Do British people still use the term Chelsea Tractor?

Just after lunch a convoy of three tractors passed our front gate. They had the folding umbrella type contraptions on the back that are used to collect almonds. The tractor reverses up to the tree, grabs the tree trunk using some hydraulic thingummy and then fans out the expanse of plastic tarpaulin type material to surround the tree. With the tree grabbed and the material in place the tree is given a good shaking and the almonds fall into the fan of material and roll tractorwards to a collecting chamber. When the collector is full the nuts are usually transferred to a trailer or a lorry and taken off for processing. It just so happens that there is quite a large nut processing factory (I originally wrote processing plant but I thought that may lead to confusion) in Pinoso. On the smaller plots, you'll often see a family group going at an almond or olive tree with sticks with a big sheet or net spread out under the tree to catch the falling fruit. 

The tractor driver I talked to told me that, with the three big tractors, they would clear the bancal in two to three hours. A bancal is what, once upon a time, I'd have called a terrace, it's the level land formed by building two parallel walls on a hillside. Recently someone told me that the retaining walls are called ribazos but the only people I've ever tried to get to confirm that word are a bit too urban to know whether it's correct or not.  So, according to the driver a big tractor costs around 250,000€ and the folding fan thing about 30,000€. I expect that the stick and visqueen sheet method involves substantially less financial outlay but it may take a while longer to collect the fruit. As I said the driver said 2 to 3 hours and there are about 350 trees on the bancal. Lets say that 15 minutes per tree using the hitting the tree with sticks method or about 8 days working non stop for 12 hours a day. Costs and benefits, swings and roundabouts I suppose.

It's pretty obvious that we live in the country. I've said before that we don't have any street or avenue as a part of our address; even our postcode is a bit undecided. This causes people who live in cities no end of problems. They presume that I don't understand or that, being foreign, and consequently stupid, I don't know the correct answer to their simple question about my address. I can't say I know much about agricultural life but I do see the gangs of (usually) blokes collecting the grape harvest from one type of field orientation and the mechanised grape pickers working on fields with a different configuration. I sort of half know what's going on with some of the processes just as I sometimes wonder what that bright green crop is that all those people are picking in some field as we drive past.

Yesterday Maggie and I went to the cinema in Alicante. We took advantage of being in the town to go to see an exhibition, an artistic exhibition, about space debris. It wasn't a particularly good exhibition but it's the sort of thing we do given the opportunity. Parking was surprisingly easy but we had to search around a bit and Maggie, who doesn't parallel park, was quite sure that I couldn't either. Without having any relationship to those Comanche trackers that John Ford always had helping the 7th Cavalry as they rode through Monument Valley, we were able to tell that dogs had been in the same street that we were walking and we avoided there manifold calling cards. We commented on the striking aroma from the communal rubbish bins in the August heat. There may not be any cinemas or exhibition spaces in Culebrón but parking is very easy and we don't have to be too careful about where we walk. Pros and cons, advantages and disadvantages I suppose.

I was thinking about this as I watched a programme in the second series of Valeria on Netflix. It's a series based on the books by Elísabet Benavent. In it four young women, whose main concerns seem to centre about their work, their wardrobe, the people they have sex with and food and drink, do what they do around Madrid. I don't know how real the Madrid, depicted in the series is, but the televisual version looks like a cool and exciting sort of place. They eat Korean, they use "park and ride" type bikes when they aren't using taxis, they sport clothes that I haven't seen in any of the chain stores. The life depicted is of the economically advantaged and domestically unchallenged. It's not much like Culebrón, or even Alicante, but it looks good on Netflix. I don't think that I'd be that keen to swap passing tractors and lots of outside space for exotic food delivered by a bloke on a bike or time share car schemes. Pluses and minuses, for and against I suppose.

I should stress that I watch Valeria not for the sex scenes or because I lust after city life but because of the Spanish. I'm a bit unlikely to use calimochada to describe an impromptu picnic or yembé (a sort of tom tom drum apparently) but the four main protagonists, and their pals, use a lot of slangy type words to show how young and modern they are. I'm interested to hear those words particularly as I don't mix with many real Spanish people. I like to think my Spanish is still improving but if the conversation with the tractor driver is anything to go by then I'm obviously deluding myself. Ah well, you win some, you lose some.

10,000 steps with hardly moving

Back in April I suspected that I needed a small surgical operation so I made a doctor's appointment. It was a telephone appointment and my doctor said she needed to see me to make a diagnosis. So we met. She agreed with my self diagnosis and she referred me to a surgeon. That's how the family doctors work here in Spain. They basically act as gatekeepers, dealing only with common ailments, passing patients on for anything at all out of the ordinary. So they don't remove warts themselves, they confirm that you have a wart and send you on to someone somewhere who will remove the wart. Often the second doctor, the specialist doctor, confirms the diagnosis of the first doctor and then sets the wheels in process for whatever the next step is. You say my throat hurts, the GP sends you to the ear, nose and throat department where an ear nose and throat doctor tells you that you have polyps (if you have). You are then given another appointment somewhere where someone will cut them out (or do whatever they do with polyps). Actually you never want to need to go to see an ear, nose and throat doctor because the Spanish word for one is an otorrinolaringóloga (woman) or otorrinolaringólogo (man) which is obviously unpronounceable.

In my case I got to see the surgeon a couple of weeks later. He confirmed the GP's diagnosis and said he would schedule surgery. Something like three months later the health authority writes to me and says they are a bit backed up and that they are contracting out some surgery to private hospitals; would I like to go private? To be honest I don't care whether it's private or state. Good, bad and indifferent doctors work everywhere. Nonetheless I sign on the dotted line.

Later someone rings me from the private hospital and gives me a time to turn up for an appointment. He speaks to me in English. His instructions suggest that I'm going to be the only person at the reception. I can imagine the spotless, gleaming white building and the friendly, smiling receptionist when I walk across the silent entrance way or maybe it'll be like that Cottage Hospital where Alastair Sim uncovered the killers. Cosy with roses around the door.

The hospital in Elche is big and on an industrial estate. There are lots of entrances and lots and lots of people; not particularly gleaming and certainly not cosy. I go to a reception desk. There are three people on the desk all wearing badly tailored corporate grey suits. The man is flirting with the woman to his left. I wait. A little later I tell them who I am and that I have a 10.30. They ask me what I'm there for. The truth is that I don't really know. I was told that I'd talk to a doctor but what sort of doctor was not made clear. I try being generic - it's to talk to someone for the first time about a surgical procedure but apparently that's not enough - I suspect they do a lot of cosmetic surgery and I suppose they do want to mistakenly increase the size of my breasts. So I have to tell them what's wrong with me. Not that they care but I don't really want to share my haemorrhoids, warts, polyps or bowel cancer with someone I've only just met.

I'm sent to outpatients, consultas externas. There they ask for ID and (basically) who is going to pay. A different man in a very similar grey suit at a very similar reception desk sends me to a basement. I'm getting better at this. Before I abandon my spot in front of his desk I ask him what it is that I need to say I'm there for and what the process is when I get to where I'm going. 

"I'm here for pre-operative tests," I say (though I stumble over the Spanish pronunciation of preoperatorio).  I know I'm talking to medical types because they are dressed in white down to their super clean crocs. The blood woman takes no notice when I suggest to her where she will find a vein. After two failed attempts she says "Left hand side you say?". I don't think she understands my joke about personal anti vampire measures either. I'm sent to another room with another woman in white. I ask the woman why I'm getting an ECG. "Your name is Roy something or other?," she asks. When I deny being Roy she pulls all the sticky pads off me and sends me back to reception. I ask which reception.

It's the same man. "Hello again," I say, "where now?". "You're going to speak to a surgeon, wait outside consult room 20, they will call you". The quality of information is improving.

The surgeon takes as long to make her diagnosis as my GP did, as long as the state health service surgeon did, that's two or three seconds. She asks me the same questions too. She gives me a date in November. Not exactly a week tomorrow then. "You'll need to speak to the anaesthetist" says the surgeon, "Go back to reception and make an appointment".

