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We hope you
enjoy the first three chapters of our story... if you would like to read the
rest of the book, you either need to visit Cencerrita itself or pay 5 euros
via PayPal to download the file.!
To whet your
appetite a little, some photos illustrating the book can be seen on
www.finca-chiquitita.com
Have fun!
Colleen and
Alan Gosling
Summer 2010
"...
both of us were totally engrossed in your adventures on how you got here and
how you built this place. A truly superb bit of writing and you must publish
it!!! Many of the stories we were laughing out loud, reading paragraphs to
each other saying that they were so true. The last page choked both of us
and brought a tear to our eyes." Ellen and Neil, July 2010
Perched precariously on a
barstool, I ordered some belated Dutch courage. We had just been through our
first viewing of a potential new home and business in Spain and needed to
re-group and re-think our plans. Could we possibly be any good at avocado
farming? Without any starting point to judge our capabilities in this
unknown field, it was an unanswerable question. We had no idea.
Using my very best
Peruvian-style Spanish, I requested two large beers. The barman leant
towards me and stared hard.
‘Mexican?’ he asked
doubtfully.
Clearly the Spanish I had
learnt in Peru was only just comprehensible to him but whenever a foreigner
makes the effort to speak Spanish here; the warm response from the locals
makes it all worthwhile. Delighted to have an audience in the otherwise
empty hotel bar, the barman took it upon himself to introduce us to one of
the apparent joys of Andalusia: namely, olives. But 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
seemingly huge mound by some determined grinding of a gigantic pepper mill
which 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
the repulsive thing. 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.
The barman mistook my smirk
of achievement for a smile of pleasure. 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 tourists arrive
in the bar and our new friend reluctantly left torturing me to go and attend
to them. Alan would have nothing at all to do with the olives, so the bowl
was emptied by me … into a few tissues found in my handbag. Sometimes highly
useful things are unearthed in my hamster nest of a handbag. Heavens knows
what the barman thought we were doing with the olive stones. Luckily, before
he came back, we managed to escape into the dining room for dinner. There
was a anxious 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 swallowed olive sat there greasily 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!
When the new millennium
began, Alan and I were living contentedly together in a flat on the South
Coast of England. We had left our old lives and marriages far behind us and,
whilst delighted to have a second chance in life with each other, we knew we
were just treading water and that the outlook for our future if we continued
in this way was mediocre and unexciting. Neither of us wanted to spend our
lives slavishly rising with the alarm each morning; fighting the traffic –
and often the weather – on our way to work; spending the day doing something
generally not of our choice; before again doing battle with the traffic;
cooking dinner; eating dinner; maybe a film or game of cards before going to
bed … and then the next day it all starts again. Living only for the
weekends. True, each of us enjoyed our jobs to a large extent – but work was
simply not enough. You know those days in winter when you don't see your
home in the daylight for months and your fingers ache with the intense
coldness when scrapping the ice from your windscreen? When everything is
grey: the roads, the rain, the sky, the houses – even your mood? We knew
there had to be more to life than this, much more.
Alan, as a Chief Engineer in
the Merchant Navy, had spent quite a few months in Spain and Gibraltar
overseeing the dry docking of ships. Whenever possible, I would join him:
not only because I wanted to be with him but I needed to feel a little of
the Spanish sunshine on my skin, particularly during the endless dark, cold
months in the UK. We both took great delight in the laid-back feel of the
Mañana culture, marvelling at the
contrasting, vivacious vitality that permeated every corner of this
beautiful country.
Slowly, imperceptibly, a
germinating seed was growing in our minds. Whenever we passed an estate
agent in Spain, we would look in the windows and comment on the various
properties available. There seemed to be so many different types and wildly
differing prices but the only ones we both kept pointing out to each other
were the virtual ruins in the middle of nowhere. Property prices had
already started to spiral upwards but at this stage they were still low
enough to us to sell our flats in the UK, buy a place needing renovation and
have a little left over to live on for a while until we could make some
money. Realisation began to dawn on us: we could actually do it - we could
really move to Spain. What was there to stop us? Certainly we needed to sit
down and work out the fundamental details for such an intrepid plan, but
intrinsically we could see no reason why we shouldn’t at least give it some
serious consideration.
