Thanks for reading.

All good things come to an end  


Finally, getting on for two years after I started and following a couple of weeks of it being offline and unavailable, I've decided it's time to pull the plug on this blog and bash on with something different instead. Somehow, and perhaps surprisingly, I haven't pissed anybody (Spanish) off so much they've felt the need to threaten me with violence if it isn't shut down, the decision was mine alone. Spanish friends, if I have and you didn't say, I'm really sorry, no offence was ever intended, I just wrote abut what I saw, loved or hated.

For old times sake, I've just had another quick read through one or two of the posts and more than once chuckled out loud because the whole thing has just been such a laugh putting together. If I'm honest, I might have been a tad drunk at times too because I really can't believe my sobre imagination is that warped. Whatever! Please excuse the choice of words in the link at the top of this post as well, it's not me being a bit conceited about my own stuff, it's the only appropriate song I can think of.

Thanks for being one of my six thousand odd readers, I hope you've enjoyed the blog. See ya  x

THE END

Happy New Year.......sort of!!

You'll miss it once it's gone

After all that excitement and the lengthy build up, Christmas has been and gone for another year and truth be told, it wasn’t that different or any better than the previous ten was it? You quite enjoyed the book your sister bought you and it was really nice looking forward to watching that new DVD.  Now, the book is back on the shelf with all the others and the film was okay but not much to write home about. You see, it’s all about unrealistic expectations which then make the inevitable disappointment that much harder to manage. Once you’ve taken the Christmas tree down doesn’t the front room look enormous and bare?  Now think about those two words for a quick second - enormous and bare - don’t they sum up just perfectly the huge undertaking that is every New Year.

Maybe I’m in a minority of one, but for me the thought of the coming twelve months with not a clue what to expect scares me witless, it’s so much more comforting to imagine the year just passed, for better or worse, than the unknown which is just around the corner. I kind of liken the whole thing to saying grace; “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.” Surely, any right minded person would rather say, “For what we have just received etc...............” To try and give that last remark some context, imagine if you will, the missus expecting you to be grateful beforehand when she’s about to serve you, say, a plate of dog food. I don’t know, perhaps it’s just me.

Revenge will be sweet

The problem with January is that all too often it starts with the hangover from hell on the first morning of the month and thereafter the mental hard work keeps on coming, or so it seems. The transition from December, via a drunken and, if you’re lucky, debauched New Years Eve, invariably involves a lengthy lie-in and a couple of paracetamol. For some, this might even be the high point of New Years Day because, as things slowly come into steadily sharper focus, usually by about mid-afternoon, the stark realisation that all the best stuff is months off hits home. More immediate is the nag you can’t shake off that pay day is about as far away as the moon and that between now and then, the credit card you’ve recently kicked the arse out of is going to need paying.

Just another night

For some, December sliding gracefully into the history books is the perfect cut off point to sling out some old and set about a few new habits with renewed zeal; these kinds of “cleansing” thought processes almost always manifest themselves in the need to make New Year’s Resolutions. At this point all the usual suspects line up for their identity parade – smoking, the gymnasium, a diet, drinking less and eating healthier. To be perfectly honest, and apologies in advanced for sounding cynical, but January the first really is no better a day to begin all over again than the first of June, after all May has thirty one days too. Generally speaking, within a few days tobacco will have defeated even the strongest of resolves and the pub will be the only place left to assuage that crushing guilt.

Aaahhh!!

Yup, it’s a funny old time of year. Television for example, gets back to boring normality with only the subliminal messages of the craftily scheduled holiday adverts to interest you and the only things left in the Quality Street tin are those horrible round toffees in the shiny yellow wrapper. The first big hurdle to try and negotiate is the transition from those gloomy winter evenings when it gets dark at five o’clock to the warmer and lighter spring time. That though is still a few weeks away yet, but before you get trampled underfoot in the stampede to the doctors for an anti-depressant prescription, take a look at your calendar. Surely, January’s beautiful photograph of a robin in a snowy garden will lift your spirits. 

Having come back down to earth with a resounding bump after Christmas, reality bites and for some, as I’ve previously mentioned, it comes quite hard. There’s always somebody worse off though; how would you like to be a shop assistant  trying to combine the chaos of the January sales with those thousands of customers trying exchange their crimbo pullover - usually without a receipt - because it’s in the wrong colour or size? Speaking of the shops, in the land where people cook in the garden, have you noticed that Easter eggs don’t appear in Spanish stores by early February like they do in the UK? This, for me, is one of various different reasons why living where we do the sometimes onerous task of coping with the New Year seems so much easier. I’ll come back to that presently.

