As usual then it was a mad race to get all our affairs in Spain organised before beginning the long road journey back to Wales. We had to arrive by the 30th of June as this was when we had loads of appointments and issues to resolve when students moved out of our rental houses and new ones moved in on the 1st of July. And because the children played up so much in the car when we drove long distance, we always broke up the journey a lot and made a holiday of it.
We would drive to somewhere near Madrid or Valencia and stay in a hostel. Then it would be up to the border of Spain and France and another overnight stay. After the third day of driving we would stop for a few days in France on a camp site and have a mini-holiday. Then it was another day up through France and another two or three night stay and finally the home trek via the ferry from Caen or St Malo.
We were of course worried that the casa wouldn't be finished in time for the tourists, just as we'd been worried two years earlier that the cortijo summer rentals would go awry. We'd soon find out when we started getting the first bit of feedback.
There always seemed to be something to worry about. I found life such a struggle. Maybe my feelings were justified. I'd moved country with two small children and I'd experienced a series of disappointments in my new setting - including dealing with liars, cheats, thieves and flakes.
It did at least seem now, though, at the end of my third year, as though things were looking up. The house was nearly finished and was let out for the summer, so there would now be money coming into the bank account for a change and I'd no longer have to devote my days to liaising with builders and buying materials. My father had died only six months earlier as well and I'd handled it pretty well - no nervous breakdown. As for the children; they had friends in their new village school and they were both top of their classes. The business in the UK was ticking over - thriving even with property prices forever on the increase (although we often faced a lot of stress with tenants from hell). Surely we were over the worst and could now relax?
Postscript:
You may now have to wait some time until I prepare the next episode of our Spanish 'adventure' for my adoring public. Frankly, I've got to be in the mood to revisit some of this crap. It's even more tricky now that I'm facing another crisis (which I won't be telling you about; it's bloody astonishing sometimes what life can throw at you).
I'm also trying to think positively - which dwelling on a difficult past isn't that conducive to. Who knows? I may abandon this story altogether. I've often questioned the point in writing and publishing books. Sometimes hardly anyone reads them and even if millions read them, who cares? Those millions of people don't matter to me. Only a few people really matter to me. What is all this searching for public recognition and validation? We writers are as desperate as celebrities to be popular, have people praise us etc. To care so much what strangers think...
And what is their praise? A puff of smoke. Gone in a flash. What's the point of anything in fact?
I shall end with some of my favourite lines from Shakespeare for you to savour on this September afternoon on which as you can see I'm feeling thoroughly depressed:
Macbeth:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Macbeth Act 5, scene 5, 19–28
To see our current properties for rent take a look at the following. There is plenty of availability from September onwards at DISCOUNTED
rates:
http://www.homeaway.co.uk/p86636
And also another of our completed projects:
http://www.homeaway.co.uk/p475271