We felt it was important to
go for the right reasons: nightmare stories had been well-publicised by the
media about hapless Brits struggling to live in foreign climes. It would be
easy to let a rose-tinted, spectacled mentality cloud our clear-thinking as
the rash enthusiasm took hold of us. Aware that only abject failure or
incredible success were newsworthy stories, we ignored all the media hype
and decided we were going to try regardless!
After interminable
discussions far into the night, discarding grand - and unlikely –
moneymaking schemes, we decided that the only way we could make a living
would be to rent a villa to holidaymakers. Neither of us had any experience
in this field, so we reckoned the learning curve would be steep, but not
impossible. Once that decision had been made and we knew that tourism would
the most important factor in our choice, we were able to draw up a list of
criteria for where we would like to live. Spain is a vast country, some 1000
kilometres square with Madrid slap bang in the middle - there can’t be many
countries where the capital is the furthest point from the sea possible!
At the very top of our
requirements was location: we needed the right place within an hour or so of
an international airport – one which had cheap flights. That determinant
alone cut out many areas of rural Spain as the budget airlines were then
mostly only to the coasts. Whilst the weather throughout Spain is undeniably
better than in the UK, the north of Spain appears to have more than its fair
share of rain – definitely not a requirement for the tourist industry. Down
in the south, Almerìa boasts of having Europe’s only true desert … which we
didn’t want either! We discovered from some friends who tramp all over
Europe in their caravan, spending summer in the cooler climates and finding
warm corners to ride out the winter, that the southern coast of Spain was
one of the warmest of the whole of Europe. I must confess I was slightly
wary of being anywhere too hot: I enjoy warmth but too much heat makes me
feel sluggish and not want to do anything … perhaps not such a bad idea
after all!
To me, day length was also a
factor. I lived in Scotland for a number of years and hated the terrible
darkness of the short days throughout the cold months which were then
followed by crazy day lengths in the summer when it never got completely
dark. In total contrast I had also lived for two years just south of the
equator in Kenya, where the days of equal length throughout the year had me
nostalgically thinking of the wonderful, long summer evenings of the UK! It
was simply great to discover that, although on the same time as central
Europe, Spain is actually west of the Greenwich meridian line. This
means that daylight more or less starts between 7 – 8 am all through the
year and in winter, even on the shortest day, it is still light beyond 6 pm
and on the longest day it gets dark around 10 pm (but the warmth of the day
lasts a lot longer!). It’s just perfect.
Another vital ingredient to
the success of our plans would be some fluency of the language. I had spent
a year in Peru in my early twenties and now, some thirty years later, I
still remembered a fair amount of my studies, so it seemed a sensible idea
to pick somewhere where they spoke “normal Spanish”. This ruled out areas
such as Barcelona where they speak Catalan and even Valencia as they have
yet another dialect. In blissful ignorance, I had never heard of the dialect
they speak in Andalusia … so this shortfall in my knowledge is one of the
main reasons we chose to look in the south of Spain.
Many hours were spent on the
internet poring over the property sales’ websites. There was an immense
array to choose from in our possible price range … but we needed to do more
than just look at the computer screen: the germinating seed, having firmly
implanted itself in our minds, now required a growth medium, plus a little
nurturing. We booked ourselves a 5 day trip to the Malaga area to see some
of the properties that had stood out in our internet hunt.
When we arrived at Malaga
Airport, I realised I had booked our flights to arrive on All Hallows Day, a
national holiday. This was by no means the last time we were caught out by
public holidays - over the ensuing years not only did the national holidays
catch us out on odd occasions, but the local ones still surprise us nearly
every time!
Leaving the airport we had
several false starts at finding the correct turn off – the road numbers were
completely different to our brand new road map, purchased just before
leaving England. It may have been intimated by the driver that I am not a
particularly good navigator but, certainly in this instance, I can
confidently blame my tools. The map was wrong. No doubt about it.
