Our two year old house guest

Calpol not required

Call us daft and question our sanity if you want, but we've recently had a two year old stay at our house without his parents. That isn't actually as intrepid as it sounds though, because the little bloke has stayed with us before and seemed to love every minute. So did we!! Not for the pair of us though, shitty nappies, sleepless nights and Calpol every four hours, because, to the very best of my knowledge young dogs don't do, have or need any of those three things.

Leto, is a two year old Carlino, (Pug in English), usually resident with the girlyfriend's sister and her husband, who, this week were travelling and left their precious little boy in our capable hands. As house guests go, little Leto was impeccably behaved and huge fun to have around; not once during the five days of his most recent visit did he get pissed, puke everywhere and then pass out, which, in times gone by has been characteristic of one or two of our human houseparty invitees who've stayed over.

Spain's best looking dog ?

That though isn't to say everything the loveable little rascal got up to was warmly welcomed by senior management and I, particularly me. Not being blessed with the patience of Job, it would have been nice to be slightly more with it in the mornings before the assault on my bare feet began, especially on my first journey of the day between bed, bog and back for that all important opening pee. It seems clear that, for a two year old dog toes are fair game and, as luck wouldn't have it, no-one in Spain wears any kind of footwear indoors during the hot months of July and August. The problem is, this little bloke was just too affectionate, fun and simply great to be around, even at seven in the morning. During his rare quieter moments, Letito, (ito on the end of any male Spanish word indicates very small - diminituvo), he had to ensure you knew he was nearby by either brushing against you or flopping on the floor with one paw or the other, often both together, strategically placed over my feet.

Leto in a rare thoughtful moment

Outside on the street though was where the fun really began. Three times a day for a good fifteen minutes each time, he and I would hit the pavements around our city centre apartment, ostensibly to allow chummy to make his mark upside the most convenient lamp post or car tyre and attempt his most recent "deposit." However hard we tried, for Leto the call of nature seemed to occur fairly early on after we left the house; as regular as clockwork after closing the door behind us, mother nature would be on the phone with the next emergency. Unfortunately for me, a quick dash across a rather busy two lane road was interrupted by his need for the next bowel movement. No problem as it goes because we(I)  had the foresight to change pavements on a zebra crossing; half way over though, his back legs assumed the position and with my self conscious nod to both first in line car drivers, Leto did the business. He wasn't quite quick enough though because mid-way through the lights changed, leaving me with a bit of a dilemma......

The scene of my moral dilemma

.......Not so long back, I had a bit of a moan of my own about inconsiderate dog owners too idle to clear up after their pets and on this particular morning I actually became one. Ablutions just completed in the middle of a zebra crossing with traffic lights on green, what do I do? hurry on to the safety of the other side or stop for a couple of seconds longer and bag up Leto's, quite sizeable, recent doings?  In the end discretion was the better part of valour and so the pair of us carried on, me feeling somewhat shamefaced and refusing to look back, him completely impervious. Ten minutes later, on our way home, we passed that same zebra crossing and Leto's tea from the afternoon before was nowhere to be seen, squashed flat by various passing vehicles and presumably being carted around the city deep in the tread pattern of a Michelin tyre.

Hmm, I wonder if Leto's on facebook

Initially, I guess it must be quite difficult for a dog, being in a strange house with foster parents instead of Mum and Dad. For Leto, after a short time, his confusion disappeared and he began to feel much more at home and, soon began to test the boundaries of his new surroundings. On the furniture for example. At home we have a lengthy L-shaped sofa, half of which I covered in a sheet to accommodate pooch, guess where he chose to curl up? I soon put a stop to that and it did help that he's quite a quick learner. I have no idea whatsoever of the rules and regulations in his own home but I'm willing bet between us the girlfriend and I probably broke most of them. Last thing at night he'd squash himself into his padded basket and nod off, at sometime during the small hours he would, unbeknown to the pair of us, find his way onto our bed and remain there until being discovered first thing in the morning.

Kids run amok at their Grandparents house don't they because it's a lot less strict than at home, then, when they return it's the parents left to pick up the pieces. If that's the case with Leto, I'm really sorry Lourdes and Juan.