Who ate all the pies ?

Anyway, back to those New Year Resolutions for which to me the timing seems to me to be all wrong. If you’re already at a bit of a low ebb, it’s illogical, in my humble opinion, to deliberately make things worse by depriving yourself of the greatest comforts. The solution therefore is simple, do the opposite. Instead of spending less time on the internet, use facebook or twitter even more. Forget the diet and get a few pies down you. Use the time you would have spent at the gym that you probably can’t really afford anyway to stay in bed longer. Obviously, it then makes perfect sense to use some of the cash you’ve not wasted getting hot and sticky at the health club on hefting pints at the pub. It’s a form of exercise, isn’t it? Give these suggestions a whirl and I guarantee you’ll soon feel loads better.

I couldn’t really end these words without a brief mention of the weather, which, because it hasn’t snowed on the coastal Costa Blanca since about 1714, makes Spain a viable option for those opening months of the year. Those picturesque villages high up in the mountains you can see in the distance look absolutely exquisite after the occasional winter snow flurries and it doesn’t half feel cooler inland than the seaside. Compare and contrast though places like say, Alcoy or Alguena to the English north east or Scotland, where, a typical light dusting invariably means the local white van men can't find their vehicles for a fortnight. If I'm going to need to worry a bit about paying off my flexible friend after Christmas, I'd much rather do it in Elche than Edinburgh.  

Happy New Year

If you need me any time after Big Ben has been televised live striking twelve, I'll be in the pub. Until March.  Happy New Year.

"It's CHRISTMAS" ......said Noddy Holder

Quality. Street.

What better month is there than December to write about all things Crimbo, both Spanish and English? Obviously, and in keeping with British stores and television, had this blog been published in the UK, a Christmas article would first have appeared in about September, probably just before the first tin of Quality Street hit Sainsbury’s shelves. It is quite remarkable how differently two countries, just a two and a bit hour flight apart, celebrate one of the biggest Christian holiday seasons of the year. I’ve lived in Spain for getting on for six years now and feel reasonably well qualified to pass comment on both, so here’s the low down, or my interpretation of it.

Just as with much of Spanish life, Christmas on the Costa Blanca seems to occur with no undue haste; shopkeepers eventually cotton on something important is just around the corner and, in the languid way of things in this part of the world, eventually knock up window displays, attractive lights and understated Christmas trees. By contrast, the celebration of JC’s birthday in the UK seems to be money, money, money with stores, both chains and privateers, treating much of the last third of the year as a cash making opportunity, the religious context largely forgotten.  In this regard then, how refreshing is Spain compared to the money grubbing British example, a cool draft of fresh air perhaps?

FA Cup Final day 1978

Whether you like it or not, the fabled twelve days of Christmas almost always ends up being something nearer the twelve weeks of Christmas on the Stansted side of the North Sea. Wherever you live, and speaking generally, the festive fun doesn’t tend to start in earnest until about ten days or so before the big day. At this point in time English television begins to screen one-off specials and repeats you may not have already seen. Spanish TV remains unchanged from the previous eleven and a bit months. A tad crap actually!!  Once a year though, Spain screens an event that appears to completely transfix the nation, just like FA Cup Final day used to back in the day.

December the 22nd, massive in Spain

The event occurs on December the 22^nd, is broadcast live and once finished three odd hours later, will have made quite a few Spanish families very happy and considerably wealthier. Known hereabouts as “El Gordo” (The Fat One), it’s the biggest lottery draw in the world and is eagerly awaited by everyone. In addition to being the most mind numbingly boring TV you’ll ever see, it is notable too for the fact the winning numbers are sung, religious hymn style, rather than announced. This honour falls to choirs of children from the San Ildefonso primary school in Madrid, itself once a former orphanage. At least the little ones are a big improvement on Dale Winton I suppose.

Look closely, he's there

The nativity features prominently too; proud British parents crane their necks to catch the briefest glimpse of little Johnny or Jane in the school play or slightly out of tune carol concert. The streets of Spain go one better in the meantime with realistic, outdoor models of Bethlehem and the nativity scene, some of which are enormous, on display in town squares for all to walk past and enjoy. Look closely at a typical “Belén” (The Spanish name for Bethlehem), and you might catch sight of an added extra you definitely won’t see in the school production. Many Belén models also feature a little bloke defecating; that’s right, taking a poo!!  Apparently, many residents of the Valencia and Cataluña regions kick up a bit of a stink, pardon the pun, when the “Caganer” isn’t included.

