 |
Friday 1st November 02 (Colleen)
Arriving on All Hallows day,
(forgotten by me) national holiday, we telephoned the estate agent as soon
as we arrived to make sure he would still be meeting us as scheduled. We
checked in to the lovely Hotel Mirador, just
outside Alhaurin El Grande and waited for Steve to arrive. No straws had
been drawn amongst the staff for who had to work on the Bank Holiday – Steve
was the new arrival, and was therefore recruited for this task by default.
He arrived in a dilapidated, formerly white, hatchback. I shrugged at the
fact that the rear seat belts didn’t work as I thought the car unlikely to
achieve the sort of velocity that would hurl me through the murky windscreen
– although I later realised that a restraint would have stopped my head
banging against the roof when driving over the assorted sized potholes that
peppered the dirt tracks, dry riverbed routes and even many of the tarmac
roads. At one stage of our outing, when I pointed out that he’d missed a
really exciting looking crater, he assured me seriously that he wasn’t
actually trying to hit them, there were just too many to miss. Steve was a
kindly person, he not only showed us houses, but also took us to see the
wonderful lakes of El Chorro … although the perilous journey home in the
dark was somewhat of a gamble: sometimes there were crash barriers on the
edges of precipices, and sometimes not …
The places we were shown varied tremendously. The only one of remote
interest was a rather claustrophobic feeling avocado farm which was reached
by threading the car through tiny streets, the wing mirrors slicked against
the car body in an effect to reduce width. Breathing in whilst passing
through some of the narrowest points became second nature. In some places
the cobbled maze of back streets even had steps in the middle, forcing the
car to straddle them and, as for the near vertical inclines, it was a relief
when we reached the relative safety of the ubiquitous potholed track. Steve
had telephoned ahead, and we were due to meet our guide to show us the was
to the farm – he had said we’d find him in the main square. This seemed a
little vague - presumably on this holiday the main square would be empty
apart from our guide sitting alone on a bench quietly waiting for us? No.
When we arrived at the main square, chaos reigned. In the middle of the road
was a policeman frantically signalling and whistling at traffic to move at
his command. When he saw us, he came striding over and bent down to talk to
Steve. I ran though a list of possible traffic violations of which we might
be guilty, but to our foreigners’ eyes, our driver seemed to be the only one
not double parked or reading a newspaper at the pedestrian crossing. It
transpired that in this small village, this policeman also doubled as an
estate agent. He abandoned the tangle of traffic to their own devices and
jumped in our car to show us the way. Not only did he show us the avocado
small holding, but also three other places nearby. We actually considered
the avocado farm for a while as it seemed to have a ready made source of
income – avocados the size of marrows dangling in huge numbers from the
densely planted trees. The thought though of regularly driving through the
village’s alleys with a trailer full of building material was enough to
cause raised blood pressure on my part, so we agreed our search for a new
home would take a little longer.
Back at the hotel we headed for the bar, much in need of some belated Dutch
courage. Using my very best Peruvian-style Spanish, I ordered some drinks.
The barman leant towards me and stared hard. “Mexican?” he asked
doubtfully. Clearly my Spanish was only just understandable to him but
whenever a foreigner makes the effort to speak Spanish here, the warm
response from the locals makes it all worthwhile. The barman took it upon
himself to show us one of the joys of Andalucia: namely, Olives. I cannot
bear olives. Neither the taste, nor the texture. To put it basely, they
literally make me vomit. Smiling genially, he filled a tapas dish with
olives from the hotel’s own trees, poured a generous amount of vinegar over
them and topped the pile with some determined grinds of a gigantic pepper
mill that he’d fetched from the kitchen. Still smiling, he nudged the bowl
over to us and indicated that we should enjoy the olives, served in the very
best way possible. Oh no! What can you do? Pulling my mouth into some
semblance of what I hoped he’d take for a thank you smile, I placed one of
the green balls in my mouth. I rolled it around with my tongue, trying hard
to swallow it. My stomach was already warning me what would happen if I
should continue along this disastrous path – but the barman was watching me
expectantly. I swallowed. The olive oiled its way down my throat and sat
there solidly in my stomach. I smiled broadly at the barman. I was going
to be lucky, it was going to stay there, at least for the time being. “Deliciosa!”