The grey suit and I are nearly old friends now. "The surgeon says I'm to make an appointment with the anaesthetist". "Is this the date of the operation?," asks the man in the grey suit, pointing to the 15/11 scrawled on the top of the information sheet that warns me of the multiple ways I might die or be forever maimed under the surgeon's knife. "Yes", is my quick witted return. It must be the first time he's ever seen that sort of paperwork. "Our booking system doesn't stretch that far into the future. Give us a call in late October and we'll give you an appointment then".

So that's my first taste of private medicine and I can't say that I noticed any difference to the public health systems I'm more used to. The first encounter is always chaotic but you get there in the end and, the second time, you know just a little bit more about where to go and what to do. You can spot the people with chronic health conditions in hospitals, they're the only ones, staff aside, who look confident about where they are going.

In oven chicken breast bathed in our own homemade BBQ dressing

Since Christmas we've been trying to lose weight by following some ancient meal plan from the long defunct Closer magazine, a plan that is, almost certainly, now scientifically discredited. We have both lost a fair bit of weight though. Lunch still usually comes from those diet sheet recipes but we're nowhere near as strict and disciplined as we were during the first couple of months. Nowadays we go out for meals whenever we want and I drink beer in bars and if they put crisps on the table I'll wolf them down. If anyone can explain to me how it takes a week of carefully controlled eating to lose a few hundred grammes and just a single chocolate biscuit to regain a kilo I'd be pleased to know.

Today's diet meal recipe was new. I'd not tried it because it involves aubergine and courgette. I don't really care for either. The recipe also called for a splash of chilli and tomato sauce. There was none in the cupboard and I knew it was hopeless to go and see if it were available in any of our local supermarkets, it's just not the sort of thing that they carry. Easy to make some though as the name gives away the principal ingredients. Whatsmore a nearby supermarkets is one of the few I know that stocks chillies in a routine way. It reminded me, but just to be sure I just checked, and it's true, that we have nothing "pre-prepared" in our freezer. There's pitta bread and frozen peas and chicken breast and some very chemically ice pops but there are no prepared meals - no lasagne, no spag bol, no microwaveable burgers or kebabs and obviouslly no chilli con carne. Most Spaniards don't go in for prepared food. Frozen and chilled pizzas are popular enough and there are pre-prepared things in the freezers and chiller cabinets of most Spanish supermarkets but they are not a usual purchase. Glance at the person in front of you in the checkout line and you will see raw materials for building dishes rather than packets of ready to go meals. Spaniards don't even eat a lot of things like breakfast cereal and fancy biscuits. 

I don't know whether this is good or bad. I'm just saying it's different. I know, for instance, that my mum gets lots of ready made meals from a company which delivers frozen meals to her door. She says that they are first rate and save her money and waste. When I lived in the UK, years ago, I would often pop something in to the microwave, when I came home from work, and it would heat through as I went to shed my suit and tie. Life would have been harder without those frozen meals. I know that the urban myth is that, nowadays, no British family still sits down to eat together, unless they order in takeaway and, even then, there will be no conversation, just the movement of thumbs on the mobile phone keypad. I have no idea whether that fireside scene is real or not but I have seen the takeaways of every colour and hue on English High Streets and I know from our infrequent visits to one of the "British" supermarkets on the coast here that there is lots of interesting sounding food in boxes and packets. 

Back in Culebrón I sometimes wonder about the time it takes to prepare a detailed shopping list and the time it takes to cook the food as compared to the time it takes to eat and to do the washing up after. And the aubergine and courgette thing? Even with the splendid sauce it was horrid.

Unexpected effort and unexpected success

We are going to have a cut down version of the Pinoso Fiestas next week. Less than usual but much better than nothing. Well done Pinoso!

The various conditions to keep the concert type events safe means that the audience for any events has to be controlled and that involves tickets. Most of the events are free so the tickets are called invitations but, nonetheless, you need to have one in your hand to get to see or hear the event. We've had to get the same sort of thing for months, and nearly years, now at lots of venues but mostly the bookings have been possible online. That wasn't the case for Pinoso. 

As well as the fiesta events next week there was a concert by a local choir yesterday and the town band have a concert today. I got the band tickets by going to their office one afternoon. A bit of a trek but easy enough. I went to ask at the Cultural Centre about the choir concerts at the beginning of the month and I was told I was too early. I tried, unsuccessfully, on two separate occasions later in the month to get the invites. The main problem was that nobody seemed exactly sure when and where I should go to get the tickets. In fact, on the night, there were tickets on the door and the space for the outdoors concert was enormous so it was dead easy to keep our distance. The audience capacity of the venue was much, much greater than the size of the audience.

To get the fiesta tickets I went to the Town Hall at the beginning of last week and I was told they would be available later and that there would be an announcement on one of the various online channels that the Town Hall uses. I saw no announcements but I went back anyway a few days later to find a long queue for tickets. The local mayor and the councillor responsible for fiestas were handing out the tickets. A bit extemporised or what? I waited about 20 minutes and got tickets for two of the three events I wanted. The process was inevitably slow because they were taking names and phone numbers just in case there was a need to follow up after an outbreak. For the tickets for the third event I was told to come back tomorrow. Tomorrow was Friday. On Friday I was told Monday. No queue the second time at least.

This is how it always used to be in Spain. Things having to be done face to face. Often you needed "inside" information to be more successful. Nowadays it's not usually the case. Even in Pinoso I was able to get tickets at least one event, a theatre performance, during the fiestas, online.

Yesterday evening, late, I realised my bank card wasn't in my wallet. Pit of the stomach feeling. I searched high and low. Not a sign. My banking app told me there were no dodgy movements and it was easy to suspend the card using the same app. It seemed though that I needed to phone someone to definitely cancel the card and go to a branch to get another one. I tried the free-phone number to report the loss and got a message to say there was a fault with the number and to try later. The extra stumbling block, after psyching myself up for the call, was most unwelcome. Spanish on the phone still can't be counted amongst my strengths. I went back to the website to check how to cancel and renew lost cards. They had a video. I clicked here. I clicked there. Within seconds the website tells me that I've successfully cancelled the card and a new one is on its way. The process I expected to be difficult, and was the last time I did it, was easy peasy whilst something I'd expect to be a piece of cake, getting a couple of event tickets, took eight visits. 

Such, as they say, is Life in Culebrón.

Is it a car, is it a skirt? No, it's a glass!

Being remarkably hip and cool, or whatever you say nowadays for being hip and cool - straight fire Gucci maybe - we go to see a fair number of contemporary musicians. Just so my mum understands I mean pop festivals. We go to see the town band too so, really, we're neither hip nor cool. Never mind. At a music festival, in non Covid times, the security check at the entrance was to look for anything unsafe and to root out food and drink. Nobody likes to pay festival prices for beer or for a rum and coke.

Festivals aren't permanent events, more or less by definition. The jobs they provide are temporary. Most of the staff are temporary. And temporary tends to unknown and unknown tends to untrustworthy. Years ago the daughter of one of my work colleagues went to Ibiza for the summer season to work in a bar. The young woman turned up, sober and unstoned, on time, every day, for the whole of her contract. Her boss was so unused to this responsible behaviour from his young, temporary staff that he paid her a bonus and tried to hire her, then and there, for the next season.

At a festival the temporary staff on the bars aren't trusted to handle money but someone has to, so the bosses get someone to run a cash office in whom they have more confidence. These money handling trusties take the money from the paying punters and change it into little tokens which then become the currency of the festival. It's a doubly good trick because, as well as limiting pilfering, not all the tokens get changed into goods. If, for instance, the tokens are worth 1€ and they are sold in blocks of 10 with the charge for a beer being 3€ there will be a good number of people who buy three beers and have one useless token left over. It's not a huge intellectual leap for friends to pool the left over tokens or for people to queue at the cash office to turn the tokens back into money but both processes are a bit of a faff. The end result is that lots of people go home with a couple of plastic tokens and the organisers get to keep the euros that bought them.

The cost of a small glass of beer in Spain varies but it's still not that unusual to get a beer for as little as a euro, maybe 1.50€. In a decent sized city normal bars might charge around 2.50€ and, if the bar specialises in good looking servers and is trendy - sorry, straight fire - then you can pay a lot more. Nonetheless, even in posh restaurants, restaurants with Michelin stars and strange names, restaurants with oddly named craft beers, I don't think I've ever been particularly shocked by the price of beer; it's not like buying a beer in Paris. One of our local bars charges as much as 6€ for high alcohol (often Belgian) beer and I think that's as much as I've ever paid in anywhere normal. 

