Adrian had always referred to the cortijo and the land that went with it as a 'flawed paradise.' Some people 'got it' and loved the way you could escape from the daily distractions of life there, stroll on the terrace, gaze at the mountain range, pick a lemon, an avodado or a loquat off a tree; others somehow wanted all of this, but also all their usual big city amenities. So they wanted no light pollution and the sound of the toads and crickets, but they also wanted a tarmacked, lit road leading to this paradise.
We had rented the house out over two summers and received mixed reviews. The second summer, our friend Yvonne looked after it – she would put wild flowers in vases, pick seasonal produce from the garden and place it in a bowl – she was great at the detail and little touches. She was also a notch up from Johnny, who'd looked after it the previous year. I'd worried all summer that he would cock it up (he didn't; he managed to get the bare minimum done).
But there were issues at the cortijo and it was a constant struggle to keep on top of them.
For example, lighting was a problem for some. When we'd bought the cortijo the only form of lighting had been the gas lantern that the previous owners had left. The light on this was quite dim and not good enough for reading. It also made a worrying hissing noise. So before the second season I had run about in the UK looking for rechargeable lanterns and torches that could be plugged in, because the first year we'd spent a fortune leaving stacks of batteries. Then, when the generator was on each morning to operate the pool pump, the lanterns and torches could be charged up to be used in the evenings. We also left a stack of candles (in the summer it didn't get dark until 10 o'clock, so this didn't have to be a big deal).
But it turned out that although some guests loved this ‘romantic’ set-up, others didn't like it at all. I’d seen holiday lets advertised in the Sunday papers, stating that you got a few hours of light in the evening, provided by the solar energy stored during the day – you read or played cards and drank your wine until it ran out and then you went to bed. It was considered to be 'eco-tourism' and therefore quite trendy. But we found that some people were extremely annoyed that they couldn’t plug something in whenever they wanted to.
One day in October the previous year an American student had rung in a terrible flap, having arrived with his friends for a month-long stay.
'I have to be able to plug in my lap-top,' he insisted. 'I have to be able to work on my Masters (my friend Helen commented: 'Uh, what about using a pen and paper?).
I had to drop everything that Saturday morning and race down to the cortijo, as we were still living in Adreimal at the time. I then had to show him how to use the generator (and hope that he didn't break it and/or blow himself up). It would use a fortune in petrol and be very noisy, but the customer is always right.
I did suggest it would be easier if he went for a coffee or beer in the local bar, and charged it up while he was there (they wouldn't mind at all), but he wasn't happy with that idea. (In fact, after his initial panic he decided not to bother to work and he spent the month swimming, sunbathing and mountain-climbing. By the end of the month he was the picture of relaxation, with his bandana and sun-tan.)
We had to deal with people's panics and demands that we respond immediately to anything that was bothering them.
One thing which I thought would be controversial, but didn't raise an eyebrow, was that we asked people to put their toilet paper in the bin next to the toilet, so that it didn’t block the fosa séptica. I found that a bit yucky, but I'd seen similar requests down at the chiringuitos (beach bars). God knew if anyone complied. We'd only know at the cortijo if the thing got clogged up.
Another source of contention was the track leading to the house. Some holiday-makers felt we should have told them that a four-wheel drive was necessary to traverse it (Spaniards went up there every day in their little ford fiestas). We received some very vociferous complaints about this (which are in the appendix, for those who like to read complaints).
The cleanliness of the pool was also a recurrent theme. I wanted to think that the holiday-makers were just too fussy, should 'get a life' etc. But after the second summer of renting it out, we realised it was a problem that only two skimmers had been put in the main part of what was a very large pool and none had been put in the little children's section - just three small holes between the two sections which were insufficient to get the water moving. Of course the builder had ignored my request to insert 'pillars' with gaps between the two sections of the pool, preferring his idea of three small holes inserted into a concrete wall between the two parts.
We also gradually realised that there was an additional problem with the way the pool had been plumbed. We had relied on a recommendation by Marita, the previous owner, of a company on the coast. We assumed she knew best, as she had had several pools built. This firm sent someone who allegedly knew all about how to plumb pools (Installing the pump had been outside our builders’ expertise and remit).
But it turned out that this specialist hadn't had a clue. From September onwards, since we'd been living at the cortijo Adrian had plenty of time to observe first-hand how the pool was operating. He would be vacuuming the pool and it would get clearer, but later an inexplicable murkiness would return.
'I can't understand it,' he said.
Every day he spent a couple of hours on it, but there was no improvement.
'I've got it, but you're not going to believe it,' he finally declared. 'Look at this pipe here that takes the dirty water out,' and he pointed. 'Now look where the pipe leads. Look at the direction it's going. Where do you think it's going?'
The man had arranged the pipes so that they were in a kind of circuit. He had plumbed it so that the dirty water came out and then went into another pipe which then led straight back into the pool! (Neither of the 'pool men' we had employed to look after it over the two summers had had the intelligence to spot this, by the way.)
The only solution was to get someone to reroute the pipes and Steve (this was before his disastrous employment at the casa) said he could sort it. There was no point getting the original guy back as we had no confidence in him. While Steve was at it we hired a pneumatic drill so that he could also take up tiles only laid the previous year, cut through concrete and steel and put an additional skimmer into the children's section of the pool. It cost more than a thousand euros to sort out both the builder's and plumber's errors, but at last we would have a clean pool.
In addition to these issues, there were additional problems which came up from time to time over the first two years of renting out the cortijo. One day, a lovely mother of four, 'Sally' reported that both toilets were out of action. The one had blocked up, and so they had been only using the second one and now the flush had broken on the second.
'Don't worry,' she reassured us during an international call, 'Richard, my husband, is a plumber, and he's enjoying watching someone else sort it out. In the meantime we're flushing with a bucket. It's not the end of the world. We absolutely love it here!'
But it got so that we dreaded Saturdays (the change-over day), in case we received a complaint or a moan when visitors arrived.