I proclaimed happily, thankful my stomach had not instantly returned the
unwanted intrusion. Grinning, the barman pushed the bowl yet closer to me,
telling me I should eat and enjoy them all. Just as panic set in, I was
desperately relieved to see a party of other people arrive in the bar and
our friend had to go and attend them. Most of the bowl was emptied by me …
into a few tissues I always carried in my handbag. Heavens knows what he
thought we were doing with the stones. Before the barman came back, we
escaped into the dining room for dinner. There was a worrying moment when
the apparent twin of the barman brought yet more olives to our table but I
was grateful to realise that this new man was more concerned with taking our
order than worrying whether or not we were enjoying the olives. The first
olive that I had eaten sat there in my stomach for the rest of the evening,
stirring threateningly at uncomfortable intervals. I am sorry to say that
after our delicious meal, the olive made its bid for freedom, thankfully in
the privacy of our bathroom. I have vowed next time to be more firm with
such attentive barmen!
Saturday
2nd November 02 (Colleen)
Today we were to meet Amy and Manolo in Éstacion de Cártama. Amy was unlike
any other estate agent we had ever met or indeed are ever likely to again.
Her energy and enthusiasm belied her diminutive appearance. How so much
fitted in the small body, I have no idea. She talked all the time both to
us in a strong Brooklyn accent and to Manolo in Spanish to keep him abreast
of the topics being batted to and fro. In total contrast, Manolo drove the
4x4 with a relaxed, almost sleepy manner, guiding the vehicle through the
network potholes with the skill of someone who has had infinite practice at
such tasks. The gentle meandering of the car and Amy’s entertaining chatter
meant the length of the track seemed inconsequential. They had two houses
that they thought might suit us – although we were questioned rather closely
on our request for living in the countryside. Apparently many would-be
house purchasers thought they wanted a life in the campo, until they
realised all the problems of living so far from “civilisation”. Clearly
fruitless trips wasted a lot of Amy and Manolo’s time as most of the rural
house took a bit of getting to! At one point, Manolo pulled the car over to
show us the two houses from across the valley. One was low down, sheltered
from the winds, but the other was high above, clearly commanding superior
views.
The first house, the lower one, was pretty with a lot of character. We both
liked it and checked it out carefully. However, when we reached the second
house, we both knew we’d found our new home. We were unable to drive right
to the house as there was a locked chain across the driveway, so we had to
walk the last kilometre or so. Without even going inside, Amy took us to the
roof terrace and showed us the view. There are no words to do it justice,
although many of our guests have been filled with poetry trying to describe
it in the visitors’ book – it has that sort of effect. Laid out below was a
tableau of layered mountains and vast skies above the verdant citrus valley.
Behind us, our own land rose up to the top of the mountain covered in olive
and almond trees. This was our heaven and we loved it. As if to emphasise
the perfection of the location, the autumn sunset swept across the sky in a
celebration of reds, golds and blues of every imaginable hue. The mountains
and trees cast sharp silhouettes of black relief against the background
tapestry. The view was simply breathtaking.
We did, of course, look inside the house, although the location was enough
for us. Luckily the house wasn’t too bad inside. Built onto the original
main house were two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen – clearly done on the
cheap and in an effort to get it sold for as much as possible. We would
have plenty to keep us busy getting it ready for guests, but at least it
wasn’t a complete rebuild. The house was currently being occupied by a
plentiful number of geckos, who were rather startled as the front door
opened and had to dash to a quiet dark corner where they could hide from
prying eyes.
The land was some 28,000 metres square of gently sloping mountain side,
covered in almonds and olives. At the bottom of the plot was a well-house.
This seemed to be the only barrier to us buying Cencerrita. Without water,
the place was useless. If we had been told about the water bowsers
(tractors towing water-tankers), we would have slept a lot better over the
coming months! Manolo promised to try and find out how much water the well
would yield. Electricity should not be a problem as a project was in hand to
connect Cencerrita along with some other properties in the area – most of
this had been paid for by the current owner.
Driving down the hill, with the sunset’s colours ever-deepening, I was
nudging Alan, mouthing silently to him how much I wanted the house, whilst
trying not to seem too keen to the estate agents. Alan bided his time till
we got to the bottom where we’d parked our hire car. Finally, apparently
almost as an after-thought, he intimated that we might be interested if the
water problem could be solved, and perhaps a reduction in price too, bearing
in mind the track length and the amount that still needed doing to make it
habitable.
