 |
One of our early problems was sorting out the well. It
was our only source of water, so it was vital that even if we couldn’t drink
it, we could at least use it for everything else. As it hadn’t been used
for so long, the water coming out was smelly – no other word for it. We had
tried to make filters out of gravel, stockinet and other materials to hand,
but to no avail. I even tried wrapping a pillow round the outlet into the
tank to strain it – you can tell the measure of
 desperation and lack of
experience in such things! The water in the well was above the 10th
step, so we cleaned off the surface debris, again, and shock chlorinated it.
The 2000 litre header tank was cleaned again, removing the sediment from the
bottom. We pumped up the water and let it settle ... Lovely shower!
Our first clean water. I even cut Alan’s beard and hair in
celebration. My own hair went quickly rather yellow and straw like,
whether due to the effects of the chlorine or the sun, or both, I don’t
know, but it did look very peculiar. Once the well started being used
regularly again, we no longer had to chlorinate the water after a while. The
water was wonderfully soft and a bottle of shampoo lasted for ever.
Clearly the 2000 litre tank would not be sufficient for
more than two people. Over the winter we would have to store as much water
as possible to make it through the summer. We were also beginning to worry
that the rains would never come. It was now the beginning of October and we
were using the water at a rate of nearly 1000 litres per week. It seemed we
would have to prepare to be able to accept a water bowser if the rains
didn’t arrive soon. Water bowsers are an important part of campo life in
Spain. A tractor pulls a cylindrical tank, much like the back of a petrol
tanker, to wherever water is required – the further away from the source of
water you are, the more expensive. However, being articulated they can get
to places where a proper tanker would struggle, the tractor also has the
pulling power for steep hills. Preparation for this meant we needed to
install not only at least 2 more tanks to make it worthwhile, but also a
network of piping to run the water down from the nearest access point for
the bowser.
First we installed two 3000 litre tanks. These huge
white, fibreglass containers were much taller than I and with a girth of
even greater dimensions! We still didn’t have our twin-axle trailer, so we
used the tiny boat trailer to bring the “pozos” home. Alan had
already flattened a piece of ground near the existing tank and spread some
sand to help level and cushion them. Now all that remained was to somehow
bring down these giant tanks from the very top of our land, to the correct
position. Earlier I referred Alan’s incredulity of the Vitara being such a
surprisingly good 4x4. He had been harbouring this admiration, quietly
waiting for the right time to test the vehicle. This was the moment. He
literally drove off the track into the bush, (no, not a little tree, but as
in the savage wilderness of southern Africa). You couldn’t see the earth
itself as it was densely covered in a dried mass of mixed undergrowth.
Hesitantly I walked in front to give him an idea where to go. Not only was
the land very steep, but it had also at one time been furrowed by a plough,
and large clods of earth formed drops of up to nearly 2 feet, not easily
visible from above – or especially not someone sitting behind a steering
wheel. My feeble attempts were scorned by the small boy now in charge of
the Vitara. Alan clearly felt his early youth flowing back into his veins
in daredevil abandon. I stood aside and watched – there was nothing else to
do.
The small trailer followed the Vitara gamely, bouncing at
alarming angles, the tanks shifting from side to side in spite of being
lashed securely. I peeped through my fingers which were now covering my
eyes. Alan was about 200 yards down the slope and obviously wondering
whether he dare risk driving the next bit. I sent up a small prayer. It
worked. He got out the car and inspected ground. A drop of 4 feet in front
of the wheels was noted. “Sorry,” apologised Boy Wonder, “but I think
we’ll have to carry the tanks ourselves from here.” What a shame.
It was my turn to be the gambler next. They were jolly
heavy to lift, so I suggested rolling them. They were not completely
cylindrical, the top having a bigger circumference than the base, but I was
sure it would work. Alan was against the idea in case the tanks got up speed
and just kept going, all the way down the mountain and crashing into the
house. I shook my head – they couldn’t go straight as they weren’t round.
The two tanks were still stacked one inside the other. I pushed
experimentally. Poor Alan was on the downside of the tanks and was nearly
squashed flat as they rolled heavily against him.