As the big day looms large, factories and offices the length of Britain prepare to close down, quite often until the New Year. By around noon or shortly after on Christmas Eve, UK workforces head to the pub for a quick drink that will invariably last four or five hours and result in one or more errant husbands scurrying to the petrol station round the corner to buy the missus chocolates or perfume because all the shops have long since shut. In point of fact the pub is probably the safest place to be on the 24^th because the city streets will be under siege from teenagers, not yet old enough to drink, armed with silly string and in the big supermarkets it’s like the coming of Armageddon.

Meanwhile, on the same day in Spain, life carries sedately on as before with not even a hint of Roy Wood or Slade to be heard anywhere as extended families gather for an immensely important afternoon and evening “Noche Buena” the highlight of which is a huge feast. After mountains of exotic starters, traditional delights on the menu might include, lomo y naranja, (pork and orange), seafood of all kinds and an Alicante speciality, “turrón” a sweet nougat made from almonds, eggs, sugar and honey. Around midnight, just as drunken young British people stumble home or queue for nightclubs, Spanish families open small gifts, before heading off in large numbers to church to celebrate mass.

Christmas Day in Britain - a tad cold, even for this super-hero

Christmas morning in the UK dawns bright and early, about five am for some unlucky parents, as excitable children tear off gift wrap, studiously ignore the expensively acquired present within and greedily go on to the next. In Spain four or five hours later, a leisurely breakfast is followed by an even more leisurely, shirt sleeved stroll through the municipal park, culminating in another coffee at one of various agreeable cafeterias, often with friends encountered along the way all out doing the same thing. In contrast, anyone foolhardy enough to risk going for a walk in dear old Blighty would be nearly invisible beneath coat, hat, gloves and a scarf because, usually, Christmas Day is the kind of frosty affair even someone as hard as Bear Grylls would find a bit parky.

They're lush, why only once a year?

Those Brits that do venture out, do so secure in the knowledge that a roaring coal fire will greet them on their return and any frost bitten fingers will be functioning as normal well before it’s time to go to the pub when it opens for two hours at twelve o’clock. With the men folk out of the way, Mum and her eldest daughter busy themselves in the kitchen preparing Christmas Dinner. A meal made bigger than any other Sunday lunch of the entire year by the addition of one-off ingredients such as turnips, swedes, and “pigs in blankets” small cocktail sausages wrapped in bacon. Just before tucking in, The Queen broadcasts her message to the nation, a message you know was recorded in June because all the flowers are in full bloom.

Timeless telly

It’s just as well the horses aren’t that popular in Spain, because as Britain settles down to watch a six race card from Kempton Park, the Spanish are hard at work again the day after Christmas because Boxing Day isn’t actually a holiday, (they’ll get their own back early in January). I guess British men consider the King George IV Chase a little present to themselves for sitting through ET or The Wizard of Oz for the umpteenth time the day before. Boxing Day evening wouldn’t be complete without a buffet tea, the highlight of which is the Dundee Cake thoughtfully gifted by Dad’s grateful boss. The whole family then enjoy the blockbuster film on ITV that SKY first aired four years ago. 

Whoops! Sorry little 'un

New Year’s Eve in Britain passes in another drunk, and for the people in London’s Trafalgar Square, wet blur. “Noche Vieja” in Spain is the night for best clothes; an evening of dining and dancing. The Iberian Peninsula then prepares to enjoy “dia de los Reyes Magos” - Three Kings Day on January 6^th. The previous evening, street processions “cabalgatas” precede an early bed for the children, who, before they turn in, leave shoes at the front door in hopeful anticipation of them being filled by yet more gifts from the visiting Kings. Last year, 2010, I tried to liven things up a little by introducing Christmas crackers for my Spanish girlfriend’s nieces and nephew.

Unfortunately, the four year old boy burst into tears at the sound of the explosion. They probably won’t catch on. 

Don't you see the strangest things ?

Until I began to write this blog I didn't really pay much attention to folk, they were just kind of there really and, unless I had to apologise to someone in the street  for whatever reason, I just walked on past without noticing anyone. Sure, once in a while some young hottie and her mate would make me surreptitiously or subtly, (usually neither), turn my head as would a much older and equally attractive lady. In fairness though this is Spain and the mediterranean climate does seem to have a bit of an agreeable effect on the local female citizenry. To dwell on the tidy female thing though is to rather miss my point, which is, you don't need to have your eyes peeled like a banana to clock something or someone really interesting or amusing. I did it on purpose for a couple or three days with this blog in mind and, come the finish, I was really keen to carry on.

