Almost there! And so green!

There’s nothing like a deadline to focus the mind. Some people hate ‘em – I love ‘em (as long as there is some chances of getting past the line alive).

My little project in Spain is coming to a climax, and the opening party is just a few days away. I finished the stonework on the last visit to Spain and built the ‘shed’ on the terrace to house the electric and water essentials. Now I have truly gone green. I have solar electricity lighting a string of LED’s in the new room and powering a mini light in the shower room. At present I use my generator (which uses petrol, so sorry) to pump the water up to the cold tank, but later the water will be supplied from collected rainfall and pumped up by a ‘solar’ pump. There is also a hot water tank linked indirectly to an external radiator/solar collector (both of which I bought second hand in the UK). These form the basis of a system that should provide solar heated water – but so far does not. The Mark II version is currently at the design stage. The whole thing, with the solar battery, is now hidden behind a wooden frontage and also includes an area in which a small person could possibly sleep.

I have recently spent a few weeks as an amateur carpenter making rough window frames, shutters and doors. The front door is in two parts and, to please Margaret, I have hammered in false nails which are quite popular around here - they give it a medieval look.

The kitchen unit, which I have mostly knocked up from wood used as concrete shuttering during the stonework years, is now tiled and awaiting curtains – it’s strong and of a traditional design, sort of. I have incorporated one of those strangely deep sinks which are common here; I think they were previously used for washing clothes. I’ve fitted it with old brass taps, and similarly for the little basin in the shower room. I bought the latter at our village’s antique fair for seven Euros each, then later found that you can buy them new for not much more.

The entire floor of the casita is now covered with very thin tiles which crack if you stand on them too heavily, but I have created a nice pattern in the middle.  I have still to tile, paint and provide a shower in the shower room. There will be no toilet at first since there is nowhere for the effluent to go, but I am working on that. Isn’t it great to be green? Self sufficient, ecological, low carbon and all that. Can I offset this against my carbon count in England is some way d’you think?

Anyway, the mayor (ex), the landlord of our favourite bar, the mechanic, the stone transporter, the blacksmith’s son, and fellow huerto owners and friends will, together with their families, hopefully be joining us for hamburgers, sausages and a rice salad at the “inauguration” at the end of the week. Oh, and I must not forget to buy beer and wine. Could I forget the essentials?

A squeeze of the shoulder

I come from a remote family – in the sense that we kept our distance. The nearest my father came to hugging me was an outstretched handshake. That’s not a complaint, quite the opposite, although I enjoy the occasional hug with those I like very much or love, I do believe that hugging in the UK is little overdone nowadays and has lost its way. In Spain it is very natural, of course.

My first intimate experience with a Spanish woman dates from our time as smallholders on the outskirts of a town called Woodbridge. New people had moved into the cottage at the end of our lane: he built boats (big ones) in the attached barn, she embraced me as if we were long lost friends or lovers. I quite liked it. Annabella brought a touch of sunny Spain to sombre Suffolk and a friendship which has certainly outlasted the boat builder (never liked him much anyway and have no regrets about throwing him into our swimming pool – boy was he cross).

If I were sitting in a pub in Oxford, or even Stow-on-the-Wold, and some bloke I barely knew squeezed my shoulder , I would be deeply shocked and suspicions would crowd my sozzled mind. Yet here in La Fresneda it is quite normal: often nothing is said, just a squeeze and a smile. And I quite like it. I sometimes squeeze the shoulder of some villager I know and respect. I think my advances are always well-received.

There are, of course, some people that I would not like to be squeezed by at all: the carpenter for one. Eva is quite the opposite: she is the most passionate woman in our village. A lovely woman , she greets us with such enthusiasm: hugs and showers of kisses. Like most Spanish mothers she has taught her charming little daughter  well – the little girls stands face up waiting for a kiss once her mother has finished with us.

On Friday last we were taken on a mystery tour by our near neighbours who are both enthusiastic nature lovers. He is English and she is Swiss so the hugging and kissing is mostly replaced with a firm handshake before they drive us out into the countryside to view waterfowl and wild goats. We had a lovely day. 