That night we had to drive a fair distance to the place we had booked for
the night. We’d picked the place because it seemed to be the sort of thing
we were hoping to do – a north European couple renting out a farmhouse on a
walnut farm. It was very dark and late by the time we arrived – and we were
so hungry. Happily there was a great place to eat not far away where we had
the most succulent, giant, pork steaks we had ever seen. Pork had never
tasted this good in England. It was also unbelievably cheap – we would have
to visit this place again.
Sunday
3rd November 02 (Colleen)
In the morning we were woken by a cockerel somewhat earlier than we had
hoped. However an early start was a good idea as, being a Sunday with no
appointments, we had decided that we would go back and have another look at
Cencerrita by ourselves, just to make sure!
Before leaving we took some photos of our overnight stop, just to remind us
of some ideas that we wanted copy … and rather more that we did not! The
whole place felt rather run down and unloved. Most of the inside just had
white paint slapped on everything: roof beams, door frames and very, um,
rustic walls. The word “rustic” became a catch phrase with us as defining
pretty much any building work that was rather unsophisticated and unpolished
in its finish. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing in the countryside –
it would often give a building a rather quaint charm that town houses
lacked.
In Álora we bought a spit roasted chicken and bottle of mineral water to
take up with us on a picnic. Knowing how difficult the place would be to
find, we wondered if these provisions would actually turn into survival
rations. In our little Peugeot, we headed out up the tracks. Every now and
then, Alan would leap out the car and scan the horizon with his hand held
above his eyes in a confident manner, assuring me that it was just a case of
recognising the hill tops. Blessed with an extraordinary sense of direction,
not to mention dogged determination, he would find Cencerrita, I had no
doubt of that.
An hour or so later, having got there by a totally different route than the
previous day, we found the chain across the track that led to the house.
There had been one particularly nerve-racking moment when the little car
faulted going up what amount to not much more than a steep scree slope. As
the loose stones flew out backwards, and we slipped and slid in an alarming
fashion, I was treated to Alan’s lectures on how front wheel drives were
grand as they could get up anything and also the one about if you can’t get
up in first gear, remember reverse is the lowest and thereby the strongest
gear … I am relieved to say that it did not come to that. Whilst Alan’s
practical skills and engineering way of looking at
things have served us extremely well over the years, I sometimes wonder if
he has any idea of the devastating effect some of his ways have on us
ordinary mortals.
We walked around the boundaries marvelling at the amount of land. Never in
all our dreams did we imagine that we could have afforded a property like
this. We cracked some of the nuts picked from the laden almond trees,
inspected the olives with less interest (!) and just ambled around feeling
such a sense of wonder and peace. We took the roast chicken up to the roof
terrace to eat, barely able to believe the magnificent warmth from the sun
in November.
Eventually we left Cencerrita even more certain that it was what we both
wanted. There was one more place we had to see before make a firm decision,
and our appointment was early Monday morning.
We set off for our next overnight stop, Cádiar in the Alpajarras. It was
another glorious evening as we drove along the coast for a while before
turning northwards again. This was the first time that we saw the strange
phenomenon that we discovered is common place in this area. We were driving
eastwards and the sun appeared to be setting in front of us! Very peculiar.
It was completely dark by the time we reached Cádiar, having negotiated the
amazingly, winding country roads – at one point even being diverted many
kilometres due to a village Fiesta which closed off the through road. Even
we had found the hotel, we had trouble finding the entrance ... and then the
reception. Once parked, we wandered around hunting for a likely looking
“main entrance”, but the rustic buildings sprawled cheerfully over a wide,
undulating area, more like a small village than a hotel. We eventually
stopped at what appeared to be a small church and knocked on the door to ask
the way. In my very best Spanish, I enquired if the occupants knew where we
could find the reception. The woman peered doubtfully into the darkness at
us standing on the church steps. We may have looked a little travel worn,
but we were clearly not from outer space and hardly warranted the glare.
