we always cook with olive oil as well as using it for dressing on salad.

I needed olives and beef for the recipe. We only had black olives in the cupboard so I added green olives to my shopping list.

When I got to the shelf with the olives I found black olives, olives stuffed with anchovies, olives stuffed with jalapeño pepper, olives stuffed with red pepper and even a variety made to look like a monster sperm by shoving a small gherkin into the hole where the stone had been drilled out. There were also the manzanilla ones.

Now manzanilla is an interesting word. If you're in Sanlucar de Barrameda it's the local dry sherry. I prefer it to the similar fino sherry produced in nearby Jerez de la Frontera though both are rather splendid. Manzanilla is also camomile or camomile tea; once, in Vigo, in a bar, we asked if they had manzanilla. We were delighted when they said yes and mightily disappointed when the anticipated crisp cool dry white wine appeared and was some sort of nerve tonic tea.

Alongside the other olives were lots of Manzanilla olives. I'd always presumed they were sherry soused. I sniggered to myself as I searched the shelves. Imagine that, a country loaded with olives and no olive flavoured olives to be bought. I asked a passing shop worker and she pointed to the Manzanilla ones. "But aren't they flavoured with wine?," I asked. "No, manzanilla is a variety of olive," she replied.

I felt stupid. Something so simple and something that has taken me fifteen years to discover

Routine

Despite knowing that there are a bunch of men knocking things down and building things up outside our living room window it's amazing how many times we've gone to open the door to a building that no longer exists to get the vacuum cleaner! We're a bit unsettled and, probably because of that, things seem to be coming in clumps.

The demolition denied us hot water and laundry facilities but, thanks to the generosity of a couple of friends, we can now shower and launder. We also had a problem with Maggie's car and it's off the road. There again, someone stepped up and loaned us a motor for a bit.

In amongst the general upheaval the heating in our house packed up. It turned out to be a blocked chimney starving the burner of air which is what Maggie had suggested it might be right from the get go! Once the fitter had the burner working again we needed to get a chimney sweep. The bloke who came didn't sound like Dick Van Dyke nor did he have any small boys to send up the chimney. He did have big vacuum cleaners and brushes that were turned by an electric drill. He also had very sooty hands so I presume I can expect nothing but good luck after shaking one of them. He was English. I thought it was an intelligent choice of self employment in an area where there are still lots of open fires, wood burners and pellet stoves.

A couple of hours before the sweep we had a tanker truck come to suck out the liquids and solids from our cesspit. The builders had complained that they were paddling in fetid pools as they dug foundations. The tanker driver made me feel very inadequate. "Your cesspit is tiny, made from concrete," he said, "only two thousand litres." It sounded like a personal failing. He also suggested that instead of calling him so often we should get a small pump and pump out the nutrient rich liquid ourselves to spread around the garden. That way we'd have to call him only when the tank was more slurry than liquid. We will take it under advisement.

A bit later, the same afternoon, the carpenter who is making a glass panelled sliding door for us popped around to pick up some bits and bats. Apparently the door is nearly ready and, when it is, the building work will move inside.

This morning the builders arrived surprisingly early. I needed to get dressed in double quick time to move the cars from the drive as they get in their way. As I was doing that a big cement mixer truck appeared and threaded its way up the very narrow track alongside our house.

I like to believe that I'm still quite active but the truth is that I will be pleased when I can go back to getting up, having a shower, eating breakfast and doing a bit of reading before a routine day kicks off. We old people, at least this old person, like stability and routine.