Astonishingly enough, in spite of my dubious navigational skills, we easily
found the lovely Hotel Mirador which was situated a short distance from
Alhaurin El Grande. The address we had been given was a little confusing
until we stopped someone to ask for directions. He gently explained, in
words of one syllable designed for idiot foreigners, that the address was
simply made up of the road number and the kilometre marking … once we
understood how this worked, we had no problems with this type of address
ever again. In fact it was an amazingly accurate and easy way to direct
someone to a place they don’t know – assuming of course they have the
correct road number on their road map in the first place...
Eagerly we waited for the
estate agent to arrive. No straws had been drawn amongst their staff as to
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 realised later
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, 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: designated as an “area
of outstanding natural beauty”. Perfectly stated. Our inexperience on the
Spanish roads made the perilous journey home in the dark seem 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 remotely of interest was a rather
claustrophobic-feeling avocado farm which was reached by threading the car
through the tiny streets of a white village, the wing mirrors slicked
against the car body in an effort to reduce width. Sucking our breath 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 whilst the driver gunned the engine to get
up the near vertical inclines. The steps were obviously for pedestrians who
didn’t have a motor to rev loudly. I breathed a sigh of 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 the farm in the main square. This
seemed a little vague to us - presumably as it was a 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 a policeman was frantically signalling and whistling at traffic
to move on his command. When he saw us, he came striding over and bent down
to talk to Steve. In my mind I ran though a list of possible traffic
violations of which we might be guilty, but to our foreigners’ eye, 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, the
policeman also doubled as the estate agent. He abandoned the tangle of
traffic to its 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,
totally unsuitable for our needs, nearby.
For a short while we
actually considered the avocado farm 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. As logic reasserted itself in our minds, the
thought of regularly driving through the village’s alleys with a trailer
full of building material for the reformation was enough to cause raised
blood pressure. Then there would be the tension each time the avocadoes
were due to be harvested. Would they be ripe enough? How would they be
transported? Who would buy them? Could they provide us with a living? And,
of course, what we would do if the crop failed. We were not avocado farmers
by trade, nature or breeding and were doubtful if we could learn all we
needed to in the short time required.
On our return to the Hotel
Mirador, we sat on the barstools and pondered the numerous questions. They
needed little pondering. We were not farmers. We agreed our search for a new
home would take a little longer and requested a couple of large beers from
the benevolent looking barman.
Today we were to meet Amy
and Manolo in Estación de Cártama. Amy was unlike any other estate agent we
had ever met or, indeed, 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. We had been questioned rather closely on our request for
living way out 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 into
the campo wasted a lot of Amy and Manolo’s time – it was a long afternoon
with them just to see two houses! At one point, Manolo pulled the car over
to point out the two properties from across the valley. One was low down
between the folds of the mountain and sheltered from the winds but the other
was high above, clearly commanding superior views.
The first house, the lower
one, had a lot of potential: it was already 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 breathtaking views. Laid out all
around us was a tableau of layered mountains and vast skies above the
verdant citrus valley.
Through the shimmering haze
to the left, I could see the soft outline of Malaga’s sprawl against the
glistening sheen of the Mediterranean Sea. A comparatively small hillock
rising above my line of sight obscured Estación de Cártama, but peeping out
behind was Cártama Pueblo edging on to Alhaurin El Grande with the town of
Coín beyond, almost hidden in the mist. On the far side of the valley the
mountains burgeoned forth in layers far into the distance forming a frame
along the western side of the Guadalhorce Valley. The bluff of El Hacho
shielded Pizarra from sight but it was not high enough to hide the wispy,
mystical shroud which softens the stark outlines of the Sierra de las
Nieves. To the right the white village of Álora moulded itself tightly
against the inclines, clinging doggedly up and down the Earth’s
convolutions. Far away I could just make out the tower signalling the
location of El Chorro National Park. Behind us the land belonging to the
finca, covered in a multitude of olive and almond trees, rose to the top of
the mountain,.
As the sun’s rays warmed my
back while I stood on the roof terrace, I felt a strong wave of contentment
wash over me. This was our idea of total heaven. It was true love at first
sight. 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 overwhelming.
Almost as an afterthought we
looked inside the house, even though the location was enough for us. Luckily
the house wasn’t too bad inside. Built onto the original farm house
were two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen – clearly done on the cheap
without much thought. 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 safely and watch the proceedings.