Towards the end of it they took us to a village in the Maestrazgo mountain range where they  have befriended a very nice family who run a Casa Rural ( a sort of B&B) in which they often stay. The man of the family is a sort of forest ranger for the area and has two children. With the grandmother who has her own house, they dominate the village: there are just seven occupants in total. Most of the houses are unoccupied or used for tourism. Yet that family posseses a noticeable aura of contentment.

We met the thirteen-year-old daughter – out playing ball on her own.  A slim, tall girl, she presented herself to each one of us to be kissed on both cheeks with such a serious expression that I could only think of as charming.

The day was drawing to a close so we headed back to La Fresneda. Along the way we had one of those inspiring moments: a large male goat was standing proudly on a rock high above us seemingly watching out progress. With the setting sun behind him he provided a wondrous sight. He was a big boy and,  though I have milked many a goat, I would not like to squeeze his shoulder.

Oh, and that same week I saw a pine martin running over the roof that my house overlooks – a rare and thrilling sight. Isn’t nature wonderful.

A handful of chips and naming

The Spanish have solved the problem of inherited surnames. In the UK posh people in the past, anyone nowadays, sometimes combined the father’s and mother’s surname with an aristocratic hyphen. Hence Parker-Jones and Parkinson-Smith – so much more eye catching that Jones or Smith. In Spain this is the norm. The first generation take their surnames from the father and mother – in that order. That is so non-discriminatory in a country famed for its macho image and as a result, my grandson is called Robin Valero Walters.

 Hey, the Walters name goes on, but not for long. Assuming that Robin does marry and does have children, and lets presume that he marries an English girl with the surname Smith and that they decide to abide by the Spanish naming tradition, then what will my great grand children be called?  Valero Smith, of course. Hey, the Walters name has gone, shoved off the end by a Smith or whatever. So, what seems such a good idea and so egalitarian and non sexist is very short lived. The male dominates or, in my particular case, is soon swept aside.

Not that this bothers me much, probably not at all. But does a fair solution exist? Perhaps we should keep adding on all of the surnames at each marriage? That could be quite a burden for future generations. If my sums are correct then the fifth generation would  possess thirty-two surnames!. Alternatively, how about this: since the family is arguably disintegrating anyway we could abandon family names altogether – Bonjovi, Picasso and Björk seem to have managed OK and this would certainly make filling forms a little simpler.

From names to chips. I am glad to get back to our little village of La Fresneda again even though the elements were not welcoming. The rain began in Perpignan, just on the French side of the border and accompanied us on our entire journey south to our village. When we arrived it was raining so much that we slept another night in our camping car rather than attempt the walk up the hill to our house. In the following days we witnessed the damage caused by days of heavy rain: rivers torrential, roadside cliffs slipping, and terrace walls collapsing. However, by the end of the week the sun was shining so we went off to celebrate in the nearby village of Cretas.

We are regulars at the Cretas wine festival, itself accompanied by a Medieval Festival where local people dress up and sell stuff from stalls. Quite a lot of the stuff is edible and quite a lot of that is “ecological”, a word that rings alarm bells for someone as embarrassingly fastidious as myself. My sensitive stomach is not sentient of course, but it does perform a gentle churn when the word  “ecological” turns up. This churn replaces words like “wholesome, natural, organic” in my mind with things like “dirty, unchecked, no sell-by date”. Similarly perhaps, the  phrase “Made in China”  associated with anything that might pass my lips has a similar effect. The sensitive stomach has been to China and only just about survived the experience. Oddly enough, it has also survived many, many years of our own home-grown food which I suppose would now be called ecological.

So, rather than snacking, we sampled the wine and waited excitedly for the medieval breakfast for which we had prepayed seven euros (£5) each and was served by hand at the staggeringly late, but oh so Spanish, hour of ten p.m. I say “served by hand” advisedly. We tendered our tickets at the entry to a vast tent with seating for at least two hundred. In exchange we were given a plastic plate on which lay a lukewarm sausage and a slice of fatty bacon. We then shuffled long to the next server who picked up a fried egg from a nest of the things and threw it onto our plates. She then picked up a handful of chips from a big heap and spread these on top of our medieval breakfast. I could not believe my eyes, she really delivered the egg and chips with her hands: I filmed her doing it! 