Jog on

I was in a pub one Sunday night not so long back and a one legged bloke, (I was going to say walked), came in. Nothing unusual in that I hear you say and you'd be right. Except on closer inspection, this chap, he was quite an old boy, was actually wearing Armani jeans. Seriously, designer clothing on a bloke without a full set of things to stand on. Long Giorgio Silver? You should have seen the quality of his shoe!


Or, the six stone, wringing wet, female pensioner pushing her bulky and heavily overweight son around in a wheelchair, bent forward at the waist trying to shove the thing up one of those slopes used for a car driveway, while he hogged yet another ice cream into his already fat self. Obviously, it's quite normal for Italian, Greek and Spanish ladies to be put upon by their menfolk, but to me, that was taking the piss a bit.

Mum and her starving teenaged Son

I was waiting for a lift in the street outside my front door just this morning and a lady, she looked South American judging by her swarthy skin tones, walked past breast feeding her son. Usually, European women are pretty discreet when it comes to this sort of thing, not so this particular lady. I've no idea if it's the usual form in Lima, Caracas or some backward capital city like Montevideo, or wherever she comes from, to get dangly body parts out in public, but the child attached to her looked about fourteen.

She forgot her green cross code

Crossing the road in Spain is perilous at the best of times, particularly on pedestrian crossings, which, Spanish motorists by and large tend to ignore. Various clear and present dangers meant very little to one batty old lil though, because she simply ignored the universal colour coding of red man/green man and just bimbled over to the other side when she fancied. Oblivious to the avoidable, mortal peril in which she had placed herself she simply carried on, either not hearing or choosing to ignore the most important component of Spanish motor vehicles, the horn! Eventually, hunched over and a good two minutes after she started shuffling herself and her full shopping trolley over the, dangerous at the best of times, two lane thoroughfare she made it to safety.

Truzzies dead popular with groovy Eastern Europeans

Walking to my house after parking the car this afternoon something happened that shattered the myth I had  carefully cultivated in my mind for ages that Spanish men look cool. It only takes one nobber though to ruin it for everyone and today was that day. Surely only someone looking to win a bet or an Albanian trend-setter would hit the streets attired in the combination of cheap looking white training shoes, purple cords and a yellow knitted pullover. I can only imagine, with no earthly reason to don fancy/ridiculous dress, the fashion victim I walked past a short time ago comes from Tirana.


Next time you're out and about give it a whirl, you probably won't need to have your eyes skinned to chance across some entertaining or simply plain daft stuff. Or is that just me?

Derby day in Alicante

There's something which forms a massive part of my life in Spain that, in getting on for two years of writing this blog, has barely had a mention. Until today that is, because it's now time for a spot of football and what better to write about than a bad tempered Alicante derby? Fair enough, Hercules versus Elche is hardly Celtic and Ranger or Liverpool against Man United, but as local rivalries go, these two sets of fans hate each other with a passion. Last season, 2010/11, Hercules embarked on an ill-starred single campaign in the Spanish top division, which, to the delight of their near neighbours and sworn enemies from just down the road ended with relegation back to the Segunda A at the first attempt. 

The Estadio Jose Rico Perez

Real Madrid and Barcelona, wherever the game takes place, dominate the football pages for a good week ahead of the clásico, a really good effort given the quantity of daily sports newspapers in Spain. For Elche and Herc, the big build up started on about the Thursday with the usual platitudes in the local press from both Chairmen about respect and their wish for the supporters to enjoy the day win, lose or draw. Fat chance. A few more days of that old tripe to exercise both factions then and Sunday November the 27th soon came around. Thankfully, for all concerned the weather was nice too because, with barely any cover at all, the Jose Rico Perez stadium in Alicante, really isn't a great place to be when it's peeing down. On that particular morning it wasn't that great a place to be for about seventeen thousand Alicantino's either, but I'll come to that presently.

Taking the dog for a walk on a Sunday morning

Back in the day, the heyday of top class British football hooliganism that is, British Rail used to lay on "football specials"  to move fans to and from away games, usually in knackered or obsolete rolling stock so it didn't matter how hard the fans tried to destroy them. Twice a season, when the two biggest teams in Alicante province are in the same division, BR's Spanish counterparts could do with something similar, this being Spain though, that kind of forethought is sadly lacking. The upshot of this absence meant some of the hardest and nastiest Elche fans, a good couple of hundred of them, piled onto the 30 minute scheduled service to Alicante's city centre railway station. From here, the Burberry clad hoolies and qite a few of their lady folk by the looks, were marched the twenty minutes across town to the ground by a huge contingent of Alicante law enforcement personnel and one or two of their faithful friends.

