All EOS blogs All Spain blogs  Start your own blog Start your own blog 

FUELLED BY RIOJA

After two long years in England, when Spain was an itch that had to be scratched, a golden opportunity came along, which couldn't be ignored. So here I am back in Spain ~ again, just me and my dog on the sunny Costa Blanca, ready for another adventure!

MAYBE IT'S JUST RIGHT TIME ~ WRONG PLACE
Thursday, July 31, 2014

Here at Eye on Spain, we have heard quite a few times from an unhappy lady who has found herself living in what sounds like simply the wrong place for her in Spain.

People want different things from their surroundings don't they. Some want absolute peace and quiet, and can live quite happily in what others might describe with a shudder as, isolation.

Some expats looking to settle in Spain long term, might prefer a buzzy place, with other English speaking people to engage with.  So really everyone has to do lots of research, so that they can make an informed decision about where to live in Spain to suit not only themselves, but their family too, and give themselves the best chance of creating the lifestyle they want.

I spent many years living in a rural, traditional Spanish village where there was no souvenir shop, no 'real' fish and chip shop, and no 'English' bar, upmarket or otherwise within, a 100km radius.

This truly was a one horse town with no horse. The tiny streets and alleyways, derelict buildings and tired, but solid, huge wooden doorways, would not have looked out of place in (old) Bethlehem.

At weekends, children played safely outside in the village square till the early hours, and during the day, at lunchtime, local news was broadcast from the town hall, via a series of big loudspeakers, strategically placed on various street corners and the very loud signal of an impending message was worthy of an international security alert. 

It never failed to scare me or my dog.

No need for gossip on the streets, if someone died at 12.15, respects were being paid by 12.30. A very 'Heath Robinson' approach, but it did the job effectively!

A handful of shops provided the basics of everyday life and many villagers had more than one job. The village postman was also the slaughterman at the local abbatoir, then, he rounded off his day, by serving his slaughtered cow, red hot and crispy from the barbeque at a restaruant where he also worked as a waiter.

Small fincas set in olive groves surrounded the village and in a doorway you would often find a very old lady selling large jars of family produce from a rickety table. No words were usually exchanged during the transactions, it was all done by sign language. Not because her buyers couldn't speak Spanish, but more because she was totally deaf.

I agree it sounds idyllic, but there is one thing that spoilt this little bit of Spanish heaven, and that was, the Englishman abroad.

Before the village was first 'discovered' by a few mature Brits, my guess is that life there was very quiet. I expect a minor irritation could have been the local 'young gun' in his souped up car, playing his music just a bit too loudly. But a quiet word from the Guardia Civil was usually enough to nip that in the bud.

But all good things come to an end, and in this case more British arrived, and they weren't just passing through.

Whilst there, I witnessed first hand how some English conducted themselves in this sleepy village, and what struck me was that this was SUCH an unusual place to attract the kind of people who seemed to want to live there.   Nearly 2 hours from a beach, over an hour from any town worth mentioning, and to be honest unless you were at least 60 years old, nothing much to do.

Just what was it that attracted the 30 year old, tattooed man, with matching earrings who clearly just wanted to be left alone to ride his quad bike like a maniac through very narrow backstreets, at all hours of the day and night. What fun that must have been for him. But not for anyone else.

Why would the parents of two high spirited lads of 9 and 11, relocate there to live in a house where some rooms had no roof and the sky was their ceiling. 

Boredom for them was trouble waiting to happen, and it did, when they chased a local farmer's elderly pig, with sticks, shouting so much that the pig collapsed and died.  Of course the parents were most indignant when the farmer quite rightly denounced them and wanted compensation for the loss of his animal.

Word soon got round, and the family gained a bad reputation within weeks of arriving. Subsequently their mother spent her days hanging from her balcony calling their names every few minutes, attempting (for damage limitation) to have them in her sight all the time.

They were grounded for the most insignificant misdemeanour, and in some ways that was easier for everyone; at least their Mum could relax then, because it was the only time she ever really knew where they were.  So much for a 'better life for the children'.

I recall another occasion, when during a warm summer evening, whilst the Spanish were celebrating one of their many Saints,  a very drunk 20 something English girl, threw her drink over another English couple, and overturned their plates of food.

A row eruped into the streets, with the sounds of 'fight, fight, fight', from the expats, literally fighting for airspace with the beautiful singing from the local Church choir during what was, to them, an important religious festival.