At festivals there will be a beer sponsor. They'll have all the bars and serve their, usually, very ordinary lager in plastic glasses at inflated prices. Nowadays the tendency is that you will need a token to buy a reusable plastic glass in a pretence of being environmentally friendly. Festival beer is as expensive as beer gets - 3€ or 4€ for a small glass is pretty usual. The first time it's a shock but by the fifth glass nobody cares much especially if the bands are good.

There are lots of ways to ask for beer in a bar. By name for instance or by the size of the glass. When Britons want a, nearly, pint sized glass (as in Pulp Fiction we have no quarter pounders or pints because we have the metric system) you can ask for a tanque or una jarra. A small glass of beer is usually a caña. The size of a caña varies - in Madrid it tends to be around 200ml but, in the Basque Country, a caña is around a third of a litre. In Castilla y León they have smaller measures that are called cortos, in Andalucia tubos are common and so it goes. Bottles are usually botellín or quinto for the 200 ml size and tercio for the 330 ml size. Again there are regional differences, in Cataluña for instance I think the 330 ml bottles are called medianas by the locals, and there are litre bottles or litronas. Young people and seasoned drinkers often order beer in litronas to share.

Recently we've been to see three bands in the music festival in Cartagena called the Mar de Músicas. With our allocated seats located I went to find the bar and I was pleased to find that the bar staff dealt in cash (and cards). Maggie's wish for a vodka was thwarted though - only soft drinks and beer. I order a couple of cañas and paid the 3€ each. Beer in hand I now have time to read the price list and I notice that they have a bigger, squashy, plastic glass which contain as much as a litre and the price is 7€. This sort of big plastic glass is habitually used for cubatas and cubatas are mixed drinks in the rum and coke, vodka and lemon style. At the Mar de Músicas, and at most festivals, you don't have to go to the bar. Men and women with beer filled backpacks wander the auditoria happy to bring it to you. Near us a couple of young women were ordering beer; they checked prices and quantities and eventually asked for a big plastic glass full of 7€ worth of beer and two smaller empty glasses. They were going to share. As they ask the price their question is "How much is a mini?". I'd forgotten that's what the big glasses are called. Spanish irony I presume.

Being old and pernickety

We went to see a band at the Mar de Músicas in Cartagena a few days ago. The Mar de Músicas is a series of musical concerts held over a couple of weeks in the Murcian city of Cartagena.

Spain was quick to open up theatres and cinemas and audience venues in general after the total shutdown in the Spring of last year. The venues adapted. Things, generally, had to be booked online beforehand, even for free events. The programmes started much earlier than is normal in Spain. The capacity of venues was drastically reduced and there were all sorts of restrictions about entering and leaving the venue and where you could sit. I have felt much less safe in supermarkets, where the tussle for the unblemished and tasteless tomatoes went on much as before, or in bars and restaurants, where friends and acquaintances greet each other effusively, than I have over the Covid time in a theatre or cinema.

Some of the Covid measures were a nuisance. I don't like giving my phone number and email address away nor having someone check my temperature but, the broader democratic freedoms aside, it wasn't really either onerous or even intrusive. In fact there were definite upsides. The cinemas closed for a while but for months after they'd re-opened they were more or less deserted and nobody crunched popcorn or commented noisily on the action. It's only in the last month or so that I've had to share the film with more than a couple of people. Cleaners roamed in mobs, the hand soap dispensers were filled to the brim, the hand towels were waiting, no sweets, no popcorn and lots and lots of space around the seats. Even in an empty cinema, with just the two of us, people would check that we were still wearing masks. It all felt secure. In fact there have been no outbreaks linked to cinemas.

Theatres have been the same with spare seats between patrons and whole rows of seats left empty to keep people apart. The productions have fewer people on stage than usual and musical performances dropped from full orchestras to quartets and wind ensembles. Even contemporary music concerts were carefully controlled with the audience seated on some pre-numbered chair with lots of space around. Security guards prowled to make sure that you stayed put unless your bladder demanded otherwise. My primary school teachers would have approved.

Now, as I type, lots of us, the old and the not so old, have been vaccinated, immunised maybe. We only have to wear masks inside or outside when we are in crowded spaces. The tables in the bars are closer, waiters are back to wiping down tables with dirty cloths and the lottery as to whether there will be hand soap and paper towels in the toilets is back to normal. We are forgetting very quickly how much effort has gone in to keeping us healthy and the infections, if not the deaths, are showing how blasé we have become about Covid. The TV is full of medical people complaining about full wards, high occupation of intensive care beds and the postponement of routine operations.

Covid has been bad, sometimes terrible, for all sorts of people and for all sorts of organisations. On a small scale I felt quite sorry for young people. Like very old people they only have limited time to enjoy their age. When I was at university I was able to take full advantage of my first taste of independent living. The problems of car loans, mortgages, finding work and all those boring adult things were still to come. It was a time for experimentation and new things. If I'd missed that brief slot it would have been gone forever. That's why I can empathise with the young people who feel aggrieved that they were criminalised for simply wanting to dance or to drink rum and coke with other drunken friends at 4am in the morning. 

It seemed to me that the authorities needed to recognise that this section of the population, in a rich, Western, democratically free country has high expectations. What they want may be trivial on the scale of things but then so are most of the things that most of us want most of the time. Young people's wants should not be less important than other sections of the community just because what they want isn't something particularly deep and meaningful. Nobody seemed to think that families wanting to share time together was valueless nor is there a public outcry when victorious sports people hug each other or when politicians rub shoulders at Very Important Summits. Shutting down the dance clubs might be an easy option but opening the dance clubs and keeping them safe should not be beyond the wit of a rich and well organised Western state.

And that's how we get back to the Mar de Músicas. We'd gone to see Califato ¾ which is a band from Andalucia whose songs mix traditional musical elements, from that region, with other styles from rock and punk to electronic music.

The band came on stage at the appointed time. This is a nearly unknown phenomenon in Spain. It surprised at least half the audience which arrived after the off. Most of the late arrivals seemed to need to pass directly in front of my view of the band. Meanwhile, not in any big way but in an annoyingly consistent way, the tallest man on the mixing desk chose to stand rather than sit. He was just in my line of sight. The beer trolleys and the people with beer packs on their back wandered around. They too seemed determined to pause in my direct line of sight. Lots of the audience moved chairs to be nearer their friends, their mask use was less than consistent and, rather as you would expect, they stood up to dance gripping on to their big plastic beer glasses. 

At a normal concert with normal rules I'd have done what I always do when the off duty basketball player stands in front of me, when the stoned group of mates start to dance and tread on my toes, when the really drunk little man starts to unintentionally fling beer around with his drunken dancing and when I just feel uncomfortable to be wherever I am in the seething crowd. I'd move. But I wasn't supposed to move and being a rule following fuddy duddy I simply stayed put and seethed. Nobody was really doing anything particularly wrong, it just peeved me. 

Actually I didn't care for the antics of one of the band members either; some big fat bloke who seemed to delight in showing off his belly. I suspected that, were we ever to meet in a quieter setting, he and I would have found little to talk about and that he may have relieved the boredom by lighting his farts. Or, of course, he may be erudite and charming man. And, to top it off, I didn't understand a word they said. Again that's hardly surprising as the band's last album made heavy use of a spelling system called EPA (Estándar para el andaluz or, under its own, non official rules, Êttandâ pal andalûh) which is designed specifically to represent the Andalucian dialect in a written form. Not understanding what is said in Spanish always makes me cross.

The terrible thing was that the music was really good but I couldn't both seethe and cheer wildly so I chose to sulk.

Botillo and friends

Last week we went on holiday. We stopped off at a couple of places but our destination was Finisterre, the End of the Earth, in Galicia.