The Elche CF Twelfth man

First into their section of the ground, they were followed soon after by the occupants of the twenty or thirty coaches that had travelled in convoy along the A-7 motorway, most of whom I'd recently passed on my own journey to Alicante. One by one, the coaches disgorged their travelling Ilicitano's right outside the door and stewards hurriedly herded them inside; beyond the police cordon, blue and white clad locals yelled various obscenities to which the visitors returned verbal fire with unpleasantries of their own. Everyone safely ensconced, the singing began and carried on, and on, and on until the very end. The visiting Elche fans were absolutely magnificent the whole game long, and, from my privileged position close to the touchline in their corner, I could see first hand their increasing delight as the match progressed.

Nicki Bille feeling pleased with himself

Seventeen minutes in, Elche got their party properly started when full-back Edu Albacar slapped the ball beyond Falcon in the Hercules goal from the penalty spot. Seconds later he disappeared beneath a sizeable pile of grateful colleagues mid-way through sharing his moment of glory with the gleeful green and white hordes going berserk in the stand. Before they all had time to get their breath back barely a quarter of an hour later, the Spanish version of  "you're supposed to be at home" rang around the ground as Elche scored again. In this kind of tense game with local pride at stake, the goals don't need to be things of outstanding natural beauty, you just need to rack up more of them than the opposition. This was the task that befell Danish striker Nicki Bille and it's safe to say his effort wouldn't be making the November goal of the month shortlist. In point of fact, the hit-man seemed somewhat surprised his poked effort, prodded in at full stretch by the near post, wasn't ruled offside. That much was clear from the delayed reaction as he began his celebration. 

Just out of shot Tiago Gomes was checking he still had two legs

Somehow, Hercules have risen to the top of the Segunda A classification and it's difficult to believe they'd have managed the feat playing as poorly as they had thus far in this match. With less than twenty minutes left, they eventually managed to locate the scoresheet to set up something of a tense finale with the best goal of the match. A headed Elche defensive clearance got as far as the edge of the box, where, the waiting Michel absolutely creamed a volley past everyone to halve the deficit.The Hercules efforts to get back on terms were handed another boost before the end after a spiteful studs up job with both feet on Tiago Gomes by Beranger, who, once all the handbags had died down right in front of the home bench, was given a straight red. Had he done that on the street, the Elche midfielder would surely have been charged with something.

The Elche players lap up yet more applause

At about five minutes to two referee David Miranda Torres, (honestly that's his real name), blew for time to end the first Alicante derby of the season. 1-2 was the result, and, amid incredible scenes at the final whistle, the Elche players went to salute their adoring public. In the thick of all this jubilation I was soon joined by the rest of the press photographers, who, by now had made their way across the pitch from the other end of the ground to capture the celebrations on film for their various publications. The thing is, what goes for medical types treating injured players during the game also goes for the media apparently, you're supposed to walk round the perimeter and not take short cuts across the grass. Two stroppy emails from Hercules CF the following day complained about "pitch invasions by the photographic media" and threatened to withdraw accreditations. Honestly, talk about sore losers!!  No such drama though for the amazing Elche fans, an hour after everyone else they were let out to board their buses home and bask in the warm glow of a good derby win. To the best of my knowledge, not one of them got stabbed in the buttocks either.

Messing about on the water

Alicante port - courtesy of www.whatalicante.com

In October 2008 I whiled away countless very enjoyable hours mooching around Alicante port, just one of hundreds of thousands of visitors to the Volvo Ocean Race village; departure port and temporary home for the round the world yacht race of the same name. Had I not been asked to cobble together a few words for an English weekly newspaper, the entire event would have passed me by and I'd have been none the wiser, instead I popped along to see what it was all about and ended up hooked. Being somewhat new to it all, I half heartedly enquired about going out on a press boat on the day the fleet set sail and was given short shrift. In the end, my piece made the front page, was reasonably well received, and, to hoots of derision - or the Spanish equivalent - from the girlyfriend I spent the next nine and a bit months navigating my personal yacht, (blessed with her name), around the world in an online game.  

The VOR game - far safer than the real thing

Fast forward then to the next edition of the same event this year, also in Alicante, and guess who was still hanging around like some kind of sailing groupie? Me, and it's safe to say I was looking forward to the new one just a bit too. This time round I was altogether better organised and spent the 72 hours before departure day on November the 5th as excited as a seven year old on Christmas Eve; a state of mind inadvertently caused by Volvo, who, having secured my signature on their legal disclaimer were happy to allow me out on one of the hundreds of boats seeing the fleet off.  In 2008 race day was an absolutely filthy affair, the leaden skies over the entire Costa Blanca were quick to deposit gallons of water on Alicante, most of which was whipped into driving rain by gale force winds. Perfect for top class sailing apparently, but for me in retrospect quite a good day really to stay ashore. For this nervous landlubber, race day 2010 was a much kinder, albeit chilly, affair with blue-ish skies, no rain and decent looking sea conditions. Or so I thought!