As you may imagine, not one of the 20 or so English men in the village had a job.  They had 'plans' and 'ideas', mainly dreamt up over copious bottles of San Miguel. They had no job in England, and I wondered what thought process made them leave the UK for a better life, only to recreate the same lifestyle they were so anxious to leave behind.

No effort was made by them to speak Spanish, no effort made to integrate with Spanish life. They just went and found other, like minded expats, and sat outside Spanish bars using the same expletives you might hear at any spit and sawdust pub at any hour of the day in England.

The only thing they seemed interested in cultivating was a good 'green' crop, grown easily on sunny terraces, and hidden from prying eyes with curtains of plastic sheeting, which always gave the game away in any case.

Or to put it in a more gracious way, maybe those bored English expats had simply settled in the wrong place for them. Perhaps a different village or town might have suited them much better.  There may have been work to occupy them, more things for their children to do, or maybe they would have behaved the same no matter where they were.

But can you just imagine, 20 or so stoned Spanish nationals, arriving in a sleepy English village, overtaking the pub on the green, disrupting the locals and fighting amongst themselves at the local Church fete?

Would it be tolerated?  By jove I don't think so!

 

DID YOU VISIT MANY PLACES IN SPAIN BEFORE DECIDING WHERE TO SETTLE.

IN RETROSPECT, DID YOU MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICE?

 

 



Like 5        Published at 6:26 PM   Comments (5)


SPAIN ~ HOW I MISS YOU!
Thursday, July 17, 2014

Bon Dia Spain!

As soon as I left you in January 2013 I knew I'd made a terrible mistake, and by February I wanted to return to you, but sadly, doors had been shut, keys returned and the moment was lost.

But I can't forget you, there are so many things that I love, and miss.

 

 

 

I remember those hazy blue sky days, and the  clear blue back star filled nights, as well as sights and sounds I will only experience again when I return.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I miss the distant sound of the sheep bells. Thinking of them reminds me of the day my rescued Catalan Sheepdog came face to face with the shepherd and 100 of his free range flock, as he took them down the hill to drink in the River Ebro.  My dog's skills were clearly lacking and he was put firmly in his place by a lesser looking 'sheepdog' of dubious pedigree.

Judging by his attire, I think the shepherd was moonlighting, his set of blue garage overalls were a bit of a disappointment, where was his hooky stick which is compulsory in any Nativity scene. And where was his Shepherds Pie?

 

I miss the church clock that I could set my watch by. It had a very tired and mourneful tone, which chimed the hour, twice, every hour. You hardly noticed at mid day, but if you happened to be asleep before midnight, you certainly weren't at five past!

 

Along with the hourlie chimes, it also reminded the town of every quarter hour in between. In England, a lesser person living nearby would probably complain to the powers that be, and get an ASBO slapped on the clock tower, but not in my little Spanish town, the rusty church bell was revered, after all it has been there longer than most of the residents.

 

 

 

 

 

 The bell tower in the distance watching over the town.

 

I miss Maria Jose, she of the best baked Barra. Wrinkled and weary, Maria won't see 70 again.

If Maria was in full flow, with one of her equally aged Senora's, I wouldn't DARE cut in, and offer up my euro in an attempt to hurry proceedings along. Rickety chairs, as old as Maria were provided, I just sat and waited. And waited. No such thing in my town as 'popping' out for some bread!

Only when important matters of the day had been dissected, cheeks had been kissed, and Hasta Luego's had been exchanged might I get a nod of a toothless head in my direction, and the Barra would be mine.

I miss the cheery ancient farmer, on his equally ancient tractor, who always gave me a lovely wave and called out 'Bon Dia' whenever he saw me. Sometimes his trailer had just boxes of oranges on the back, but more often it was a bizare cargo of water, calor gas and a crate of live chickens and a small piglet.

All this was left in the smallest of spaces in the centre of the village whilst he popped into a local bar for his morning cafe solo and brandy.

Nobody complained, and if he should by chance completely obstruct the street as he collected his daily Tabac, the driver behind waited patiently, no hooting of impatient horns at this old timer.

 

 

 

 

 

So how else do I miss you, let me count the ways...

Your cool, clean trains, cafe con leche, deserted roads, cold vino tinto, pavement cafe's, the happy laughter from the open air pool, the firecracking Fiesta's, seeing generations of families having a BBQ in the street outside their own front door, watching very old village folk play an intense game of dominoes in the local Sociadad, the madding 'manyana', asparagus in every salad, huge measures of spirits, the way you celebrate SO many Saints, the temperature showing outside the Pharmacy, the availability of rabbit in every supermarket.