At the bottom of the 28,000
square metres plot was a large, locked 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.
All the way 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, bearing in mind the track length and the amount that
still needed doing to make it habitable, perhaps a reduction in price could
be given too. We would have to wait and see.
That night we had to drive a
fair distance to the accommodation 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 bedrooms in a farmhouse on a walnut farm.
It was very dark and late by the time we eventually arrived – and as we had
not had again lunch, we were positively ravenous. Happily there was a great
place to have dinner 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.
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
double sure!
Before leaving we took some
photos of our overnight stop, just to remind us of some ideas that we wanted
copy … and some we didn’t… The whole place felt rather run down and
unloved. The décor inside was just 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 could 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 with us on a
picnic. Knowing how difficult the place would be to find, I half wondered if
these provisions would actually turn into survival rations. In our little
Peugeot we headed up towards Cencerrita on 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. Unlike me, he was blessed with an extraordinary
sense of direction, not to mention a dogged determination. He would find
Cencerrita; of that I had no doubt.
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 on the trail when the little car had
faulted going up what amounted 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 one of Alan’s lectures on how front wheel drives
were grand as they could get up anything. This was quickly followed by the
one about: if you can’t get up in first gear, remember reverse is the lowest
and thereby the strongest gear. I am intensely relieved to say that it did
not come to that. Whilst Alan’s practical skills and engineering know-how
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 craziest
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 sunset appeared
to be in front of us! All the pinks and blues through to red ands purples –
just no sun. 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 normal road. Even once 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 giving 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, as we discovered in the morning, 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.
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 from us
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 write the date, time
and subject – I find it makes hunting for the right document easier,
particularly under pressure. There was no pressure now. I scanned the sheet
advertising our potential dream home and checked the printed address and
read the scrawled notes underneath. Regretfully they were in my handwriting,
not Alan’s, so I couldn’t easily shift the blame: 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 rare occasion, occur. We parked our car and went in his rather ancient
Seat. The vehicle may have actually been quite new but I believe the country
roads can cause 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 in a very loose manner: there was a hammock
strung across the kitchen and odd items of clothing to provide touches 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
before Alan shone our torch into the depths.
‘How on earth do you get in
and out of there?’ I asked warily, not entirely 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
appointments in Almerìa 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 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 backs on the Costa Plastica and headed
westwards.
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. We were due to fly back to the
UK in the evening and had 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.
Amy had efficiently 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. The 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. Alan
still had some energy left and suggested that o and check out some prices at
the hypermarkets so we could compare UK costs - it would help us decide what
we would buy in Spain and what to ship from the UK. 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!
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 city of Santander and 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 on 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
certain 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 further South that night, we saw on the
Spanish news that our motorway had been 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. At frequent intervals on the motorway there were
giant hoppers where the gritting lorry could drive underneath and be
refilled. 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 of
birds. The tree was had a protection order on it 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 National Police Station in Malaga where we had to get
our NIE certificates in order to be able to complete the house purchase.
Everyone foreigner resident in Spain should have a NIE number – the Spanish
have a NIF instead. The number you are given stays with you forever. You
can change your address, passport or whatever, but your NIE number stays the
same. To buy anything major, to have utilities connected to your home, to
have a bank account – in fact to do pretty much anything official, you need
your National Identity number.
All passports and other
immigration documents are handled at the National Police Station in a
province – it seemed a strange idea at the time, but does work 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 and tempers fraying slowly but surely in the stuffy atmosphere. We were
relieved when we finally came out two hours clutching the correct documents
in our hands.
It was with great excitement
that afternoon we signed for our keys. Finca Cencerrita was now ours! No
messing about with completion dates after exchanging contracts like 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.
Thrilling stuff. 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. What an adventure!
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 all 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 – when we would have to make do 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 were 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
was a large fire place. There was no grating but I prided myself that I
could get a cosy fire burning there with the logs we’d brought with us and
using a little bit of kindling from outside. The brushwood proved to be too
wet, but I had unearthed some yellowed newspapers 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. It was the first time we had
been able to look down into the valley and see all the lights. The sight 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 below 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. In the Spanish tradition,
all the windows had bars on, so the metal front door was the only way out.