Still one of my favourite places

I've only ever been sailing once before in my life, up the River Deben in Suffolk from Felixstowe Ferry to Waldringfield and back on my thirteenth birthday, absolutely loving it. Besides being thrilled by the experience, my abiding memories of that day in 1977 are of wanting to do it again and being extremely cold, so today I was taking no chances. Wrapped up beneath hat, scarf and fingerless mittens I couldn't help but notice how poorly prepared some of my fellow travellers appeared to be as we boarded Kon-Tiki IV, a passenger ferry usually employed to trundle between Santa Pola and Tabarca Island. Once clear of the parts of Alicante port the public rarely see, a real eyesore truth be told, Kon-Tiki IV picked up speed as she cleared the harbour wall and headed out to sea with my clothing choices already paying dividends.

As a spectator sport, sailing is right up there with windsurfing, it matters not how close you are to the action, you're never really certain what's actually going on. It's a hell of a spectacle though and to be a part of it was quite exhilarating to be honest. From my vantage point just level with the start line, the six competing yachts seemed to cruise around rather aimlessly, as 1400 beckoned though everything suddenly became extremely serious. His Royal Highness Principe Felipe, on board a nearby Spanish navy patrol boat, activated the cannon that signalled the start proper, unleashing the beasts who were well into their stride before the ball of smoke generated by HRH had even vanished on the wind.

The inshore race course on departure day

By now Kon Tiki IV was holding station just beyond the start line, deftly manoeuvred by the skillful application of her throttles as all around us spectactor, press and VIP boats jostled for position as the fleet rounded the first mark and headed back to the start finish line to begin one circuit of a tri-angular inshore course. How these million pound racing thoroughbreds can be made to scrub all that speed and execute hair-pin turns in just seconds is incredible to watch at close quarters, that's why only the best sailors in the world need apply I suppose. Forty five or so minutes later, Spanish entry Camper with Emirates Team New Zealand came hammering past for the final time, her gaudy red and white sails leading the fleet out onto the open sea for the beginning of an epic adventure. She was quickly followed by her five rivals with French entry Groupama bringing up the rear a long way distant having had to perform a penalty turn for an earlier infringement.

One by one, Camper, Puma, Telefonica, Abu Dhabi, Sanya and Groupama were chased out to sea by a flotilla of official rigid inflatable boats, (RIB's), some containing photographers and others cameramen, their media duties shared with at least three helicopters clattering away overhead beaming live television pictures around the world. Three hours after casting off, Kon Tiki IV headed back in and my work was done for the day, It sounds simple sitting on a boat trying to write notes whilst loosing off a few shots with a camera, but try doing either when the boat in question is pitching and tossing on an increasingly choppy sea. As I tried to stand upright by planting my feet and bracing myself with my thighs, the grin on my face got wider and wider as each shot with my trusty old Nikon missed its intended target by miles. More by luck than judgement I ended up with a reasonable collection of photographs. What an amazing experience!

Tapas or not tapas

Sangria - rarely drunk by the natives

Mention Spain and it won't be much longer before you'll also pop sun or sangria into the conversation or piece of writing, I've even done the same here myself. Sangria, a kind of red wine, chunks of fruit and dash of whatever hard stuff you fancy concoction, is as synonymous with Spain as Real Madrid or the Costa del Crime. Sun, sangria and sex is the oft quoted phrase which, in the opinion of many, typifies Spain perfectly. This may well be absolutely correct for say, Magalluf during August, but there's vastly more to Spain than getting sunstroke, drunk or incapable and your leg over a random stranger.

Something else the natives don't do

For visitors or permanent residents not forming part of the 18-30 set giving resorts up and down the Spanish coast a bad name, sun and sangria, (derived from the Spanish word for blood - sangre), are more often than not joined by a newcomer tapas. The noun tapas represents the huge variety of small snacks and appetizers, served hot or cold, to accompany a small beer or glass of wine that together can be taken at any time of the day. Quite often, the bars and cafeteria's with their fingers on the customer service pulse offer a small bowl of olives or mixed nuts free of charge when serving drinks. Items such as these typically feature somewhere near the bottom of the tapas food chain, which depending on how much you're willing to pay, can stretch to one or two quite exotic specimens.