“Wilbur!” she called loudly, not turning her head over her shoulder and
thence letting us out her sight. “Wilbur? I can’t understand these Spanish
people, come and give me a hand” Her broad, American accent rolled over us
in a lazy wave.
I
laughed. “Wonderful, you speak English then.” Some time later, having
declined their hospitality in view of the late hour, we found the concealed
reception area. Helpful as the Americans had been with directions, it was
still some half an hour later before we had completed formalities and made
it to our room. It was traditionally decorated and had its own small,
private garden which in the morning we discovered had lovely views across
the countryside. We took lots of photos of the building – we particularly
liked the heavy wooden front door with black iron studs – an idea we were to
copy later for Cencerrita’s front door.
Monday
4th November 02 (Colleen)
We had to leave earlier than they normally served breakfast, so we made do
with a frugal slice of dry toast and instant coffee – not their normal
standards, I am sure! Our appointment with the estate agent was for 9
o’clock, but after we had sat on the bench for nearly two hours outside the
assigned church, we were beginning to think that we had been stood up ... A
telephone call reached the agent’s partner who insisted he was already
waiting for us. Hmm ... I took out the sheet I had printed off the computer
and looked carefully at the details. When we’re travelling, I always
prepare a file with all the necessary paperwork - in the top right hand
corner I always write the date, time and the subject – I find it makes
hunting for the right document easier, particularly under pressure. There
was no pressure now. As I scanned the sheet advertising our potential dream
home, I checked the printed address and then read the scrawled notes
underneath. Regretfully they were in my handwriting, not Alan’s, as it was
clearly my fault that we were waiting at the wrong village ... We leapt back
in the car and headed for the actual meeting place as fast as the mountain
road would allow us – actually, from a passenger’s point of view, I think it
might have been even faster than the road did allow.
The agent was waiting for us, totally unperturbed by our lateness and
shrugged off our profuse apologies. It would appear in Spain that tardiness
does sometimes, on the very odd occasion, occur. We parked our car and went
in his rather ancient Seat. The vehicle may have actually been quite new,
but the country roads had caused premature ageing – I had the feeling that
the same might be happening to me.
My heart sank as we approached the Cortijo. Although not as much land as
Cencerrita, the building itself was much bigger and, taking into account the
farm outhouses, it had the possibility of being converted into either a
small hotel or being divided into holiday apartments. We knew there would
be a lot of work needing to be done, but somehow seeing the property in all
its non-glory, the mammoth task came home to us. As we looked around, I
realised I had already decided what I wanted – or didn’t want – but I was
content to go with whatever Alan’s decision would be.
There were still goats around (and the accompanying smells) and someone
appeared to be living in the house. I use the term “living” in a very loose
manner: there was a hammock strung across in the kitchen and the odd item
of clothing to provide a touch of colour here and there. A blackened
cooking pot was home to a trail of undoubtedly well-fed ants – the exact
contents were not obvious, but the aroma blended in an interesting manner
with the rotting manure smell that percolated up through the trap door.
“Very easy to look after the animals” our guide announced cheerfully,
lifting the trap door in the floor which led straight to the Minotaur’s
lair. We looked down into the darkness and Alan shone our torch into the
depths.
“How on earth do you get in and out of there?” I asked warily, not sure that
this cellar did not belong to one of Dean Koontz’s less genial characters.
It seemed there was an entrance on the outside of building. Fine. I thought
that maybe this would be one corner I would not explore. Nothing had been
done to make anything here a little more presentable for sales purposes and
certainly no effort to get rid of the malodorous stench that emanated from
that hole.
Alan had already moved on. For the next four hours he squeezed his long,
tall frame into dark voids, peered into inaccessible crevices, examined gaps
where walls had once been and generally gave the cortijo a thorough,
Gosling-type, going over. In one room he moved aside a wardrobe that even
to my naïve eyes looked curiously out of place, revealing the sideways grin
of a deep crack, splitting the wall virtually in two. “Hmm, thought that
cupboard was in a strange place” was his only comment as he disappeared to
the next room to see the effect of the rift in there.