It would not budge. I roundly cursed the Spanish habit of putting bars on
windows – it might keep some burglars out, but it also trapped you inside.
As terror worked its way to
the forefront of my emotions, Alan, ever the engineer, thrust his hand into
his work jeans scrabbled amongst various screws, washers 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 superhero 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 so
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.
Still in bed, we ate hot
soup out of the pan for breakfast – deliciously warming. We put the little
burner stove next to us in the bedroom to save getting up. 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 4 tog duvet!
Tired after our bad night’s
sleep, we stopped just north of Madrid to spend the night. The hotel’s
restaurant was warm and welcoming and in full swing by the time we had
dumped our bags and tidied 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 an 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 as we were trying to make good time. 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 real
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. I guess
if it can get cold in Southern Spain, it gets even colder further north! A
quick breakfast and we were underway on the fine motorways again with no
plans for any more stops – 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, not me) 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 suffered from the early stages
of hypothermia. We had arrived at Le Havre, nice and warm, the car heater
easily keeping the outside temperatures at bay, so 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 for bit to warm the interior. Looking back, the muddled thinking
and lethargy were no doubt early warning signs of hypothermia but I was too
weary and cold to realise this. The windows became totally frosted over 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 in Le Harve. 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. We tried two
places but neither of the machines worked. We were very close to the port
and running out of hotels to try when 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 and regained the power of speech, 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 to catch the ferry.
Definitely a cosier night than if we’d slept in the car again...
The build up to leaving
England was becoming a weighty cloud above us, particularly as we had still
not exchanged contracts on the sale of our Poole flat. We couldn’t afford
the mortgages of both Poole flat, the Bognor flat and Cencerrita for very
long. Although our newly-married, would-be purchasers desperately wanted to
move in, and we desperately wanted to move out, the solicitors were busy
attempting to provethat their exorbitant fees were justified. The final
straw came on our return from a weekend at Mum and Dad’s. Nightmare post was
awaiting us … a huge 40 page questionnaire had arrived from our purchasers’
solicitors. Most of the questions had already been sorted – at least we’d
thought so and had hoped that we were maybe just a week away from
exchanging. We were up until the small hours of the morning answering all
the questions. I tried hard not to be despondent, but I felt very tearful.
Alan tackled the whole problem with his typical pragmatism and got the
questionnaire sorted. The various comments we made regarding solicitors,
both in general and particular ones during those torturous few hours are not
for publication …!
At the same time we were
also having many problems with the flat we rented out in Bognor Regis. We
seemed to have a steady stream of unsuitable tenants varying from one
student who decided growing marijuana in the wardrobe was a great idea, to
the young man who decided that he didn’t need to pay us rent and there would
be no problem if he his girlfriend and her children stayed most of the time
in the tiny single room unreasonable expecting the rest of the tenants to
pay his utility bills … we decided being landlords was not an easy task. To
top it all, there had been an inspection carried out by the local council on
this row of converted Victorian houses and their findings indicated the
flats would need substantial improvements – waiting for the inspector’s
report darkened the cloud of impending disaster already hanging over us. The
money required for the structural replacements would not be easy to find.
Unsurprisingly, after less than a year in Spain we decided to sell the flat
as no management company would take it on and the never-ending stream of
problems became insurmountable: from being struck by lightening in the early
hours of the morning to the entire bathroom from the above flat falling into
ours!
We felt we were just
treading water. Waiting. I am not a depressive type, but I was beginning to
feel very low. Alan, realising I needed cheering up, kindly offered some
retail therapy … this resulted in the purchase of 7 doors and 4 ceiling fans
from B&Q. Naturally I tried to explain to Alan what retail therapy should
really be, but he is a hopeless cause! (Don’t tell Alan, but the doors are
really nice and did lighten my mood somewhat!) However the attempt to break
the Guinness Book of Records on “How many doors can be fitted in a Renault
Laguna” was only slightly worse than shattering the record of “Greatest
Quantity of Unusual Items to be Carried up Flights of Stairs” Heavens knows
what the other residents thought was going on, but at least it started to
get us fit.