In the end we regain some sense and tied some rope around
them and, with both of us remaining upside of the tanks, shifted them just a
little at a time. Eventually we reached the prepared platform and hoisted
them vertically into position. The tanks were installed, now just the pipe
work. As a chief engineer, Alan knew all about bunkering. In fact, should
you ever stay at Cencerrita, a copy of Neil Crockett’s Bunkering is
on the shelves for your entertainment ... or to send you to sleep ... A few
guests have commented in amazement that such a publication should exist, let
alone grace our library. We aim to please. As a layman, I just knew the
spaghetti junction of black tubes seemed to have a lot more pipes and valves
than such a supposedly straight forward operation warranted. By the time
Alan had finished, we had impressive array of plumbing that could not only
take the surge of water as the bowser pumped down to us, but each tank could
be isolated in case of any problems. It is here I rest my story of tank
filling – you will read more about it later and comprehend the importance of
isolating each tank in case of disaster ...
 We have only ever once had to fill the tanks using a
bowser. When the rains finally came ... they came with a vengeance of
biblical proportions. It turned out to be the wettest winter for 60 years.
The well was not merely filled up to the landing, but right up to the door –
we even had a river running down behind the well in the gulley. This rain
came in 4 and five days spurts of incredible amounts. We were very pleased –
if we could get the swimming pool built before everything dried up again,
we’d be able to fill it with this lovely soft water instead of the extremely
hard water the bowsers brought.
The following June a couple of guys turned up at the
house. A Spaniard and a ... well, I don’t think Gigi himself knows what he
is anymore. He has a Dutch mother, an Italian father, has lived in Spain
for ages and, at the time, had a German girlfriend ... and speaks wonderful
English! They had seen us bringing our laden trailer up from Álora, and
thought we were carting our own water. We explained that we had to bring
all our own building materials up as, even if a lorry could reach us, there
was no where to turn round ... shades of Tudor Removals. Why did it concern
them anyway? It seemed they were drilling bore holes in the area and
thought we might be interested. Hmm – maybe they did catch our attention a
little. We invited them into the house and asked for more information.
They had drilled for a neighbour, not far from us, and he had enough water
for a bottling plant (50,000 litres of water a day!). The cynical side of
us started showing, so they also admitted that some holes they drilled were
dry. We would still have to pay for the actual drilling, but at least no
other costs would be due.
They had hit a raw spot. One of our biggest worries,
ever since we had first seen Cencerrita, was how to have enough water for
guests, and us, to use. A bowser was a very expensive option to have
regularly coming all this way – not to mention the awkwardness of it. We
asked for full details and then told them to go away while we thought about
it. It was an option we hadn’t really even thought about – which is why it
wasn’t in the budget. For hours we wrangled over spreadsheets seeing where
we could shave a bit off there and if we went without such and such ... you
get the idea. Eventually, with numbers swirling before our eyes, we wearily
went to bed.
Sleeping on a problem sometimes works – the dilemma is
still there, but may by then have a solution. Sadly the answer was only too
clear: the upgrade to a bigger 4x4 would have to be shelved for a while ...
okay, shelved for a few years. We had a couple of useable vehicles but we
had no reasonable source of water on our land – and an adequate water supply
was essential.
As the drilling rig was very close to us, we jumped the
queue and the next day they would start drilling just after lunch. No
chance to change our minds! Before that, it was necessary to divine where to
drill. Lucas, our diviner, started at the age of 10 with his grandfather
who used to do it for friends, not professionally. His Grandfather used to
find water by simply looking and digging – not using a pendulum – drawing on
his extensive experience of the land. At the age of 18 Lucas started
digging wells, having first found the location of water. The deepest well
he dug was just 33 metres but every 40 cm he cemented a step. This meant
each well generally took about a month. A far cry from today’s speedy
machine drilling! During this period, he dug 50 to 60 wells. Whilst digging
the wells, he learnt all about the earth’s structure: where the water was
and also the effects of using a water divining pendulum actually below the
ground – he could now begin to understand the way the earth’s geological
structure affected the pendulum. He worked with various drilling teams
across Spain and over 2500 bore holes had been dug due to his water
divining. Only 15% to 20% of these have either not had any water or at least
not sufficient water for the client’s requirements – a remarkable record
indeed – machines are not that accurate.