At last the verdict was pronounced. “Unfortunately,” I heaved a sigh of
relief at his utterance of this word “it would take at least two years to do
up and we just cannot afford to be without an income for that length of
time.” I nodded in a way I hoped would be taken for reluctant agreement. I
had been the driving force behind seeing this place – I had even had a
picture of this cortijo as my computer’s wallpaper. Alan’s judgement proved
to be correct. Knowing what we know now about restoring buildings in Spain
– even allowing for the EF (embuggeration factor as my father would say),
we would have been lucky to finish it in four years, let alone two!
The next day we had booked appointments in Almería but, as we drove along
the coastal road that afternoon, we became increasingly despondent.
Flanking each side of the road, indeed as far as we could see, were high
plastic greenhouses. Mile upon mile. Higher than we could see over a lot of
the time. This was obviously a main supply vein for the addicts of
strawberries and tomatoes – demanding their habits be fed all through the
year, regardless of the natural seasons. We stopped at a “Mirador”
(viewpoint) to watch the sunset, framed neatly by the sheets of plastic.
“I don’t think,” I ventured quietly, “that I want to live at the end of a
drive like this.” Alan hugged me in relief. We turned our back on the Costa
Plastica and headed back westwards.
Tuesday
5th November 02 – My Birthday (Colleen)
Amy managed to find a town house in Álora for us to stay even at such short
notice. The layout of the rooms was a little strange: I had the feeling I
was walking into a dentist’s reception when we came through the front door;
the bedroom had no outside windows, only a shuttered hole onto a corridor;
the bathroom at the top of the stairs provided an indoor waterfall feature
when taking a shower and, as there was no shower curtain, the water flowed
steadily under the door and down the steps. The saving grace of the house
was a roof top terrace – views of the valley and everyone else’s terraces
too. Alan got up early in the morning and bought fresh pastries to eat for
breakfast on the roof terrace to celebrate my birthday! Much appreciated. As
our flight was to leave that evening, there were many things to sort out so
unfortunately we could not linger too long, enjoying gazing over the
rooftops in Álora in the balmy morning sunshine.
Luckily Amy paved the way for us and arranged our day to complete everything
that needed to be done. She introduced us to the wonderful CajaSur bank in
Álora where Jesús, the bank
manager, spoke beautiful English and had endless patience to take us through
all the things that needed doing. That day passed in a blur: between the
solicitor and the bank, we opened an account, took out a mortgage, arranged
for the surveyor to check the property, signed the papers, arranged a
completion date ... and probably several other things ... all too much to
remember.
Exhausted but feeling heady with the whirlwind experience, we eventually
headed for the airport. However, Alan still had some energy left – we were
going to go and check out the prices at the hypermarkets so we could compare
UK costs - it would help us decide what we would buy in Spain, and items
that we would ship out to us. We trailed around the big hypermarkets,
barely scratching the surface, but gathered some leaflets to read at our
leisure. We were pleasantly surprised at the cost of items in Spain and
found that in general, we could say that euros equalled pounds for many
things.
“Alan,” I snuggled up to him on the plane “last year you took me to
Barcelona for my birthday, this year you’ve bought me a house – what are you
going to give me next year?” I couldn’t wait to find out!
*******************
On January 5th 2003, just two months after seeing Cencerrita for
the first time, we were back in Álora to sign the contract. Alan was dry
docking a ship up in the northern town of Santander, but as soon as he’d
finished, we jumped in the car and drove South. The weather had been mild
up until then, but as we drove over the mountains via Burgos, there was deep
snow either side. Unbeknown to me, a Spanish acquaintance of Alan’s had
advised him not to go up over the pass as it would be difficult and likely
to be closed soon due to the bad weather ... I’m sure the Spaniard meant
well, but telling Alan not to do something is a sure way to make sure he
does! The road itself had been kept clear, but there were large drifts on
either side. We stopped briefly high on the pass and half-heartedly threw a
few snowballs at each other, but the weather was cold and we didn’t want to
be all wet sitting in the car for such a long journey. It was a pretty route
and the Laguna had no problems eating up the miles as we headed south.
When we came to the plains of middle Spain, the motorway was very slow with
only some lanes open. We were lucky enough to get in behind a gritting
lorry for a long spell which helped. When we had dinner in a bar that
night, we saw on the Spanish news that even the motorway had closed because
of the snow - we must have been one of the last cars to get through. We
were surprised at the closure because the Spanish seemed very well set up
with their gritting lorries and snowploughs. Every so often along by the
side of the road were giant hoppers where the lorry could drive underneath
and be refilled with grit. England take note!