When you travel in Spain, which usually means that you will eat in a restaurant, the choice of food is simple. If you were to travel to Valencia for instance you would probably order paella, if you were to come to Pinoso the paella would be the rabbit and snails variety. Go to Cartagena you might try caldero. In Asturias the first choice would probably be fabada and in Cataluña you might try calçots. Eating the regional food is something that Spaniards do when they visit and it's something we mimic.

We were in Ponferrada, which is still in León but closing in on Galicia. There was something on the set meals list called botillo which turned out to be a reddish ball like thing full of bones, lumps of fatty pork seasoned with paprika all shoved into a gut skin and served with cabbage, potatoes and chickpeas. It is an experience I won't be repeating but the experiment is always worth a shot. 

Now, although she would deny this, Maggie is a bit of a picky eater. She doesn't like fish, she's not at all keen on most veg. and with severe limitations on what sort and style of meat. This can cause problems. For instance Finisterre has a fish dock. This means that its restaurants tend to major in things harvested from the sea. What's more that the offer is quite traditional. There must have been ten or more restaurants in a line and all of them did fritura which is, usually, several varieties of deep fried, and often battered seafood and fish, served by weight. It's a big thing in several Spanish seaside towns. Go to Santa Pola and watch big family groups devour kilos of fried squid and cuttlefish. As well as fritura Finisterre also does barnacles, razor shells, crayfish, lobster, clams, scallops, sea bass, cockles, mussels and so on. Now I wouldn't like to suggest that these restaurants don't have steak or chicken and chips but asking for those things is a bit like ordering egg and chips in a Chinese restaurant. If you're in Finisterre then the expectation is that you will eat fish. We ended up in a pizza and burger place having a conversation about why, using the same basic products, these restaurants choose not to vary their offer and so compete. It's not a huge leap to, for example, clam chowder, seafood pasta, ceviche, curried scallops, crab cakes or scallops with a bean salad. But that's not what Spanish restaurants do. All the eateries offer the same food and the same basic recipes. The repetition of set meals featuring codillo, empanada, pimientos de padrón, lacón con pimentón, callos con garbanzos and churrasco throughout Galicia was almost complete.

Spain is full of great cooks and splendid restaurants but the majority of them, at least the ones within our financial reach, offer cheap and plentiful food as their staple. There are places, lots of them, that offer something more contemporary, more adventurous, but they are nowhere near as ubiquitous as the chop and chips places which is a shame.

Swarming things that swarm on the earth

A few days ago, in Galicia, where we were, you needed a light jacket in the evening. Daytime temperatures were low but, with the sun, it was perfectly pleasant. A Coruña was the worst, weatherwise. As we joined the crowds to protest the homophobic killing of Samuel Luiz it was bucketing down. I know it rains a lot up North but I'd underestimated the Northern Europeanness of the Galician climate, my shorts got a week off and I had to buy more socks. Sandals and trainers with invisible socks were just too Mediterranean.

Back in Alicante the sun was cracking the flags. The news was full of weather warnings for everywhere except where we were. Pinoso is quite high up and the temperature only got to about 38ºC but other places in the province got over 40ºC. On the journey back, and yesterday too, we had dust laden skies and high temperatures.

So we returned from temperate climes with greenery and rivers to the dustiness of Alicante. Yesterday was the first full day back so there were sweeping and garden tasks to be done. I don't like flies much at all but I really can't bear it when the little buggers land in the corner of my mouth for a quick feed. Horrid. They were doing it a lot yesterday.

After dark the flies go away but hundreds of other beasties come out to play. The room I generally use for my computer work opens directly onto a patio. Beetles, often caught up in the fluffiness of airborne seed carriers, process across the floor, the occasional lost ant runs around in circles, the moths settle on the wall not expecting the predatory small lizard and tens and tens of other small walking and flying and jumping things come and go. If it's true that 95% of all life on earth is plant then there must be an awful lot of plants.

I was typing. A small iridescent beetly shaped thing walked back and forth amongst the keys of my keyboard, a little moth had taken up residence below F6 and just above &, there was an ant too investigating the space bar. Something very, very small and white was negotiating the forest of the grey hairs on my forearm. The room was awash with life other than mine. I was tired, the blog wasn't going well. Time for bed I thought, I'll finish it tomorrow. As I headed for the toothbrush I saw something twiglike on the red cloth of one of the armchairs in the room. I presumed a cat had carried the debris in on its fur. I went to remove it and the cricket like beast, surprised by my touch, bounced into my face before disappearing under the bed.

A friend commented on my lauding of the heat in Alicante but I must say it's glad to be home, sockless and coatless.

Typically typical normality

In Spanish shopping centres, like everywhere else, the fronts of shops are, often, open. The idea is obvious enough. The shops want to make sure that there is no barrier to you buying something.

It's not the same in small towns. There shops not only have doors but they are also, often, locked. You have to ring a bell to get in. It's not for security, not in the jeweller's shop sense, but it is because the staff in lots of smaller businesses aren't exactly waiting, poised, for the next customer. It's not just shops. For instance you have to ring the bell to get into the Footwear Museum in Elda.

So I went to buy an inner tube for my bike. The fly curtain covered the front door of the shop. There was a bell. Once upon a time I would have found this odd but I've rung so many bells here that it's just normally normal nowadays. I rang it. Nobody came. I realised there was a note on the door. It said ring the bell. It also said if we don't answer telephone this number. I rang the number. Nobody answered.

I abandoned the bike shop and went to a tyre place. One of those Euromaster type tyre and battery chains. There the barrier at the entrance is of a different nature. The franchise in Pinoso is run by the sort of bloke you meet in a UK boozer when you'd hoped to have a quiet pint and read the paper. One of those blokes who speaks with a Haghill Glasgow or a Byker Newcastle accent and hasn't got his teeth in today. Or he could be a bloke who plays dominoes very loudly. Not that the Pinoso man was from Haghill, Byker, toothless or playing dominoes. I'm trying to paint a word picture to describe a sort of non stockbroker belt sort of person.

He was putting new tyres on someone's car but I'm not quite as British as I once was so I didn't wait till he'd finished to get served. "A question", I said. This is the phrase which is used all over Spain (in Spanish) to queue jump. "Do you sell inner tubes for bikes?". Apparently my pronunciation of inner tube (cámara) and mask (mascarilla) are similar enough for a moment of misunderstanding but I'm not quite as British as I once was so I simply repeated the word more loudly and with more roll on the R. Individual words became the order of the day on his side. Size? Valve? I was still on fuller phrases. Give me two, car type valve, how much? The answer to the latter was 9€. I handed over a ten and he returned the 1€ in a Barnes Wallis style bouncing the coin across the counter. I smiled, he grunted and all three of us said goodbye one to the other.

Later, cooking lunch, my phone rang. I answered. The person on the other end asked who I was. I told the truth and she apologised and hung up. Later I realised it was the bike shop person checking who'd phoned. Do people do that in the UK? Lots of people do it here; phone the missed call number that is.

All unremarkable really but all quite Spanish. 

Just to finish and because this tickled me rather than because it has anything to do with shopping. Today is the last day that you can turn the old Spanish currency, the peseta, into Euros. You've been able to do it whenever you liked for the past twenty years but today was the very last time and people were queuing around the block at the central banks in Murcia and Valencia. Strange behaviour.

Moving forward together

I'm sure you've heard my theory before that you don't learn popular culture; if you're born somewhere then the culture is yours be that food, music, TV programmes or YouTube influencers. You can't help it. The talk at work, the talk at school, the stuff your parents tell you, the memes and gifs that turn up on your phone, the little snippets you read in the newspaper all help to make sure that you know what's going on. That's how, I suppose, I learned about MOTs, Trooping the Colour, Premium Bonds, the Boat Race, laverbread, the RNLI Lifeboats, Spaghetti Junction, Engelbert Humperdinck, driving on the left and how to make tea. 

Changes in language are similar. Ordinary people are in charge. Words and phrases come and go. Some old academic bloke might argue that there is a perfectly good phrase to describe keeping a safe distance during a pandemic but everyone else is going to say social distancing whether he likes it or not. Somebody once asked me about how you decide that someone is competent in a particular language. What's the threshold for somebody to be able to say that they speak English, Spanish or Swahili? Some people have less education than others, some have learned more vocabulary, some have different ideas about how language should be used but who is to say which form is better than another? What says that the Radio 4 pundit talking about early 20th Century Art speaks better English than the geezer with the barrow having a beer in the Queen Vic? Where is the level? If an ordinary Spaniard doesn't know a word that came from a novel does that make the novelist highbrow or the non word knower lowbrow or are they simply different people?