Handy

For certain visitors to Spain whose sartorial elegance rarely stretches much beyond a jesus creepers and white socks combo, a plate of chips with ketchup and pint of Heineken is a perfectly adequate way in which to get fed and watered whilst enjoying a few rays. That was me too when I first arrivded here in 2006, minus the footwear of course. Back in the day I quickly figured out the words for chips, (patatas fritas), and beer, (cerveza), and was soon well away in my new home. A very small blunder soon changed that though and by accident opened up a world of interesting and alternative eating options. My mistake was to order "patatas bravas" and expect chips; shortly after I was served something much nicer, a large helping of irrugularly shaped, cooked spuds smothered in a hot and spicy tomato based sauce. I had just given away my tapas virginity.

Nice one Garçon

Stories abound concerning where and how tapas originated, just pick which one you like, many though can be taken with a pinch of salt, the likliest explanation is a variation on the following theme. In the "olden days" when folk went around dressed like Blackadder, Spanish King Alfonso the 10th was travelling on horseback through   the south of the country and stopped for a comfort break at an inn near Cádiz. Just as his wine was being served, the wind got up bringing with it grains of sand from nearby North Africa. Quick as a flash the alert waiter, probably fearing for his head, covered His Majesty's goblet with a small plate, on top of which he placed slices of ham. Thus, allegedly, was born a popular Spanish tradition which has survived to this day. Tapas incidentally, comes from the verb tapar meaning to cover.

History and language lessons over, I'll bash on. Not only has tapas survived it's also thrived and is a popular money spinner, especially for many, many small bars and cafeterias, some of whom offer a gottle o' gear and a tapa for as little as 1.50€. Splendid value if you're a tad peckish just before tea-time or on the way home from work.. An equally pleasant way to spend time and a few more euros is to forego the typical menu and share three or four different small plates from the list of tapas, in one or two of the larger establishments, these can run to two or three pages.

Come to Spain and miss out at your peril. 

Quality time in the beer tent

There are some things in life that typical blokes can't do without. For example, and in no particular order, football, the occasional shag, cash and a cheeky ale or two once in a while. Perm any three from those four and a manly smile is virtually guaranteed. I think I might be a typical bloke!

Yes they do apparently

Every now and again, quite rarely actually, someone drops something into the conversation that overwhelmingly appeals. Instead of biting her hand off, (it's almost always the wife or girlfriend doing the suggesting), the trick seems to be to appear nonchalant and, if you can, make the whole thing seem like a chore you're happy to help out with. My personal "do bears shit in the woods moment" where I had to pretend not to be dead excited occurred yesterday afternoon, when the girlfriend casually asked -

 "Tonight should we check out the beer festival at Elche University?"
"Yeah - can do" I deadpanned back.

And that was that, a proper result!

Little and Large

I could hear the Oompah Band about twelve streets away, which, co-incidentally was also about the time I began salivating at the thought of all that lager. But, as John Motson said whilst commentating on Germany's good hiding at the hands of England in 2001, "this is getting better and better and better."  The reason for my increasingly euphoric state of mind was quite simple really. I caught sight of the size of jars of beer people were necking and nearly messed myself. Visualize a medium sized tree trunk, say a foot deep and six inches round, hollow it out and then fill it full of super strength German alcohol and you'd be getting there. Honestly, I could have used one of these behemoths at home to store our spare bedding.  I could tell from fairly early on this going to be quite a pleasant evening out and so it proved.

Top hat you've got their Fritz

In keeping with the Spanish way at most large gatherings, the system is simple and it works. You pay for what you want at one place, take the ticket to a second and away you go. Five euros and seventy cents later, the opening couple of bevvies were ordered up not yet collected. Next up, some chow. Same again at the food counter, where eight euros each were exchanged for a chubbing great, spicy frankfurter, another slightly smaller one, a generous helping of french fries and sauerkraut, a first for me. They also threw in a beer for the price. Bargain. Well fed and nicely teased by the first wee drinky it was time to tackle one of the monsters we'd spotted earlier. Full of beer they were bloody heavy so I quickly worked out the best way to make them lighter. Empty them. This I was to do three times, the perfect way to end up feeling no pain.

Gorgeous. The staff were nice too

This really was an authentic Mediterranean Oktoberfest, yeah they do exist and they're better than the German ones because there aren't any of those weird men in lederhosen mincing around like Morris Dancers either. Sure, we had barmen in curious pixie hats and couldn't hold a conversation because of the incessant music which grated after about quarter of an hour, but flitting around the place were loads of slinky, Spanish style serving wenches. Not for us those brusque, teutonic German frauleins called Gretchen or Hildegard, on no. All this took place in a cavernous tent with row upon row of trestle type tables, each of which was occupied by young people, old folk, couples like us and complete families, including small children. Stick two and a half thousand Brits in a massive tent, fill them full of lager and fights would flare up all over the place. The only problem last night was stumbling to the bogs and back.