Fortunately, she was wearing white rubber gloves, consequently the sensitive stomach stayed calm and the food - when washed down with more wine (included in the price together with a sweet course of an apple or orange) - was OK. But, if those gloves had been green, well, I could not have eaten one chip, not one! How I love it here; things are so…so ecological.

Being Famous: meeting a Hairy Biker

I’ve been really enjoying guiding recently. The long breaks in Spain (one of which I am beginning as I write) refresh me, though the first one on my return is scary – will I remember all the necessary stuff? When introducing myself to a tour group I usually tell them that I live in central North Oxford “where all the rich and famous people live”. Some smile, some pout. Then I tell them that I live in a very small flat and am not rich or famous.

On my last day in Oxford before this trip I did rub shoulders with a “famous”, well, actually, we touched toes – whilst sitting in the same punt! This was no accident. The scene was part of a new TV series centring on the Hairy Bikers and entitled something like ‘The pubs that made us’.

How I became involved is not important, and why I was placed in a punt rather than a pub is a mystery to me and will always remain so  - the latter being my more natural environment. My Hairy Biker was Dave and we met at the punt station below Magdelan (prounounced Maudlin) bridge. To my surprise, and despite his ostentation, I liked him. It was a surprise because I am an anti-personality person to the extent that I have a very long list of ‘personalities’ that I heartily dislike. And no, I am not going to list them, it is better to ignore them.

Dave comes across as a avuncular, homely, northerner with a Dali moustache and shapely beard. He wore a mid length brown, herringbone coat with purple pocket flaps and lapels. In a very short time I learned that he had five motorbikes and a Dutch Barge that he kept on the Thames. He also told me that he had recently purchased a chateau in France and was also part- owner of a new brewery in his home town of Barrow. Yet all of this did not strike me as boasting. He was not at all like the “I’m richer than thou” character of the Fast Show who once said, “Sophisticated? Me? I’ve BEEN to Leeds!” No, Dave just seemed pleased with his new toys and somewhat surprised to find himself so lucky. Maybe talking about them was his way of sharing them.

Having met, we had to wait around whilst Graham, the producer, director, cameraman, gaffer, and all else screwed his equipment onto one of the punts whilst ours was prepared by the professional punters. Then we had to meet again – for the camera. So much has to be done for the camera in this artificial world of TV. So Dave strode manfully down the slope towards me, then slipped dramatically and authentically as he stepped onto the jetty beside the river, almost falling in. This was very funny, everyone laughed and he joined in wholeheartedly. As a consequence we had to meet again, and again, and again, until our meeting seemed natural enough  – for the camera.

The filming caught by Graham as we were punted along the Cherwell was deemed to have gone very well by the producer and the director and the cameraman (Graham), but I am not looking forward to seeing it. Dave, in parting, said, “See you on TV”. But I know that might never happen.  Both of my last two interviews have ended on the cutting room floor. Given my previous experience, this time I insisted on being paid for my services at my usual guiding rate. That way I hope to win either way since I got to meet someone famous!!

Some of you may not know of the famous Hairy Bikers and I must confess that I’ve not seen any of their programmes. Suffice to say that they are hairy, they travel around on motor bikes to interesting locations, and they cook stuff. So, why are the Hairy Bikers the bedrock of this programme on the pubs of Britain? Because they are experts on pubs? No. Because they know lots about Britain? No. Because they are aficionados of the world of beer. No, not one of the above. It’s because they are well-known and loved by thousands. They are the personalities that attract the viewers to a series of programmes which presumably would not reach the screen on its own merits. We live in a strange world where the presenter is more important than what is presented. Perhaps it’s just another symptom of the Churchillian description of the importance of a parliamentary speech: first it’s who says it, second it’s how they say it, third, and last, it’s the content.

So, Dave and the other Hairy Biker, Sy, are perhaps the right choice for this series. Dave certainly has transmittable warmth and the actor’s ability to do a ‘take’ over and over and get better each time, rather than (like me) getting worse with each repeat. I liked him and can only suppose that thousands more do so. He is certainly not on my list of hated personalities. In fact, I would have enjoyed a pint with him afterwards. Instead, I cycled home in the rain and he returned his hotel - Oxford’s most salubrious.