This does mean that some things that come easily to locals require much more effort from we outsiders. I know a little bit about Spanish history and politics because I've made an effort to do so but it's much more difficult to latch on to everyday things. Consider, for instance, events; things like sports matches, theatre, concerts, guided visits, exhibitions and demonstrations. Sometime, shortly after we got here I had a bit of an email battle with one of the local tourist offices which had published a calendar of events. Most were without dates. Why bother to put dates when Mother's day is always the first Sunday in May and "everybody" knows that or when it's common knowledge that International Book Day is the 23rd April. I suppose that, among Britons, Christmas Day wouldn't necessarily get a date either but it does suppose that everyone shares the same knowledge. There was a time when Ramadan and Diwali would have passed unremarked in the UK but, nowadays, that isn't the case. The argument I made to the tourist office was that they needed to remember that not everyone in their town shared the same, Spanish, Catholic background. 

I was thinking about this yesterday just after I'd spent ages trawling through the Facebook pages and other tourist offices and town halls websites to see what sort of things are happening locally over the summer. Some of those things are repetitive, they turn up regularly  - like Burns Night, The Grand National, the Lewes Bonfire, Trooping the Colour, Turkey and sprouts, Glastonbury or Glyndebourne - whilst other things are one offs - concerts, weddings, race meetings, car rallies, election hustings, break dance competitions and so on. Some are things that you might anticipate and plan for. I don't know when Henley Regatta is or Royal Ascot or the Manx TT but it's relatively easy to find out and plan for them if you fancy getting involved. Here in Spain I might do the same for Holy Week in Malaga or the candle festival in Aledo. The flip side is that the only way to know that Villena tourist office is going to do a guided tour of the village of Zafra is to check their publicity. Checking Villena's website, well that and the other thirty that go along with it, is turning into a right slog.

Mind you finding out about local things isn't always such mind numbing toil. I was in Castilla la Mancha the other day and I went for a set menu in a restaurant. One of the dishes was called Galianos which I'd never heard of but turned out to be a pheasant and rabbit dish. I was pondering Galianos and its position in "the popular database". My guess is that many Spaniards wouldn't know what Galianos is either but I also suppose that the situation would be akin to me eating with my, relatively young, nephews. Imagine bubble and squeak or toad in the hole was on the menu. Ny nephews may never have heard of them, they're old fashioned foods after all. I have though so we could pool our experience. In return I presume they would help me out with what to order in a Korean restaurant on the basis that they have probably eaten Korean when I haven't. 

Some things we just know. Some things we learn. Some things we have to search out.

Warming up

Last night, well this morning I suppose, the windows started to rattle and the wind howled and the thunder thundered and the lightning lit the bedroom from time to time. When I got up a couple of hours later the sun was shining on the puddles on the patio and the cats were tiptoeing from dry spot to dry spot. It's a sign of the time of year. Like my feet hurting. Neither is new. I've complained about this, the feet that is, a lot. It stems from walking miles in flat bottomed sandals at Benicassim pop festival but the foot pain was always bad each summer long before the Benicassim debacle. Really the trouble starts as I move from proper shoes with proper socks to sandals and lighter shoes worn with those funny short socks. In Spanish the socks are called pinkies. Isn't that a great name?

So Summer, early Summer when it's still Spring, is big storms and uncomfortable feet. And flies, hundreds of flies, thousands of flies. No, not just flies really; all sorts of small flying and walking things with myriad legs. Some of them bite, some sting, some amuse the cats or sing long and loud into the night. The cats were keeping their distance from a small but very hissy snake in the living room yesterday morning. I escorted it out into the field opposite wearing big gardening gloves (me not the snake). The toads have stopped though; I haven't seen any toads for a while. Sometime in the winter I kept finding toads all over the place - they seemed to like the shower in the guest room especially but also just the corner under the computer desk. The wasps and bees are back too. The wasps are really attracted to water. If the hose isn't turned off at the tap it drips and forms a shallow puddle on the patio and that water attracts a large but mono-specific cloud of wasps (should that adjective be unispecific, unispecies, monospecies?). I hear that people who have pools find this waspish determination to drink water less than amusing. I don't know why the swallows, which are particularly talkative at this time of year, don't swoop down on these various clouds of fast food. Maybe they do, maybe that's why they fly acrobatically close to my head every now and again. And at dusk the chattering of swallows becomes the clicking whistling of the bats.

But I realised this is because it's now definitely summer. It's easy to tell when it's summer in Spain, in Alicante at least. It becomes warm on a regular basis. There is no doubt about it as there is in the UK. The shower is a good indicator of this. In winter I wait for the water to run warm from the distant gas water heater but, by now, if I'm impatient, even the cold water isn't cold enough to be unusable from the get go. The mirror doesn't mist up either but that might be because the window is open. And doors and windows stay open. I have to remember that we need to be security conscious and lock this and that.

Lots more motor traffic in the lane too. The apricot tractor went back and forth and back and forth with the trailer piled high with blue plastic boxes full of fruit. I suppose that's why people have to buy their shelves from Ikea now because nobody uses those orange boxes that I fastened together as shelves when I was a poor student. But there are lots more traffic movements in general. I suppose there are maintenance tasks even if they are not harvesting. I'm certainly locked in a struggle with the the Culebrón plant life. The weeds can grow faster than I can knock them down - I swear that some can grow 15cms from one day to the next. The mulberries fell onto the drive to be squashed underfoot, under-tyre, and turned into an oozing pulp that had to be swept away, now the nisperos are falling off the trees in significant quantities and just to add to the fun some sort of ball things, seed pods I suppose, are tumbling off the palm tree in dustpan flexing quantities. If my fight with the plants, on a garden scale is grim and unceasing then I suppose the farmers are locked into something even more titanic. Mind you their hoes are bigger than mine.

No doubt about it though. It's warming up and it'll soon be my very favourite time of year here in Spain, when the countryside just heaves and sighs as the sun beats down. And I can crack open the ice cold beer without any feelings of protestant guilt.

Fleeting success

Our neighbours have been putting up a new fence over the past couple of weeks. Facing each other across the footings for what would be the new fence Vicente, for that's the name of our neighbour, was complaining about the builders. I sympathised - one has to with builders. Even builders complain about, other, builders. Taking advantage of his sunny disposition towards me I asked him if he could spare a couple of the concrete blocks that were piled up in his yard. The question I asked was something, in translation, like "Are two of the concrete blocks in excess for you?" I got them and I went away well pleased with myself not only because I had the blocks, but also because I'd used a phrase that a Spaniard would use without having rehearsed it beforehand. 

I mentioned this phrase to my online Spanish teacher. I was bemoaning the fact that this, and other, fleeting victories over Spanish are wasted on the audience. I may be pleased with myself for having got the construction right but it's unlikely that Vicente noticed. If you're a native English speaker you might notice the mistake in "is a nice day" but you wouldn't notice the correctness of  "it's a nice day".

You, one, becomes much more aware of language when you're not comfortable with it. I often find myself repeating a Spanish phrase after hearing it on a news broadcast or in a song. Often it's not the intricate stuff that seems to be the hardest. For instance Spaniards find it really hard, when they are speaking English, to remember to use pronouns, the little words that go before a verb. They are not needed in Spanish so they get forgotten in English. It's common to hear was a teacher instead of he was a teacher and she is late often becomes is late. It's no big deal. It hardly matters. Even those people who speak spectacularly good English, think Eurovision Song Contest hosts, don't quite sound right if you start analysing what they say. Even if their grammar is good, the vocabulary right and the phrasing OK you, one, will still notice that their inflexion, their pacing and their tonality is just slightly off when compared to a native speaker.

Obviously it's the same the other way. There's a programme on Spanish radio hosted by a bloke called Nicholas Jackson who's from Manchester. I wish my Spanish were as good as his but he sounds like a Briton speaking Spanish. Even someone like the writer Ian Gibson, who has been here for years, still has an Irish twang behind his very colloquial Spanish. 

