The Final Days

Packing up a house in 40 C is quite a job – a couple of hours work in the morning, dip in the pool and a siesta was the only way to cope! Sweaty Steve arrived in a van with no air conditioning to take our belongings back to the UK and rather pleasingly we hadn’t amassed too many extra bits and pieces.

As well as the village fiesta, which seemed to go on for days with fabulous fireworks and extremely loud music, the last few days were very touching. Neighbours Sergio and Veronica arrived on our doorstep with their paella dish and gas burner and produced a delicious seafood paella. Juan put together compilation CD’s of Spanish music for our trip in the van. Jose and his family produced Bar Jovi t-shirts and Concha continued delivering her never ending supply of vegetables.

With the van packed and ready to go we sadly said our goodbyes and set off on our return journey. The only motivating factor of heading North was to hit the cooler weather which by the time we reached beautiful Galicia the temperature had dropped to about 22 C.


We camped for a week near Ferol where the girls had their first experiences of surfing clad in full length wetsuits. Simon celebrated his 49th birthday by surfing for the day and proved he still has what it takes, but conceded that his professional surfing days are probably over!

Repacking the van to head off to Santander we congratulated ourselves on a cheap successful weeks camping. Arriving in good time at the ferry port, I handed over all our passports including Plums to the customs officer, who flicked through the lot and then announced that Plum couldn’t travel as we didn’t have the correct stamp in the passport, suggesting we would have to rebook the ferry and travel and few days later. With disappointed sighs all round and Simon muttering that being in Spain we must be able to slip someone a few euros to get a stamp in a passport! A rather frantic couple of hours followed with a visit to the local vets and rather complicated travel options being discussed. The final decision was Plum staying in kennels in Santander and a company called Man in a Van in Spain would bring her back to the UK ten days later and £450 poorer.

Our arrival home was not quite complete without Plum but she arrived safely and in good spirits. Life has settled back into a fast paced blur with the girls settling into a new school and Simon and I left wondering whether our trip was a dream.

Schools out

They made it, the final day of school arrived and we were all excited, relieved and very proud that the girls have made such a fantastic effort at coping with life in a foreign country.

Their shool's equivalent of sports day was an “acro sports’ event with Madeleine and her class dressed as superheroes and Yve in a red and black version. There were lots of goodbyes and photos taken but frankly the girls were very keen to leave and are really looking forward to returning to school in the UK.

Obviously being in Spain over the last couple of weeks has been rather football driven! We headed to the local bar to watch Holland v Spain on the 'big' screen with Daniel, Deb and family, who had arrived from New York just in the nick of time to catch the game. Wanting to get into the swing of things we bought flags to wave enthusiastically ... apart from Yve who stated categorically, “I do not support Spain!

A great week for all of us with Deb, in her inimitable New York style, organising guided tours of the Alhambra, Frederico Garcia Lorca’s house in Granada and an overnight trip to Cordoba. All fantastically cultural with the children's highlight's being the water park, the ice cream parlour and an unscheduled stop off at a games arcade!

We have only two weeks left until we depart Spain and head back to our life in Blighty. Probably just as well as word has got out in our village that I have a sewing machine and last night our neighbour Concha (Immaculada de Concepcion) arrived on our doorstep with several pairs of rather large black trousers that she wants altering in return for vast quantities of vegetables. This is village life in Spain where cash is not king but rather what & who you know.

All Things Spanish

I think we have started to get the real feel of the ‘duende’ of Spanish people – their characters, social life and the ever so subtle aftermath of Franco. Simon has been interested in seeing a bullfight since reading Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Death in the Afternoon’ but wanted to see it with a keen Spanish bullfighting supporter. That turned out to be our neighbour, Antonio. Antonio has watched the toreo avidly on television all his life but had never been to a fight. Simon proffered an invitation and Antonio agreed in the usual nonchalant Spanish manner leaving Simon not quite sure whether he wanted to go or not!