We had been told that they would go down to a maximum of
150 metres, and then perhaps another ten if signs of water showed. I would
never make a gambler. A one in five chance of not finding water. I felt
queasy and sick to the pit of my stomach. All that money and we may have
nothing to show for it. We went up to watch for some of the time, but the
dry, powdery dust coming out was too depressing to stay too long.
By rights, you are should have a bore hole licence before
you start drilling. These can cost close on to a €1,000, taking into account
all the technical reports, approvals to be obtained and the cost of the
licence itself – not to mention the time it takes. It is no wonder
therefore, that most bore holes are drilled and, if there is no water,
simply never licensed. It was here we fell foul of the Spanish system of
“denouncing”. This may sound terrifying, like the Spanish Inquisition has
returned, but I am sure it is due to the literal translation of the Spanish
verb “denouncer”.
In English, the word may look like “denounce”, but such a verb would only be
used in the very severest of situations – “report” is a much more accurate
translation in most cases. At the time we hadn’t worked this out and when
Gigi came rushing up to us, shouting that we had been denounced, we were
extremely anxious. The manager of the drilling rig had been driving down to
Álora and met a Guadia Civil car coming up the mountain at speed. A quick
chat proved the manager’s suspicions to be correct and he was able to assure
the Guadia that we had our licence and who had denounced us was unaware of
the full story. Luckily we had the papers ready, for we were going to
licence the hole anyway if it had water, and we were able to email them to
the appropriate authorities before it could be checked by the officious
Guadia! At first I felt very uncomfortable that any of our neighbours had
actually reported us, but we were assured by Gigi that it was more likely to
be the local drilling company who felt their toes were being trodden on by
the outside rig. I didn’t blame them – except we couldn’t have taken the
local company our business as we didn’t know about them.
 By 8 o’clock, paperwork sorted, they had reached 150
metres, but decided not to stop as the soil structure had changed. But 10
metres further on, they called a halt. No water. I was feeling very close
to tears as they explained that sometimes on completion of drilling, the
bore hole is left for 12 hours and then blown - this generally only occurs
if the supply is less than 2,000 litres per day. This is where the hole is
pressurized to see the water coming out and also to thoroughly clean the
hole before the pipes are inserted. From their many years’ experience the
drillers would be able to advise us approximately how many litres per day we
may expect.
There was no sleep for us that night. We cuddled and
talked till the early hours of the morning. We felt we had done the right
thing, it was a chance that had to be taken. With trepidation we made our
way to the bore hole site to meeting the team at 8 o’clock. They were
grinning broadly. They had already blown the hole! The cement coloured grey
shingle lay all around, with dark streaks where it had got wet. “It’s not
going to be a lot, but about 500 litres per day” pronounced the foreman
cheerily. “Would you like us to line the hole?” Nodding agreement I turned
to hug Alan, trying to hide the tears streaming down my face. That had been
very close indeed.
500 litres would support up to 7 people a week. That,
coupled with our well, meant we were in business. We planned to celebrate
the success of our risky venture that night – but were so tired from two
nights missed sleep, we went to bed early and slept soundly.
 In the following days a pump was installed and an extra
3000 litre tank. The small problem of no mains power was sorted by loading
the house generator in the back of the Suzuki and driving up to the bore
hole where I was given the horrendously energetic task of pumping water. I
was required to sit in a chair and read my book, sometimes as often as twice
a week. At intervals I had to walk down to the tanks to see how full they
were getting before ambling back and reading some more. With a flask of
coffee ready to drink and Arwen at my side – I was just about able to
tolerate such a demanding chore.
As I write this, we are in our second summer of drought
and still the bore hole is holding up. Water is the font of all life. We
could live without mains electrics and all the other so-called disadvantages
of campo life, but without water on our land, it would have been so much
more difficult. Thank you Gigi and Lucas for coming that day.
I have also found another plus for bore holes … you don’t
have to go down them and clean the mud out. With the ongoing drought, our
water in the well finally dried up leaving a layer of sticky mud on the
bottom, thereby giving us the wonderful opportunity of cleaning it out.