Young Britons brought up in Spain offer a strange case. At home, with carers or parents, their principal language is usually English. In the street, with friends, at work, at school their key language is Spanish. In effect English becomes, very much, their secondary language and lots of young British people grow to make the same mistakes in English as their Spanish peers - referring to their parents as their fathers for instance. They also, often, have a, relatively, limited English vocabulary and lots of trouble with English spellings.

My style of speaking Spanish is still very much an exercise in join the dots. I provide a list of vocabulary and I hope that the Spaniard I'm speaking to will be able to piece together what I'm trying to say. I've never liked performing - I don't dance, I don't do pass the cucumber, I don't even ask for street directions. Recently though, a couple of times, I've been quite pleased with myself because I've been less reluctant to speak. I put it down to speaking two hours Spanish each week through the online classes. Outside of the online sessions I don't really have Spanish conversations. Ten minutes with the neighbour, a sentence or two in a shop, a short exchange of phrases in a bar or restaurant. Mind you it's not all wine and roses. I still, sometimes, go to see a film in Spanish and, when it's done, if it weren't for the pictures, I'd have no idea what it was about even.

Ars Gratia Artis

Luis Garcia Berlanga was a Valencian born, Spanish film director who made some 19 films between 1951 and 2002. He was born on 12 June 1921, 100 years ago give or take, and his centenary is being celebrated all over Spain through lots of screenings, exhibitions and new books. I went to see one of his films, el Verdugo, The Executioner, at the Fundación Paurides in Elda on Wednesday evening. 

Now Elda is our nearest large town so I know it reasonably well but I'd never heard of the Paurides Foundation. The bit of town it's in didn't seem particularly salubrious. The woman who dragged her three kids past me as I was locking the car gave me a very fierce look as though I didn't belong. I double checked that I'd locked up securely. Google maps, on my mobile, refused to speak and was almost invisible in the bright 7pm sun as I searched for the venue. I found it though. The Paurides Foundation turned out to be a neighbourhood based arts and culture centre with a nice little auditorium of about 60 seats and a maximum Covid audience of 30. There were about 20 of us there to see the film. The screening was free as were the film notes.

There was an intro from the bloke who seemed to be in charge which I think was mainly to give the latecomers time to arrive - Spaniards call it courtesy time, Brits call it lateness. I missed some of the little jokes in the film, not all of them, but I had no problem keeping up with the main plot line. I winced as the end of film discussion was hijacked by one of those blokes who is keen to prove that he knows more about the film/director than the organisers. All very much par for the course for any film club type event. With a bit of luck I'll be back next week for at least one of the other two titles they are showing.

What was most remarkable about this event was that it was completely unremarkable. As I was driving away, in my unscathed motor, I though how I've got used to there being quite a lot of free or inexpensive cultural events going on left right and centre in nearly all of the towns, large and small, round and about. Even here in Pinoso, a town of only 8,000 people, we have, from time to time, free concerts, cheap or free theatre, book launches, poetry and writing events, guided visits and almost anything else cultural you could think to shake a stick at. I've heard lots of complaints that arts and culture are underfunded and undervalued in Spain but I actually find the opposite. What I don't like is finding out, after the event, that I missed something I really would have liked to see. You have no idea how guiltily happy I was that Yo Yo Mar had been Covid cancelled in Alicante; imagine if I'd missed him because I didn't know he was on until after the date!!

Making up for lost time

We went to see some street theatre last week. It wasn't good. Blokes talking in funny voices wearing tight trousers and red noses as they tripped over imaginary obstacles. What was good was that it was on.

We couldn't get past the barriers that marked off the performance areas because we hadn't pre-booked our tickets but it didn't matter much as there was a bar beside two of the three spaces we went to and we were able to sit at the bar, non alcohol beer in hand, and half watch the performances. 

If there is still a limitation on the permitted number outside a bar (for ages it was 30% of capacity then 50%, keeping a couple of metres between the tables etc.) it is no longer noticeable. We're all still wearing our masks. I sometimes wonder, as I wash the car down in the local petrol station or tramp across some field looking for cucos, why I'm wearing a mask but I still do. The tea leaves suggest it won't go on much longer. I decided not to add a pack of ten of the FFP2 type masks to my supermarket shop the other day - I'm sure my hoard will see me through. Anyway, I digress. I always do. It's what makes it so easy to maintain a conversation on the video Spanish classes. I'm flitting from one thing to another and the hour is soon gone. 

So, we're in the bar and watching some unfunny clown. There are people all around us. They are greeting friends with hugs. It's warm and sunny and just like Spain as the summer begins to gear up. There is a pretence to mask wearing but lots are below nose and everybody is back to corporal greetings. Actually that's not quite true. There's a code to it. What people do is to tap elbows or bump fists as some sort of neoCovid greeting and that ritual over they then cheek kiss and/or hug. Some people, standing within centimetres of me, keep bumping into my plastic chair. It's a bit annoying. Everybody pays lip service but really, in the common consciousness, the virus has gone away. Even in the health centre the other day, when I went for my second jab, they took my temperature before letting me cross the threshold but forgot to direct me to the hand gel and I forgot too. I alternatively snigger and feel aggrieved as the news story about the ever so naughty young people who've been dancing and drinking at some "illegal" do without masks are followed by shots of politicians dancing and hugging each other after an election victory or back slapping at some meeting in Brussels, Ankara of Medellín. Rules, as always, different for the haves and the have nots.

As everything begins to open up, as the theatre programmes look fuller, as there is more and more advertised music, as some guided walks are happening again I'm back to spending hours looking at the things on offer. I trawl through town hall and tourist office websites and search out websites for this and that annual event. Maybe I'm trying to overcompensate for the things we've missed. There is so much being advertised that Maggie is already getting a bit fed up with my enthusiasms. I do the  - well, whilst we're in Alicante for Axolotes Mexicanos (indie band) we could pop in to the exhibition at the MUBAG (art gallery) and then go on to the English language film at the Kineopolis - and Maggie looks at me,  rolls her eyes and says - or we could sit on the terrace with a nice cool drink.

Colourful

Thanks to William Blake, and probably more particularly to Hubert Parry, we know what colour England is. It's a green and pleasant land. I heard the tune the other day and it made me wonder what colour Spain is.

Round here my first thought is dust coloured. Alicante is summer and the summer is all orange and yellow and buff with a bright yellow sun. 

Blue as well. People often comment on the blue of the Alicantino sky. And the Med of course, despite being, apparently, full of plastic and other even more horrid things often gleams bright turquoise or sky blue. Just over the border into Castilla la Mancha, where they are a bit short of Mediterranean colour, they like to paint their towns white and indigo blue to compensate. 

If the Manchegos paint their towns blue and white the Alicantino tradition is of different colours to the facades of adjacent houses. Villajoyosa is well known for it but even in the streets of Pinoso the tradition is there if you look. Alicantino houses also have tall windows, with the jambs picked out in a different colour and fancy window grilles.

Of course it may be that Spain is green.  Not the British green. Well certainly not that drab grey and browny green of a cold English winter's day, complete with cawing crows. We do have greens. The vibrant greenness of the vines and the the, rather prosaically, olive green of the olives. Mind you, up North, the clichéd picture would show green pastures and black and white or Guernsey coloured cows. There may be pipers too; Galicia is big on bagpipes. The Cantabrian coast is called the Green Coast, la Costa Verde.

Down on la huerta, the market garden, of Valencia, the Orange Blossom coast, I could try to suggest that the orange groves provide another colour but the truth is that it's the smell rather than the look that oranges do best - at blossom time the citrus groves are pungently fragrant. That's not the case with the blossoms on the almond, cherry and peach trees with blossom which goes from the whitest of pinks to the darkest of reds.

When I asked Maggie what colour she thought Spain was she instantly said white. If you've ever travelled around Andalucia you'll know why. The villages there, often built on the hilltops are a blaze of white. Andalucia also uses that colour scheme beloved of bullrings - red and yellow. Like the colours of the Spanish flag. 

And all under the sun as the old advertising slogan used to say.