It was the ‘Feria de Granada’ and the Plaza de Toros attracted a big crowd, with many of the women in full flamenco dress. Local boy ‘El Fandi’ (one of Spain’s top matadors) was a big draw. The most surprising aspect was the diversity of the crowd. A real cross-section of young and old, men and women, rich and poor filled the plaza, and all very enthusiastic.

There is a lot to understand about the event itself and I’m not sure I have either the knowledge or the space here to give it a fair rap, but the experience was undeniably spectacular with the word ‘Gladiatorial’ springing to mind. 3 toredors, 6 bulls, 4 hours. Visually, you don’t have to be the husband of a fashion designer to appreciate the colour and the clothing. It’s quite something, but I found the contest a little too one sided (and I don’t mean in the bull’s favour), to really appreciate it as a sporting event.

I have no doubt about the torero’s bravery and skill but he has a significant support crew, and whilst the risks are high, you know that whatever happens only one of them is going to end up on the barbeque..

Any doubt in our minds to whether Antonio wanted to go to the bullfight or not was put to rest that afternoon when the girls and I smelt incense and looked out the window to see a religious procession heading down the street. Nothing unusual about that other than leading the procession, was Antonio’s daughter in full communion dress with the rest of the family following behind. Evidently this was another ‘Corpus Christi’ event with the recently confirmed children being star attraction!

The following day we invited a few friends to lunch at which we, other than one American, were the only native English speakers. We had a lovely time and incredibly easy to entertain 6 children with a swimming pool and sunshine.

Simon coyly announced that he had been to a bullfight the night before knowing in advance that everyone there was anti the sport. Interestingly the main objection was that as children under ‘Franco’, they had been force fed a television diet of Flamenco, Bullfighting and Football.

Morocco

We weren’t sure whether total submersion into Spanish school was enough for two English girls, so we decided a trip to Morocco would heighten the cultural differences! A ferry from Tarifa to Tanger and then a five hour train trip to Fez (1st class, 4 people, £40) was a great way to see the countryside, untouched it would seem by the 21st century.

I’m not sure anything can prepare you for Fez – the hustle and bustle, the fabulous colours, the donkeys, the dust. We stayed in a wonderful riad which had been lovingly restored by its owners, and most evenings the guests all dined together on one table eating delicious tagine, cous cous and discussing their days adventures.

The highlight for the girls was a trip to a Hamman, where you strip off, sit in a steam room and then get scrubbed by a burly looking Moroccan woman. I was slightly reluctant as saunas and steam rooms are my idea of hell but I got swept up in the moment and have to say it was a lovely experience. My skin felt wonderful, in part because they don’t use western soap but an Olive oil style “gunk” which we bought in the Medina the next day.

Haggling is part of the deal when you go shopping in the medina and we all seemed to get the hang of it, but it does get tiresome.

It was a relief to get on the bus and head North to a town called Chefchaouen, (the kif capital of Morocco) which for reasons best known to them, is predominantly painted blue. Very striking. We hadn’t booked any accommodation on the advice that there is always somewhere to stay ... apart from that weekend when an agricultural conference had rolled into town!

The best we could do was one room in a very ‘authentic’ hotel. Limp communal showers not withstanding, at £20 for the night it was a done deal, the compensation being a delicious supper until we remembered that would mean without alcohol, being a Muslim country!

On the day of our departure we negotiated a price with a taxi driver to take us to Tanger. He kindly helped us carry our bags through the town to the taxi, where we loaded up the boot and hopped into the very ancient looking Mercedes. The taxi driver then announced that his brother was taking us to Tanger - slightly alarming as all I could see were the crutches. The taxi driver assured Simon that everyone thing was fine as the car was automatic. Simon muttered that we must get a photo of us all in front of the car when we arrived. At the port we got out the car and I realised that not only was the driver on crutches but that he only had one leg!