A bit of a bike ride

A painful 70's memory

I didn't know what hit me, that does tend to be the way when things happen very suddenly. My last recollection was pedalling along, minding my own business, trying to shield the black face of my digital watch from the bright sunshine with one hand whilst using the other to press the button at the side to make the red numbers appear. I don't think I was even moving that fast, you don't need to be cycling particularly quickly when colliding with a moving car to know it's soon going to hurt though. A split second before I hit the ground I saw my shadow and the bike wasn't even in the same frame, an abiding memory of the incident. The attractive lady driver of the silver Audi stopped a few yards down the road and immediately came to my aid, pretty magnanimous considering the accident was all my own work.

A thing of the past

That was a true story from circa 1979 and thankfully, less than ten years later I had acquired a driving licence, thus enabling myself to get about in relative safety. Obviously, shortly after I was legally entitled to drive, the push bike became a thing of the past and so too were any completely unplanned encounters with random passing motorists. Aside from a couple of years in my late-thirties, when the small English village in which I lived was miles from anywhere, I've not parked my arse on a bike for absolutely ages. In point of fact I sold my "hog" six years ago before embarking on the odyssey that life in Spain rapidly became. Even now, aged nearer to fifty than forty, the exercise bikes at the gym represent the kind of challenge I can't refuse and I devour televised professional cycling; something I've enjoyed for twenty years.

Route 66 ?

Try to imagine, I'm sure you can, the excitement of a six year old on Christmas Eve and then picture an adult with that same sense of anticipation. That adult was me on hearing the news the route of the 2011 Tour of Spain, La Vuelta a España, cycle race would be passing by my house on it's journey round the country. Everyone in the known universe has heard of the Tour de France but did you know there are two other 'Grand Tours' I thought not! Italy - in May - and Spain at the end of August/start of September are the other prestige events on the calendar. Spain though does things rather differently and, unlike France, most certainly isn't up it's own arse when it comes to hosting a simple, three week bicycle race. French towns and villages grovel to pay the organisers thousands of euros for the privilege of having the tour swing past and in the process whole areas are off limits all day. Spain appears to understand the route has to pass somewhere and, until the men on bikes arrive, life continues pretty much as normal.

The most curious of spectator sports

Day two of the twenty one day event, Sunday August 21st, began in La Nucia near Benidorm at about one thirty pm and was due to wind it's way 174 kilometres south towards Torrevieja. Just about half way along the route was Elche, 107 kilometres into the stage, (only Spain, Italy and France are licensed to hold road races of three weeks where each day is designated as a stage). Such are the nuances of the way the route is planned, to drive between La Nucia and Elche is a distance of only 74 clicks, this is what makes the Grand Tours so difficult. That and the stupid temperatures during Spain in August, which, when the race left the start of the stage had the poor sods taking part having to cope with 37 odd degrees of heat. While more than one hundred and ninety cyclists were punishing their minds and bodies out on the road, Elche went about it's business seemingly oblivious to the high speed convoy approaching at quite a rate of knots. Until about fifteen before it was due to hit town that is.

Four men in a breakaway

One by one, with no discernible sense of urgency, people emerged from their houses and gathered to wait on the streets outside, save for the occasional bus trundling past there wasn't actually a fat lot to watch but it was obvious something was about to happen. An eerie silence followed, akin to one of those tumble-weed moments, and was eventually broken by a pair of police motorcyclists, yellow flags fluttering from their mounts who were soon followed by a couple more, this time with much more urgent looking red flags. Then all hell broke loose as a breakaway group of four riders emerged through the distant heat haze, anything in their path being bulldozed aside by official cars, more police and assorted hangers on. Overhead a TV helicopter clattered away beaming live shots shots to households around the country. Thirty seconds later the first four flashed noiselessly past to ripples of applause and shouts of encouragement from the crowd, by now three deep on the pavements.

La Vuelta detritus

Four minutes down the road, the rest of the peloton, in arrowhead formation, soon followed amid similar chaotic scenes to the recently passed leaders. Preceded by official cars, even more police and flanked by press motorcyclists with precariously perched cameramen and photographers, stood up for the most part on the rear pedals, the long train, a riot of colour, snaked past. The stragglers, desperately trying to keep up, were quickly followed by all of the Tour apparatus; immaculately liveried team cars, atop which sat spare bikes, medical teams and the dreaded "broom wagon" the facetiously name people carrier charged with the task of "sweeping up" race retiree's. Five minutes later, it was as if nothing had happened, the gathered watchers had drifted away leaving behind haphazardly discarded drinking bottles, the only real clue as to what had just gone.

Pro' cycling really is the most curious of spectator sports but on an event such as La Vuelta, millions will line the streets for it's three weeks duration to snatch the briefest glimpse as the protagonists fly past. Just like I did.