Nights on a white charger

I was in town this morning, on Bulevar, drinking coffee and reading a really interesting book about doors. A car stopped, the driver jumped out and went into the paper shop to get a newspaper. While he was parked, in the middle of the one way street, a van came up behind and had to wait. When the paper purchaser came out of the shop the van driver shouted to him "You couldn't do that in Madrid".  And it's true

Nobody would describe Pinoso, or even Culebrón, as "Deep Spain", la España profunda. That's the Spain that's empty, without services, left behind by the modern world. No mobile network, no health services locally, no Internet access, no shops. But lots of Spain is like that; nearly empty. There are hundreds of villages that only have a few inhabitants, usually older people, and there are even villages that are totally abandoned apart from, maybe, occasional weekend and summer occupants. There's a whole movement about la España vaciada, empty or emptied Spain. Pinoso is very rural, very traditional, but it has plenty of shops and businesses and even a bit of social life. Young people say it's a bit boring but I remember that Peterborough was voted the crappiest town in the UK by young people a few years ago so we can't take much notice of them can we? And, if Pinoso is rural then Culebrón is much more so.

We once looked at a house in Huntingdon with a view to buying. It was one of those big pre war villas with a really nice, mature, fenced in garden. Inside it was original. The wiring for the lights was bell wire tacked onto the wall. There were 5 amp and a few 15 amp round pin plugs. Original wiring. The house was above our budget anyway and we knew that a full rewire, and the rest, would just be so expensive. Every time we passed that house, modernised by its new owners, I wished we'd been rich enough to buy it.

I never really thought about the electric installation in the UK as I moved from house to house. I still have no idea what sort of circuit breakers/fuses most places have but I know that they never popped unless something went seriously wrong. Here in Spain it's something to be aware of as you buy or rent a house or flat. You might have a contract for 5.5kw for instance. In theory this means that the fuses might pop with just a tumble dryer, the oven and an aircon unit on. In practice the circuit breakers are quite elastic and you could probably draw about 11kw before they plunge you into darkness. Here in Culebrón, for years, we got by with 2.2kw because the infrastructure wasn't up to supplying much more and even now we only have 3.45kw. It doesn't really cause us much of a problem except on cold winter mornings when it's easy to get over enthusiastic with fan heaters, toasters, kettles and microwaves.

At the start of next month all the electric bills in Spain will be changed to reflect a new three tier pricing system based on the time of day. In the parlance there will be peaks, troughs and plains. Rather unsurprisingly the most expensive electricity is when demand is highest and the least expensive is in the dead of night and also on national holidays and at weekends. For those of us on a controlled price type contract this will be reflected directly in the bill. We'll be able to see how much we were charged in each time zone. The idea is that we will change our habits to save money and consequently be a bit greener. How the companies that sell power in the free market pass on the new pricing structure will, presumably, be reflected in each customer's contract.

The interesting thing about this new three time zone controlled contract is that it also allows for two different levels of supply. For instance if you have a power supply of 10kw you may decide that in the troughs you could get by with 5kw. In our case the contracted power is so pathetic that we'd be popping fuses left right and centre, particularly over the weekends and on those bank holidays, but if we lived in a less rural place with a decent supply, it might be worth considering dropping the contracted power supply overnight. As you may expect the price for a lower rated supply is less than for a higher rated supply. The example that is always quoted is for the people with electric cars. Charge up overnight on doubly cheaply rated electric.

I rather suspect in our case that the new three tier system will make our electric bills just a tad more expensive than the current two tier system we're on. It might also mean that I have to stay up a bit later to run the washing machine from midnight and the tumble dryer at the end of the wash cycle or maybe I can get Alexa to do it for me.

Boundary changes

We were in a traffic jam this last weekend. A proper traffic jam. A traffic jam that kept stopping and starting and which we took half an hour to clear. I felt quite sorry for the bloke in the Porsche Cayenne Coupé. He was originally alongside as we put on the hazard warning lights and slowed to join the tailback. He was so pressed for time though that he had to dodge from lane to lane. It worked. He was at least 100 metres in front of us when the traffic started to move again as the RM19 motorway, the one we were on, merged into the A30 that skirts Murcia city. 

I seriously don't remember the last time I was in a similar traffic jam here in Spain. We don't have traffic in the countryside. We really don't. Sometimes, where the Monóvar road meets the Yecla road in Pinoso, there's a police officer to make sure that you don't have problems turning left across traffic but that's only around the time the industrial estate kicks out. On the main roads in and out of Pinoso it's quite likely that you'll only see one or two cars, or none, in every couple of kilometres.

The traffic jam was important only in a lateral thinking sort of way. There was so many cars because, for the first weekend in ages, most of the Covid travel restrictions had gone. A few regions tried to maintain the border controls but the courts were having none of it. We've still got a midnight curfew in Valencia which might have been important if we'd been making our way home three or four hours later but we weren't so it wasn't. 

We didn't go far. About 100km from Culebrón but only 3.3km over the border from our home province. We were near Lo Pagán with the salt pans, the mud baths, the flamingos and the Mar Menor. Hundreds, nay thousands, of people had the same idea. Hence our difficulty in parking at the Port in las Salinas and the traffic jam later. 

When in Rome as the saying goes.

Hubble Bubble

The modern world is leaving me behind. I've said before about paying for things with my phone. I keep meaning to but, well, I don't really see the point. It looks as though using an app to pay may be slower than taking a plastic card out of my wallet and waving it at the payment terminal. I know I'm not keeping up though. My outlook is wrong. Lots of things that are, apparently, essential, from gaming to only tucking in half of my t-shirt seem a bit pointless to me. It smacks of my dad complaining about my musical tastes. Tom Eliot put it so well in his poem Little Gidding "let me disclose the gifts reserved for age". 

It's not that I feel that dinosaur like. I know about Google lens. This morning the arty Spanish podcast I was listening to (on my noise cancelling bluetooth headphones may I add) talked about the 40th anniversary of Bob Marley's death (who I proudly admit to seeing, in concert, in London in 1976). The music that accompanied the piece was a Joe Strummer version of Redemption song. I mentioned that I'd liked the song to Maggie who often comments, one way or another, on my dotage. She suggested that a quick visit to Spotify or YouTube would soothe any unrequited musical hankerings. I knew that. The truth is though that I still tend to buy and download music rather than listening to some streaming service. I find the unreliability of mobile networks quite annoying. There's a duet version with Johnny Cash too.

Anyway. Yesterday I had a phone appointment with a doctor. She said she would write me a prescription for some medication. I asked about the process for picking up the scrip and she sounded nearly as patronising as Maggie when she answered. "I've put it on your card," she said.

Here in Valencia we have a SIP card. The initials stand for, Sistema de Información Poblacional, the Population Information System, which sounds very Big Brother to me. Although this health service card, well the phone app associated with it, can be used to make and check appointments the card is most used as identification within the health system; every time you see a doctor or a nurse, have a hospital appointment or pick up a prescription from a chemist you are asked to show the card. What I didn't know was that the doctor can tap the details of any prescription into her computer and that same information becomes available in the pharmacies. Produce the SIP card and the chemist can hand over the medicines. I don't use doctors often enough to be sure of this but I think it may be something that has been beefed up because physical appointments have become so much rarer in times of Covid. 

Just to finish off I have another old man confession. I had jobs to do in town. I had to fill the prescription but I also needed a butane bottle. Whilst I was getting the gas I bought a broom. A Macbeth type witch's broom. I hoped that it would be good for flicking the fallen mulberries to the side. You can't get much more traditional than that. I'm told it needs no recharging and works without any sort of internet connection.

Getting my jab

Not that I expected a marching band or anything but I did expect a bit more of an event. A queue of people waiting for the vaccination would have made it more memorable, serried ranks of desks each one attended by a little group of medical personnel all in purple gloves would have been good. But none of it.

Yesterday I got a phone call on the landline. It was the local health centre and they gave me a time for an appointment today. I left home fifteen minutes before the set time. "I'm here for the jab," I said and I think the person on the door already knew my name rather than reading my name from the health card she asked to see. No temperature check or anything.