I even miss the beautiful torture of scratching a mozzie bite.

Now that surely IS love!

What would you miss most about Spain?

 



Like 1        Published at 4:11 PM   Comments (30)


EXPATS BEWARE ~ MORE TOMFOOLERY!
Thursday, July 10, 2014

Even though my heart is undoubtedly in Spain, it would have been churlish to turn down the offer of a trip to the South of France for some sun, sea and St.Tropez tan.  So I was forced to venture, once again, with some trepidation, onto the dark side of airline websites, Ryanair.

You may remember a few weeks back, I rambled on about my flying OCD, and so I wasn't looking forward to the journey, but I braced myself, and booked my flight to Toulon.

 

As some of you will know, the Ryanair website has perked up, and it's a bit quicker and easier to get to the flight confirmation 'gate'.

I circumnavigated the 'allocated seat' option, as my own particular 'flight plan' ritual means that I always buy a priority boarding ticket at Stansted, so I can nip in the back door, and claim my usual seat before anyone else get's their bum on it.

A few days before leaving home, I did the compulsory check in, and guess what, it seems, that unless you've coughed up £10.00 each way for allocated seats, you can't seem to check in for your homeward flight until a week before your journey, which means you either HAVE to pay £20.00 for a round trip, or you have to be certain you'll be able to print off your homeward boarding pass, 'somewhere' during your trip.

So the winnner of this particular challenge is inevitably going to be.....Ryanair

At Stansted, the usual sweet smiling ground hostess touting the little yellow priority boarding stickers was nowhere to be seen.  It wasn't a great start, but despite all this, I stuck to all my other in flight rituals, survived the flight and had a damn good time in France!

Fast forward to the return trip from Toulon back to Stansted, and more Ryanair tomfoolery was to come.

The new 2 small hand baggage allowance meant that I didn't need to 'go large' with my suitcase, so I stupidly thought I'd be able to avoid the carousel, and fast track through baggage reclaim.  I'd be out of Stansted quicker than quick.  Silly me.

Toulon is a lovely airport, small but efficient.  Because I only had hand luggage I was into the departure lounge with no queueing at all, but then I came across the first barrier to my fuss free journey.

A lovely little Madamoiselle stood blocking my path and told me that my flight was VERY full. (note the emphasis) So one of my bags MUST go in the hold, at no cost, to make more room for everyone's smaller hand luggage within the cabin.

Before I could protest about my case not being locked and it contained valuables, a yellow sticker was slapped on it and I was told to leave it at the bottom of the steps to the plane!

 

Rather strangely, I thought, virtually every passenger with two bags received the same instructions and the same sticker on the largest of their bags.  It was chaos for everyone, with lots of heavy sighing and disgruntled muttering going on.

Like myself, other passengers were not happy putting their hand cases in the hold. We all had to stand and repack valuables, such as lap tops and camera's into the bags that were allowed in the cabin. As I approached the plane, the luggage cage was groaning under the weight of all the bags to go in the hold.

Despite my lack of priority boarding, I scooted round to the back of the plane, and took ownershiip of my favorite seat, and suprise surprise the plane was not VERY full at all.

There were at least 25 empty seats that I could count, so Madamoiselle Ryanair was telling porkies when she told me otherwise.

So my hoped for quick 'transfer' through baggage reclaim at Stansted was thwarted.  Firstly it took an age for the correct carousel to show on the information screen, then a further age for the said carousel to actually crank up and start turning, and of course isn't it always the way that 'your' bag is always one of the last to show up.

So what was Ryanair's little game all about do you think?

Is there any benefit to them in using the ground baggage services at Stansted, or was it simply about weight distribution on the plane. Either way, I would prefer to keep my valuables close to me on a flight, surely that's the whole point of hand luggage.   

I don't mind my knickers going missing, but how would I write this blog if my laptop got lost en route!

Would you be happy to put your possibly unlocked small case into the hold if you had been expecting to keep it near you throughout your flight.

Or am I just suffering from Ryanair paranoia!

.

 

 

.

 



Like 0        Published at 1:28 PM   Comments (1)


Spam post or Abuse? Please let us know




This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse you are agreeing to our use of cookies. More information here. x