 I enjoyed myself so much I think I might go again next weekend.

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.

Losing the will to live

Simply writing these words brings back painful memories of a recent morning I'd much rather forget but can't.

I bungled

From time to time in Spain, whether you'd prefer to or not, the occasional brush with officialdom  is unavoidable and, by association, so too is the ordeal the experience quickly becomes. It was my turn the other day! Those awfully decent people at SERVEF, the Valencian employment agency, requested the pleasure of my company for a face to face conversation about a matter we'd been communicating over for weeks by mail. Because they're the kind of organisation it's best to keep onside, I readily agreed. My obsequious 'tactical' agreement was shortly to become the mother of all blunders.

A nice Moroccan man explained the system

The morning started off alright, like most of mine do, with coffee and toast in an agreeable cafeteria near to my house, thereafter it got steadily worse and my leisurely brekkie was quickly forgotten. Being somewhat new to Government agencies catering for the self employed and those with no work at all, I didn't think anything of the lengthy line of people all clutching various pieces of paper. Until I reached the SERVEF office that is, where, spookily the queue ended and a swarthy Moroccan bloke playfully suggested "I f*** off to the back of the line and wait like everyone else!"  "Sure thing" I meekly agreed., before retracing my steps for a good three furlongs.

Argos - a system that really caught on in Spain

When eventually I made it into the rather depressing surroundings, where, unknowingly I was about to spend the next four and a bit hours fighting the urge to top myself, I appeared to have been joined by most of the population of Elche. Spain being Spain, and it doesn't matter whether you're in a bank, the butchers, the Post Office or a mobile phone shop, the system is simple and it works a treat. You take a numbered ticket, park your arse and wait to be called or simply keep an eye on giant screens. A bit like Argos in the UK I suppose. Unfortunately, SERVEF seem to have a bit of an evil system featuring two different prefixes, 'A' and 'P', on the numbered tickets. I quickly established the sixteenth letter and not the first was what I needed and my speed on the uptake was rewarded with P042

Forty five minutes after I joined the heaving mass of unemployed Elche humanity, the green screen indicating which waiting client wouild be atttended to next had ticked along, at glacial speed, to P003. Meanwhile, the altogether more fortunate bearers of 'A' sequence tickets barely had time to spark up a conversation with the person next to them as their big red screen galloped up to number A044. With all that time on my hands, I'd long since given up on the game I play in the bank by trying to guess which cashier will serve me, in favour of sussing out the waiting punters. That proved to be altogether more interesting.

In an apparent act of defiant refusal to give in to his circumstances laced with a huge dollop of personal pride, one bloke seemed to have turned up in his best togs; matching Armani polo shirt and chino's combined with a pair of stylish brown loafers. His appearance was in stark contrast to the rest of the assembled customers.

The old girl tried to make friends

Posh boy clearly got lucky because within fifteen minutes he'd been and gone, unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the talkative, big built lady that I initially thought worked there. It turned she was just a bit of a busybody with no life who absolutely loved the sound of her own voice! Sat next to the ticket machine, desperate to be somewhere else, I was a prime target for random strangers who couldn't figure out how to operate the thing, thankfully the old fish wife was soon on hand to put her ample nervous energy to one more good use. The problem with folk like her is that once you even offer a flicker of acknowledgement they're in like Flynn, behave like they've known you for years and really do persevere. In the end I scarpered for a coffee.

The moment my number came up

She was still there talking shit to anyone who would listen forty minutes later. On the upside, when I got back there were considerably fewer people, the 'P' screen had racked up 31 not out and every recipient of an 'A' ticket was being seen immediately. An hour or so earlier, cursing myself for not bringing my shaving kit, I was starting to worry I might even have to spend christmas, still five months away yet, in this godforesaken place. All of a sudden, with closing time rapidly approaching, (Spanish civil servants knock off at 1400), three additional staff miraculously became available and for the itinerants, me too, things began to look up. Then, about ten minutes before last orders, the unthinkable happened and P042 clicked into view, an event I witnessed with childlike excitement.

Less than ninety seconds later, the time it took an extremely helpful lady to photocopy my passport and green residency certificate, it was all over and, in something of a dazed state I emerged back into the daylight, blinking like a Chilean miner. I've still got that poxy ticket!!