To lift the depression
completely, on Monday 30th June Alan resigned at work. We had
been waiting for the flat to sell but over the weekend we took not one, but
TWO phone call bookings for Cencerrita – one of them for 7 weeks during
October and November later in the year! We decided this must be a sign and
we’d better take advantage of it. No one at Alan’s work believed he hadn’t
known on the Friday that he was going to resign on the Monday – it was
rather funny hearing the astonishment he caused. My boss already knew I was
leaving at some point in the summer, so my resignation made much less of an
impact.
Aghhhhhhh – Panic mode now!
We had to leave within the month. Flat sold or not. Nothing was even
remotely ready in Spain … or remotely ready in the UK either. But we had our
first booking starting on 17th October – this year ... or
did I mention that already?
My daughter, Marie, arrived
for her birthday celebrations at this time and found not only us in shock,
but also the flat. Chaos reigned supreme: she couldn’t even find the toilet
in the family bathroom – totally obscured by boxes – more retail therapy!
Moving round the flat was a virtually impossible task – the extra 7 doors
didn’t help … A bottle of wine, Spanish of course, was opened in celebration
… or was it a hopeless attempt to soothe our threadbare nerves? But you
know what ? The exhilaration felt pretty damn fine! Our new lives were
about to really start. Now we actually had some dates to work to, a frenzy
of activity was unleashed as preparations took on a whole new dimension.
Several apparently essential
purchases were made - which put the 7 doors in the shade. My favourite was
the part-exchange of my sensible Nissan Micra for a gunmetal grey Suzuki
Vitara. We had looked at buying 4x4 a few times but they were all rather
expensive – or very old. However this 11 year-old Vitara looked like it
would last a while and with the trade-in, became affordable. Alan had always
thought of them as ladies’ poser cars; at least it was small enough to
handle easily, yet big enough to do the jobs we needed – we hoped. It might
not have been the best idea to buy a new car so soon before we left as there
were bound to be one or two small problems. The Spanish insurance policy we
had taken out for the Micra was exchanged easily enough – however it turns
out that you are unable to have comprehensive insurance on cars over 10
years old in Spain, not even fire and theft, just third party. There was
also the fact that you are required to have the correct log book when
travelling in Europe but this had been sent by the dealer to Swansea. We had
a photocopy and tightly crossed fingers for its speedy return.
Another important purchase
was that of a double-axle trailer. If the tracks wouldn’t allow lorries up
to Cencerrita, we needed a strong trailer to carry all the building
materials up and down the mountain. Having searched most of Europe on the
internet, Alan eventually tracked down a suitable one less than 5 miles away
from where we were living. Things were going well now. On the other hand,
now Alan had a trailer, he could buy even more things to take with us, even
though we could not possibly store anything else in the flat. No problem!
Alan decided my place of work would do very nicely as I had such a nice,
understanding boss...
With our departure date from
ol’ Blighty set for Sunday 3rd August and the flat purchasers due
to move into the flat on Tuesday 29th (although contracts had
still not been exchanged), we decided we would pack all our things into
a Lock Up Storage and go and live on a caravan site for the week, that way
there should be no last minute panics. Hmm, best laid plans ... the post
brought yet another questionnaire from the purchaser’s solicitors – again
all things that we understood had been sorted. I was so upset. I’d already
finished work the day before and was busy happily packing everything into
boxes and other suitable containers. When I opened this letter, I rang Alan
and sobbed the latest news into the phone. Alan went into action. This
tornado of energy arrived home early from work and determinedly set about
doing the solicitors’ jobs for them. He spent the afternoon on the phone to
just about everybody concerned, sent faxes here, there and everywhere and it
seemed afterwards that although we clearly wouldn’t be able to exchange
before we left, our solicitor would be able to take care of the rest of it.