Due to the weather delays, we were unable to make Álora that night, and
found ourselves a comfortable hotel on the main road out of Granada. We
still had a day in hand as we didn’t have to be at our solicitors until noon
the following day. Down in the south there was far less snow, and none in
Álora which made the driving much easier as we meandered unhurriedly,
enjoying the sights of our new country . We had reserved a room at a small
B&B right in the middle of Álora. Whilst clean and comfortable, it was a
very weird and disquieting place – not least because of the positively
gruesome paintings on the foyer walls, painted we think by the man who lived
there ... whom we never saw – we only ever saw his skeletal, grey wife. All
through the night we could here the frenetic chattering of flock of birds in
the huge tree in the courtyard. When I asked about it in the morning, as we
tucked into the delicious bacon and eggs cooked for us, it seemed they had
an infestation that they were unable to do anything about. The tree was
protected and the birds ignored any of the so-called bird scarers available
on the market. I suggested a giant net over the tree would be one method to
stop them nesting in the trees, doing little harm to either birds or the
tree, but my idea was greeted with disdain and I refrained from any more
suggestions.
Amy had been looking for us! There had been urgent messages left with both
the bank manager and the solicitor by Amy and Manolo – where were we? We
hadn’t realised that they were taking us into Malaga Police Station where we
had to get our NIE certificates in order to be able to complete the house
purchase. All passports and other immigration documents are handled at the
main Police Station in the province – it seemed a strange idea at the tine,
but did work fairly well. We had to rush to get there before it closed for
siesta, Manolo even pushed us out the car while he went to find a parking
space – never an easy task. In the grey interior of the police station
there were long queues, people pushing in as and tempers fraying slowly but
surely in the stuffy atmosphere. We were relieved when we finally came out
clutching the correct documents in our hands.
It was with great excitement that afternoon that we signed for our keys.
Cencerrita was now ours! No messing about with “completion dates” after the
exchange of contracts as in England – our bank manager pushed the cash
across the table to the vendors’ solicitor, and that was that! We had the
keys and could move in right away. We had figured that we would have time to
spend a couple of nights there before having to go back to the UK. In
preparation for this I had packed some extra luggage that had not been
required at the classy Hotel Bahía
in Santander. Amongst our survival kit was an air bed, a 4 tog summer
double duvet and pillows, a camping stove, cooking pot, paper plates, cups
and, most important, tea bags. We added to our meagre rations at the local
supermarket, picking up some bread, wine, jamón
ibérica, milk, cereal and logs to put on the
fire.
Amy and Manolo were kind enough to lead us some of the way, so the number
and severity of potholes and scree slopes which had multiplied many times
over in the intervening time in my mind since our last trip in November,
were hugely reduced ... the way to Cencerrita was uneventful and easy!
Almost a let down. Now we had a key, we could unlock the chain gate and
drive down for the first time. The skies had dispensed sufficient rain to
make everything green – it looked so different ... and overgrown. Alan
could just about make out the track and we followed it down to the house.
Home!
Once there, it was difficult to know where to begin. It was already quite
late in the afternoon, so we only had a couple of hours before dark – with
just a torch and some candles to light our way. Unfathomably Alan decided
that the most important thing to do would be to start painting the iron bars
on the windows – well, I guess we had to start somewhere ... it’s just a
pity that one of the first things we did when we moved in properly, was to
take the grilles out! There was so much to be done, it was overwhelming. I
decided the most important thing would be to make sure we had somewhere to
sleep later on – blowing up the airbed in the dark would not be a lot of
fun. I picked the room that would later be known as the Cártama Room as,
surprisingly enough, it faced that direction. Initially it was the East
Room: I wanted the bedrooms to be called East and West – one for the
sunrise and one for the sunset. After months of confusion whenever I
referred to one of the rooms Alan, with his superior navigational skills,
eventually broke the news to me; in truth, they faced North and South. My
burgeoning marketing instincts told me no one in their right mind would want
either of those: cold and damp or too hot and sunny would be the impression.
Undaunted, I simply named the rooms after the towns they overlooked! Alan
and I were both content with the re-christening.