I was taken to a chair in the corridor, where people normally wait to see the doctors, and told to wait. I was given a couple of stapled bits of the sort of photocopy where the second copy was made from a copy and the third copy from the second copy and so on for forty generations. Stencil quality. The first sheet told me all the possible side effects. One of those was cefalea. I sniggered. It's the technical term for a range of headaches. Spanish "authorities" have never agreed with Hemingway that there are older and simpler and better words and always choose to use an obscure word to show how much cleverer they are than you. There was a date and time for the second dose too just three weeks away. The second sheet told me that I was getting the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine. The paperwork also told me the internet links to get copies of the full prospectus sheet for the vaccine and a certificate of vaccination.

I waited a while. A young woman wearing a white coat and pushing a trolley asked me if I was allergic to anything - I gave my usual answer of bills and taxes - she checked if I was taking some drug, which I wasn't, and pushed a needle in to the top of my arm. The same sort of injection that I've had hundreds if not thousands of times before. She pushed a bit of damp gauze against my "wound" and said to wait for fifteen minutes. I did. Then I left. At the door I made a vague effort to check f it were OK to leave but nobody was the least interested in me and I needed to go to Alfredo's to arrange a haircut while I was in town.

And still no band.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away

I always called it Road Tax and I suppose that's what it really was, in the beginning. You had a car and you paid tax that was then used to build and repair roads. It's not a principle that's applied to schools or social services but I can see the sense.  Not everybody needs roads so the people with vehicles pay. But UK road tax was abolished in 1937, long before even I was born, and replaced by Vehicle Excise Duty. This is, and was, a tax on cars, not roads, and it goes straight into the general fund.

Here in Spain I pay a vehicle tax too. It's charged by the local town hall and collected on their behalf by a tax management agency, called SUMA. SUMA is a local organisation created by most of the Alicante town halls, working collectively, to collect local taxes. The tax on the Arona for this year is a bit short of 18€. Obviously comparing a local tax with a central government tax is unreasonable but it looks as though the Vehicle Excise Duty in the UK for the same car would be £155. 

The roads have to be paid for somehow and we have a lot of toll motorways in Spain. The motorway that runs up the Mediterranean coast was a toll road for years but most of that became free at the beginning of 2020. Not all the local motorways are free though and we still have a couple of paying motorways close to us. There's one that goes around Alicante and another that branches off the Mediterranean motorway heading for Torrevieja and Cartagena. In the olden days, when we weren't confined to our home region and we could stay out after 10pm, the SatNav often warned us of tolls. I think we were paying 12 centimos for every kilometre on the Mediterranean motorway just before the toll was removed so that popping up to see pals in Altea, which only took a bit over an hour, cost around 18€ for the round trip. 

I don't like tolls much. It's not that they are inherently bad but they always strike me as expensive. On October 7th 2004 my diary entry says that my 1977 MGB GT covered the 1349 miles from Huntingdon to Santa Pola using about 200€ worth of petrol and with 120€ in tolls. MGBs are old and thirsty cars. Mine had the steering wheel on the wrong side for paying tolls on the European mainland. I got quite a lot of exercise, running around the car. The cat in the passenger seat was no help at all!

Anyway. You may have noticed that we've been having a bit of a problem with a virus. Like nearly everyone else the EU decided to print money to deal with this. They told Spain they could have 140 billion to fund a recovery plan. There were lots of conditions to getting the money, most of which I don't remember, or never knew, but the news reports always mention principals like developing modern infrastructure and being greener. Spain had to write a plan to say how it intended to spend the billions but also how it intended to help itself. Apparently the plan is only about 800 pages longer than Tolstoy's War and Peace and on, at least, one of those pages is the plan to introduce or reintroduce tolls on all Spanish motorways.

I can't imagine that the new tolls, due for 2024, will be paid at toll booths by actually handing over coins or banknotes or even virtual money but, however they track my use and make me pay I'm sure I won't like it.

On C90s and Romesh Ranganathan

Valencia, the region we live in, has had less severe Covid restrictions than some other regions. Bars and restaurants, cinemas and theatres, shops and hairdressers have been open, with varying restrictions, since May of 2020. We've been confined to our region and there has been a curfew from ten in the evening for months and months but, overall, we've got off pretty lightly. On May 9th the State of Emergency will end and, when it does, heaven knows what will happen. The Spanish Constitution outlines rights and duties and free movement is one of the rights. I'm interested to see how things go as the regional governments try to enforce restrictions that will be challenged as unconstitutional in the courts.

Spain hasn't yet reaped many of the apparent benefits of mass immunisation because the vaccination programme has been very slow. At first the organisation was a bit slapdash but now the main problem seems to be the supply of the various vaccines. The regional health authorities have used, or have a use for, all the serum made available to them. The confusion around the safety of some of the vaccines for certain age groups also caused so many fits and starts that the social networks are awash with complaints that some groups have been immunised before other groups have had their first jab.

Given that we have been supposed to stay at home as much as possible lots of the things that normally happen haven't. Even the things that we have been allowed to do have seemed a bit desperate, a little like doggedly lighting the barbecue under the eaves of the building despite the wind and rain. It's fine walking along the coast but gazing out from misted sunspecs, because of the mask, onto a panorama of closed shops and bars soon loses its appeal. It also feels a bit uncivil too. Like the way that dancing has been criminalised. But fewer things happening means less to blog about.

One of my few sources of outside news are the italki sessions, the one to one online Spanish sessions with "native speakers". I've already written blogs based on several of those conversations but, drastic times call for drastic measures, so here I go again. 

Last week Juan Pablo seemed a bit down. He told me he'd just turned 30 and that he was still living at home without anything he could call a career. He supposed his life would be pure decline from then on in. We spent a while talking about what he wanted to do in the future. Simply as something to talk about I suggested that he go into business for himself. It was noticeable how uninterested he was in that idea and how quickly he dismissed most of my suggestions. I wasn't surprised and not just because my ideas were a bit far fetched. General perceptions, backed by numerous surveys, show that most young Spanish people hope to land a traditional, reasonably well paid, steady job rather than to make it big as an entrepreneur. Obviously enough video blogging has now joined the old favourite, pie in the sky, jobs of footballer and rock star in the lists. It's very unlikely that the next Elon Musk or Kylie Jenner will be Spanish. Failing in business here produces a stigma that nobody from the United States, and only very old Britons, would recognise and the bureaucratic obstacles to starting a business in Spain are still manifold and labyrinthine.

If Juan Pablo felt old then Susi helped me to feel ancient. At one point, no doubt after a failed play on words on my part, she told me that she didn't understand British humour. I said that I thought one of the main differences seemed to be that Spaniards often like physical humour. The sort of comedy that involves silly voices and falling over. I was at a bit of a disadvantage because the chance of me knowing anyone famous from the Anglo world who would be famous here was remote. When I left the UK people like Catherine Tate and David Walliams were cutting edge and YouTube comedians hardly existed. My grasp of the Spanish comedy scene is more than tenuous. I suggested to Susi that UK comedians were more like the standups Eva Hache, Berto Romero or Luis Piedrahita and not at all like Santiago Segura in the Torrente films (sexist, racist, slapstick) or José Mota (silly voices but and some sitcom type sketches). As Susi continued to look confused I suddenly remembered. Benny Hill. Benny Hill I shouted. Benny Hill was incredibly famous here. People loved Benny Hill. But apparently not Susi. Too young (her) or too old (me) I suppose.

A bit later I'm talking to Susi about how my experience is that Britons are more culturally in tune with European countries than they are with the United States despite the shared language. I have a time worn anecdote that involves someone in my 1989 Rover 416 Gsi choosing to play a Beethoven cassette because it was "more British" than the salsa, rancheras or cumbia which made up the bulk of my in car entertainment at the time. The story fell down a bit because Susi didn't know what a cassette was and also because my pronunciation of Beethoven wasn't immediately recognisable to her. 

It just goes to show though that whilst Susi may be young she isn't that "hip" either as the new Wolf Alice album in July has a cassette release. I also noticed that a singer from Murcia called Yana Zafiro is offering stuff on cassette along with lots of Bandcamp artists. Never mind, all of it is something to chat about.

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By the way if you fancy having a go at the italki lessons yourself, for any language, let me know. I'll recommend you and we both get to save some money if you actually sign up