Moments like this, fortunately, don’t come too often and the boss man said
it must be done before the next lot of rain. Having used every delaying
tactic I could think of, the time came all too quickly one Saturday in
mid-October when no more excuses could be broached. I was given the choice
of being at the top to grab the raised buckets of mud and then to
wheelbarrow the sloppy mix a few yards before tipping it down a handy slope
… the other choice was to be the bottom of the well, shuffling around in
unknown depths of smelly mud and shovelling the ooze in the dark, trapped
down there with all the slime monsters and anything else that might dwell in
the gloop. Hmm, let me think about this. “Okay, I’ll take the top
position!” I volunteered, trying to make it sound like I had the bad deal.
Alan, kitted out in wellie boots, long trousers and one
of his many holed T-shirts (just how does he get moth like holes in all his
T-shirts? I don’t!), surveyed the scene. In the ceiling of the well
was a steel pulley. Neither of us liked the look of the elderly rope that
draped over the pulley which had obviously be used for pulling up buckets of
water since ancient times. As we didn’t have another rope long enough,
we attempted to fix the frayed bits by twisting them back into the
 main
rope and sealing the ends with … brown parcel tape! I’m not quite sure
where our brains were at the time, but needless to say, after one or two
pulls, the rope broke. Luckily being such an untrustworthy looking
rope, the alert, ready-for-anything Alan was well clear as the bucket of mud
toppled and crashed down with a big splash. The pulley was then re-attached
near the door, so the “good” bit of the rope would still reach as the
distance was so much shorter. The pulley had no guards to stop the
rope from slipping off and had to be adjusted – a few blows with a heavy
hammer to the clamp, directed by a determined-to-get-this-job-done engineer,
solved the problem. The rope would not dare slip off now!
Once these minor irritants were sorted, we worked out a
system that, repeated often enough, would clear the well of the mud. Alan
shovelled the stuff into one of the metal buckets (normally used for carting
cement around the finca), pulled on the hoist and raised it up to the door.
Here I grabbed the swinging bucket, unhooked it, tipped it in the barrow
before wheeling it away to the assigned slope. Sounds straightforward
– even easy? This rather glib description does not take into account
any of the perilous properties of the near liquid mud. Shovelling
fluid is not easy … only a little of it actually goes into the bucket.
According to Alan, what was needed was the nice new dustpan I have for our
cottage – this really would make life down the well much easier. A
stiff broom too? Yes, I have just the thing you need, my darling …
I’ll just go and get my clean house broom for you. Thus armed with my
kitchen utensils, the buckets of mud are raised to the well door by Alan
pulling on the vintage rope. The rope becomes more and more slippery until
Alan is unable to haul any more buckets up. Unable to tie grab knots
in the rope due to its new shorter length, he hits on the idea of tying just
the one big knot at the bottom of the rope … he can then walk away to the
far side of the well and the bucket raises. As I grab each bucket to unhook
it, mud slops over the edge and spills down onto my loved one’s face.
No. I am not laughing so hard I can hardly hold the bucket. How
could I? No, I am shaking in sympathy, unable to talk in case I cry
...
Alan’s revenge is swift and sweet. He has rigged a metal
ramp for me to push the wheelbarrow down from the well house, placed the old
fridge in direct line of fire, ensuring I have to heel the barrow over at a
steep angle to dodge the fridge, evade the Laguna by a hair’s breadth, cross
the small patch of solid ground before avoiding falling off the precipice
edge, the selected dumping ground. All the while the mud in the barrow is
slopping everywhere,
 making
my path more slippery and more treacherous every trip I make. The more
runs I do, I learn the twists and turns, where I have to go slowly to avoid
sliding unceremoniously onto my rear, where I must go fast to use G-force to
keep the mud in the barrow round the chicanes of the fridge and car.
Such deft handling of a wheelbarrow is not generally seen in normal reaches
of life … I am thinking of entering it as a new Olympic sport …
Eventually we finished the task without damaging
ourselves. Although looking at the “Monster from the Deep” rising out of
the well, unable to see anything at all through his glasses, his trousers
pulled down almost to levels of indecency by the weight of the clinging mud
… perhaps, as in beauty, comedy is in the eye of the beholder. |