The next day we had to put
the flat sale out of minds and concentrate on the lock-up storage place we
had rented until our things were brought out to Spain. Under normal
circumstances this probably wouldn’t have been too bad but as Alan had
bought the entire stock of all DIY shops in a ten mile radius (not to
mention those 7 doors!), this was extremely hard work – luckily only down
one flight of steps. Fortunately a colleague of mine came to help, as did
Alan’s youngest son, Matt. Between us all and the wonderful trailer, we were
finished by mid-afternoon. It would have helped if the rain had kept off …
but hey, it was a none-too-gentle reminder of one of the reasons we were
deserting the UK!
You would think after the
tumult of all that, we would have sat and relaxed a little … no! Alan still
had things to buy … We bought a shed (yes, a full sized 8 x 4, flat packed
wooden shed), a garden table and chair set which, as on sale, proved to be
irresistible and … well, you get the idea. We had a 40 sqm lock-up storage
room with the same amount on the lorry - and boy, did Alan intend to get his
money’s worth. He filled the room till it near burst the seams! Did I
mention the 4 sets of double glazed French doors that I’d stored at my work
as there was nowhere else? Possibly not as there are some tings I’d rather
forget … but yes, those were coming too. I think my very kind and generous
boss was beginning to wish I’d hurry up and leave the country. Unbelievably
Alan couldn’t work out why we hadn’t bought more sheds with us as they were
incredibly expensive in Spain - and perhaps another set or two of table and
chairs … Luckily the 40 sqm space had solid sides and would not stretch to
accommodate Alan’s inclination to take the entire contents of the local DIY
stores with us.
While Alan was at work on
the Monday I gave the flat a good cleaning, for the last time ever, On his
return home in the evening, we packed our last few things and finally moved
out the flat, in the dark and pouring rain, and drove the loaded caravan to
the park where we would be spending our last week in the UK. As the removal
company had promised to bring our worldly goods down in about a fortnight’s
time, we opted for travelling very light … we knew the caravan had one or
two hills to go up and down … This was the first time Alan had towed a
caravan. This trip would certainly throw him in at the deep end but his
extensive driving experience would serve him well, as would the familiar
Renault Laguna.
As our buyers were still not
allowed to move in as contracts had not been exchanged, I left my tropical
fish there to be collected at the last moment. I think if I had known the
fate that lay ahead for them, I would have preferred to have given them away
instead. With no electricity in our new Spanish home to run the filter and
oxygenate the water, not to mention the excessive heat - too hot even for
tropical fish - most died before the year was out.
And still nothing from the
solicitors …
That week was spent in a
flurry of farewells – I didn’t cook a single meal in the caravan as
different friends had invited us out every evening we had left. In one way
it was sad to being saying goodbye but we were so excited about our new
lives, nothing could bring me down from my high – apart from the wretched
sale of the flat.
Well! Can you believe it?!
I had just popped back to the flat to pack up the fish in their travel tank
(the kitchen swing bin - ideal!) ready for the next day’s departure to
Portsmouth when the phone rang … the phone company were meant to have
disconnected the line on the previous Tuesday. Irritated, I picked up the
phone and announced my name. It was my solicitor …
‘I have your purchasers’
solicitor on my other line … do you wish to exchange contracts?’
I felt like Sally in the
restaurant – you know that clip? ‘Yes, yeeeees, YESSSSSSSSS!!’
The solicitor’s dry and
indifferent voice confirmed that the exchange of contracts was now taking
place and he would forward all the completed paperwork to our Spanish
address. The relief was tremendous. A floating feeling came over me … before
the tears hit! The idea of not exchanging before leaving the UK had been
very frightening. We would have been paying - or rather trying to pay -
three mortgages with no income, not to mention the lack of funds to spend on
renovating Cencerrita. Relief and shock, combined with exhaustion meant that
instead of celebrating, we collapsed in the caravan bed early that night and
slept soundly through till the morning.
Didn’t get up early this
morning as all we had to do was drive the caravan over to our departure
point in Portsmouth. We also had time to pop over to Bognor Regis to say a
rather tearful goodbye to Marie. It was strange to leave all the family
behind, unsure when we’d see them again. My fingers were tightly crossed
thinking that the lure of the sun would bring them to see us.
We knew no one on the Poole
caravan site: our cavalcade moved out un-fêted onto the road for its long
journey to Southern Spain. I smiled broadly as tears ran down my face.
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