Tonight we're going to party like it's 1892Wednesday, December 19
By now, we'd settled into a bit of a routine: get up, make a cup of tea, walk Georgie, have breakfast, watch UK telly, explore the apartment, do a bit of washing and general tidying up after ourselves, make lunch, relax, walk Georgie, have dinner, watch telly, drink wine, go to bed. As routines go, this is better than most and when you factor in the sunshine that predominates here at this time of year, there´s nothing to complain about. On Thursday, we varied this with a walk around San Pedro, including the lovely new paseo on the front, lunch at a very cheap tapas bar just off the plaza in the town and on Friday we found ourselves with the place to ourselves, as Sarah journeyed to Leeds, via Malaga airport, for a reunion with her son, now living in the UK. She kindly left us with her car to play with so we really felt like we'd joined the great massed ranks of the British ex-pats who've colonised this area, along with the Germans and the Russians, and the Arabs and just about anyone else who wants a beautiful, constant climate instead of the intense cold/heat. Sunday, December 24 We'd resolved to stay in on Christmas Day, rather than drive to any of the restaurants offering special meals to people who would rather not cook. To prepare, we'd bought a leg of lamb from Mercadona plus a few other treats to make Christmas dinner more than just a glorified Sunday roast. But by early evening on Christmas Eve there were still some things missing. We were about to settle down for the night, having tended to Georgie´s every needs, but I said to Jane: "Come on, we´re going to Iceland to get some more stuff for tomorrow." We knew that in Spain Iceland is more than just a freezer specialist ̶ it has a link with Waitrose and sells lots of the nice things you associate with this upmarket brand. So, pulling a trolley around our new favourite supermarket, we did a dash around the aisles and spent more than €50 on things like parsnips, Maltesers, a steam sponge pudding, sour cream, mince pies and brussels sprouts with bacon. Now our Christmas dinner was complete! On the day itself, we rose reasonably early, pretended to open the presents we hadn´t bought one another, then took Georgie for a walk along the promenade in San Pedro, joining the hundreds of other people (mainly Spanish) walking their dogs on the front. The sun was shining, it was reasonably warm and it was the middle of winter ̶ we'd managed to achieve our goal set before we came away: be somewhere nice at Christmas. Tuesday, December 26 Boxing Day and we rose early again to take Paul, Sarah's boyfriend, to Malaga airport so he could catch his flight to join her in Leeds for the new year. This done, we took the coast road back to San Pedro, pausing only to have a look around Ikea in Malaga and pick up a few essentials: clips, plastic containers, scented candles. By now it was early evening and we'd planned to eat at our favourite Swedish deli. Alas, the choice on offer was very poor so we drove into San Pedro and had a terrific curry at the Bombay Grill. Who says you can't be cosmopolitan in Spain! On Thursday, we drove to The Heredian, the bar of La Heredia, a spectacular Italianate hillside urbanisation not far from us as the crow flies, but a huge and perilous trek along the busy Ronda road if you want to walk it. Thursday night is quiz night here and we joined the locals for their weekly fix, coming a respectable third but also coming away with the questions ̶ vital to help with my new-found second profession: compiling the quizzes for the Barry and District Quiz League. Friday meant a return to our tennis games, this time at the excellent municipal complex in San Pedro (one hour for just over €3); Saturday was a shopping day for our big night on New Year's Eve (more home-cooked food barbecued on the balcony overlooking the Med) and also a few drinks back at The Heredian (becoming something of our local). Here, we watched the great darts semi-final between Phil Taylor and Welshman Jamie Lewis before driving back and catching the deciding last few legs. For the record, Taylor won 6-1. Sunday, December 31 In the morning, while Jane sewed for Britain in the sunshine on the balcony, I went back to Puerto Banus for some last-minute goodies from Iceland, only to find it shut. Thankfully, the SuperSol at the bottom of the urbanisation was open and I was able to get some ice cream and Maltesers for our 'party' on the balcony. In the evening, after treating Georgie to a long walk over the mountain, we caught up with friends and family on FaceTime and then set up the Cobb (our Dutch oven-cum-barbecue) to cook the small chicken we´d bought. While the meat slowly sizzled, we slowly sozzled via a succession of Cherry B cocktails, double malt beers and G´n´Ts, all served to our lovingly crafted European tour soundtrack. Midnight our time was 11pm UK time, so after the fireworks over San Pedro, we retreated inside to watch Graham Norton and Jools Holland before finally turning in at around 3am. It may not have been the most riotous party we'd ever been to but we had a lovely time and didn't have to pay for a taxi home! Monday, January 1 With a hungry dog to feed and a cat to let in, there was no time to sleep off our hangovers so with the early chores done we had a drive over to the hillside town of Istan, about 10 miles to the north of Puerto Banus. Located at the head of a series of reservoirs which have been created to serve the whole of the Costa del Sol, Istan is a very pretty white town. By the time we arrived, around noon, the sun had lifted temperatures up to a very balmy 24⁰C and the local elders had gathered on the viewing point at the top of the valley to chew the fat and compare notes from the night before. By the church, a pick-up choir of what appeared to be their wives were banging things and singing tunelessly, in a South American style while tourists and locals alike passed by