With the bed now made up in the driest room of the house, I made us a cup of
tea before directing my attention towards the huge lounge. Bags of
fertilizer had been stored in here, along with a small boat trailer, a
couple of broken solar panels, an arch mould and a few other unlikely
items. The geckos living there with free rein, had left droppings scattered
in abstract patterns on the walls and sprinkled abundantly in trails along
the horizontal surfaces. In amongst the debris left in the lounge, I
located a broom which would serve to remove the afore-mentioned deposits
from the walls. After the broom head had fallen on my own head countless
times, I decided I would find something else to occupy me.
At one end of the long room, there was a fire place. There was no grating
or anything else, but I prided myself that I could get a cosy fire burning
there with the logs we’d brought with us and a little bit of kindling from
outside. The brushwood proved to be too wet, so I found some yellowed
papers lying around (also covered in gecko poo – but would it burn?) and set
to work. I stood back and admired my handiwork. Nice job, should be a good
fire. I found a couple of barrel-shaped 20 litre containers which would do
for seats later. As I placed them fairly close to the fireplace, I crossed
my fingers that the liquid sloshing around in them was water, not a fuel of
some sort.
 Darkness
now shrouded the house which glowed faintly in the moonlight. For the first
time we could look down into the valley and see all the lights. It was
extraordinary – so many houses in the campo as well as the towns – by day it
was easy to believe we were all alone on the planet, but at night time the
valley twinkled with strings of fairy lights. It was too cold to stand
outside for long, so we lit our log fire and sat on the makeshift seats to
eat our gourmet meal. The earthiness of the fine bottle of Siglo
Rioja was the perfect foil to the jamón ibérica and crusty barras. Life was
good.
As we gesticulated airily with our plastic cups of wine, expounding our
deepest thoughts for the future of Cencerrita, I began to think I had drunk
a little too much wine. Alan’s face had become hazy in the subdued light
emitted by the fire. If I had worn glasses then, I probably would have
rubbed them to see if they were misted. Suddenly we realised what was
happening; the chimney was not drawing correctly and the smoke from my
carefully laid fire was beginning to fill the room. Swiftly we rushed to
the front door to make our escape, but THE DOOR WAS STUCK. Whatever Alan
says, I was not panicking, I just wanted to get out. I couldn’t
breathe properly. The metal front door, the only way out, would not budge. I
roundly cursed the Spanish habit of putting bars on all the windows. Alan
the engineer thrust his hand into his work jeans, scrabbled amongst various
screws, rawlplugs and other paraphernalia and grunted with satisfaction as
he brought out a flat headed screwdriver with a magician’s flourish.
Masterfully he inserted the tool between the door and frame, a little
leverage here and there before the door scraped open, screaming metallically
as it fretted against the floor tiles. We fell over ourselves rushing
outside to gulp in the fresh night air. We looked back inside and the room
was now thick with smoke. I dare not think how that evening could have
ended – I had even thought we’d be able to leave the fire lit when we went
to bed ... Thank heavens for my hero with a screwdriver in his jeans!
Empty and unused for so long, , the unfinished house had a very damp feel to
it. As we slid under our summer duvet, we both realised we were unlikely to
be warm enough through the night. We clung together to share our body heat
and slept off and on through the night. We were all keyed up with the
excitement of the day and settling down to sleep was difficult. Tendrils of
chilled humidity seeped under the duvet and crept down over our shivering
skin. Each of us wanted to suggest leaving in the morning, not wanting to
face another such cold night, but neither of us liked to upset the other. I
spoke first, in desperation, around 5 o’clock, long before dawn’s light
slipped though the barred windows. “Shall we go home today? There’s not a
lot we can do here like this … and I don’t think I could bear another night
like this …” Alan hugged me tight and murmured his agreement.
For breakfast we ate hot soup out of the pan in bed – deliciously warming.
We put the little burner stove next to us in the bedroom to save getting out
of bed. When we checked our maximum/minimum thermometer, it had only gone
down to 2oC – yet felt like one of the coldest nights I’ve ever
spent. A lesson was learnt that night – it can get jolly cold in Southern
Spain – especially in damp rooms with just a thin duvet!