indifferently. So much for local colour. Tuesday, January 2 When he wasn’t scouring bookshops for copies of ‘Fly Fishing’, his lost classic, LP Hartley managed to find time to write ‘The Go-Between’, that much-admired novel about repression, nostalgia and regret. Its most famous line is also its first: “The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.” I was reminded of this when we paid a visit to Gibraltar. Okay, as a British Overseas Territory (nobody uses the word ‘colony’ any more) it may not technically be a foreign country but when you walk around its sun-drenched streets, browse the shelves of the Morrisons superstore and enjoy a pint in the quaint pubs, you’re definitely taking a step back into the past. So, with Hartley’s logic, we’re definitely ticking it off our list of foreign countries we have visited. The first indication that you’re a long way from home comes as you cross the border at La Linea – a Spanish town so poor you feel you’ve wandered onto an abandoned set for The High Chaparral. But normality is restored once you’re onto British soil. Having been waved through by customs after a cursory glance at your passport, the acrid smell of diesel fumes fills the air, a testament not just to the fact you’re driving across the runway of the Rock’s only airport but also to its status as a prime staging post for tankers and cruise ships passing through the Strait. No doubt the attraction for them is the same as it is for us – cheap fuel. At Morrisons, diesel was less than 80p a litre. The last time England saw it that low was 2005. The time warp only gets more warped when you enter the shop itself. While some items, like fruit and veg, are more expensive than in Spain, booze is mind-alteringly cheaper. We paid less than £8 for a litre of J&B scotch and less than £10 for the same measure of Bombay Sapphire gin. Small wonder that so many of the ex-pat inhabitants we encountered in the aisles, unfettered by the two-litre limit for those going back over the border, looked like they were nursing a hangover. About a half-mile away, in the narrow, pedestrianised commercial streets, we felt transported back to a happier time, before retail black holes like the Intu centre sucked the life out of town centres. Vibrant, independent jewellers, boutiques, delis and camera specialists jostled for business alongside small incarnations of staples like Next and Marks and Spencer. It reminded me of Sadlergate in the ‘70s, when Knockabout and RE Cords dominated and there wasn’t a charity shop in sight. In M&S – where, of course, the slacks and cotton lumberjack shirts in the menswear department always make you feel it’s still 1983, even in the UK – spruce Mr Rumbold characters asked politely, in cut-glass English, if there was anything they could help you with and Call My Bluff boardgames we’re on sale by the checkout. Despite this, Gibraltar is an unlovely place. The traffic is horrendous, there’s nowhere to park and, aside from the diesel fumes, there’s a general grubbiness in the atmosphere, not helped by the knowledge that the Rock’s main claim to fame these days is its reputation as a safe haven for online gambling businesses, which employ around 12% of its population. There’s culture and heritage, of course. Gibraltar has a proud military history, some fascinating attractions and, of course, the rather thuggish Barbary apes but for us, having become acclimatised to mainland Europe over the past eight months, with their struggle with English and reliance on the Euro, it was unnerving to be jolted straight back home, to warm beer, pounds sterling, monochrome road signs, traditional traffic lights and, most reassuringly, in Morrisons’ loos, Armitage Shanks. I’m not ready for all that again. Not just yet. Thursday, January 4 The day was spent clearing up and around the apartment ready for Sarah’s return from Yorkshire where she had spent Christmas and New Year. Sadly, with her boyfriend Paul she had come down with a nasty virus and when we picked them up from Malaga airport they were both dosed up to the eyeballs with antibiotics and all they wanted was a hot bath and an early night. Friday, January 5 The night before Twelfth Night is a big deal in Spain; it’s Three Kings, when everywhere shuts down, except the bars and restaurants, and everyone comes out to see colourful parades in their communities. In San Pedro, this meant road closures and gridlock but also a lovely, festival atmosphere on the streets where thousands gathered to see local groups and schools and their floats, all depicting the arrival of the Three Kings, or Wise Men, to see the baby Jesus. As the parade passes, those on board the floats hurl boiled sweets to the gathered faithful who clamour to catch as many as they can. It was a fascinating spectacle, very good humoured, full of families who stick around after the floats have passed and relax in the bars, or go back home and have the kind of parties that imply this festival is a bigger deal than Christmas Day. We’ve had lots of fun and lots of downtime while we’ve been here – although a rear-end shunt while we were bringing Sarah home from work after her first day back on Monday, January 8 was an unpleasant shock. No-one was hurt, thankfully, and the damage was minimal but it turned us off driving, especially when the roads are wet and slippery. After a big night out on Wednesday, we’re going to put all our stuff back into the van and prepare for the long road home. We’ll set off on Friday morning and plan our route back to Santander. We have a couple of big meet-ups planned, which we’re looking forward to... so, onwards and upwards! |
Pictured from top, the view over our urbanisation near San Pedro, the hills around Istan, Istan from the south, the dam at the southern end of the chain of reservoirs near Istan; Jane and one of the Christmas trees in the town, made from recycled water bottles. Below, two images of Gibraltar and, bottom, scenes from the Three Kings parade in San Pedro
|