If it can get cold in Southern Spain, it gets even colder further north. We
must be the only people in the entire northern hemisphere who have never
been to Ikea – everyone we know is always going on about how that picked up
this or that. As it was just one shop, we thought it would be a cheap and
simple way to furnish the house. At that time, there were no Ikeas down
this way, but no less than four in the Madrid area. I suggested that, prior
to our overnight stop driving North, we could “pop in” for a look. Why oh
why do I come up with these half-baked ideas? Needless to say it was
absolutely impossible to find any of the Ikeas, even following the
directions we had downloaded from the internet. Eventually, after nearly
two hours of hunting, we stumbled upon the building more or less
accidentally, a whole hour before it closed. I’m sure it is a great shop,
but after our sleepless night before, the long drive followed by the hunt,
we staggered round the vast interior with our minds numbed by overload and
didn’t find anything to, as it were, hit us in the face. At least we have
now joined the ranks of those who have been inside an Ikea and can hold our
heads up during conversations when the subject comes up.
We found a place just north of Madrid to stay. The restaurant was warm and
welcoming and in full swing by the time we had dumped our bags and tidy
ourselves up a bit. Alan with his short hair, what there is of it, and full
beard always looks more or less the same – a wash and brush up makes little
difference to his appearance. I, on the other hand, don’t even have to move
far from a mirror and my hair immediately struggles loose from its bonds and
flies in all directions, proclaiming me to be unkempt ruffian who has just
crawled through a gorse bush. If I don’t at least attempt to tie my hair
down, I resemble the mythological Gorgon Medusa but, at least last time I
looked, without the snakes.
We were hungry as our rations had barely been sufficient for our stay at
Cencerrita and we hadn’t really wanted to stop on the road ... after all, we
were trying to make good time to see Ikea! The food and drink were
delicious and gave us a lovely warm glow as we snuggled down into the cosy
bed that night. Rising in the morning was a different matter. I glanced
out the window and wondered why they had frosted glass in the bedroom
windows ... no, the glass was actually frosted -with frost, inside and
outside! I puffed on the window for a little while and warmed a spot big
enough to peer through. As I suspected, the car was covered in a thin layer
of snow, as was the minor road we were on. A quick breakfast and we were
underway on the fine motorways again, with no plans for any more diversions
– straight through to Calais to catch the ferry early the next day.
It would have been nice to have made the ferry that night, but as we didn’t
make Calais until 2 am, due to an unplanned detour of Bilbao, (totally
Alan’s fault – he’s meant to be the faultless navigator) we would just have
to wait until morning. “Wait until morning” did not mean “sit in the car
and doze a little”. We had done that two years previously after a Christmas
dry dock and had nearly suffered from hypothermia. We had arrived at Le
Havre, nice and warm, the car heater easily keeping the outside temperatures
at bay, so much so that no warning bells rang in our minds regarding the
cold. We gave my daughter, dozing in the back seat, a pile of coats to
snuggle under, and we settled back in our seats to sleep – not thinking we
would need any extra clothing. Sleep was totally unattainable. I was so
cold and tired I couldn’t even raise myself to go and get some warm things
out of the suitcase in the boot, or even turn the car engine on to warm the
interior for bit. Looking back, the muddled thinking and lethargy were no
doubt the warning signs of the onset of hypothermia, but I was too tired and
cold to realise this. The windows were totally frosted up as the
temperatures dipped to well below freezing point. Alan managed to fall
asleep, but when I saw his bald head resting on the frosted window I risked
waking him by inserting the window cloth between the glass and his head.
Never again was I going to hazard another night like that. No, this time we
would have a hotel, if only for a few hours. Except finding a hotel at 2 am
is not the easiest task. Many of the hotel chains have a place outside the
front door to feed your credit card into a machine to pay for a night.
Neither of the two places we tried worked. Running out of hotels to try, we
were by now pretty close to the port, Alan stopped again at a likely looking
place. There was no answer from the night watchman, even though Alan was
leaning on the door bell. Determined to find us a bed, he walked round the
hotel and surprisingly found a back door unlocked. He entered. I think the
night watchman nearly had a heart attack when Alan appeared behind him.
However, once he had caught his breath again, he welcomed us in and showed
us to a comfortable room where we spent 4 whole hours in blissful, warm
sleep before having to get up again to catch the ship. Definitely a cosier
night than if we’d slept in the car again ... |
