And it’s all go…

Or rather – all grow – in the garden.

Firstly, the white jasmine, pink jasmine, winter jasmine or jasmine polyanthum in the header photo. Called winter jasmine because it flowers in winter, and the other two refer to the colour of the jasmine. Unlike yellow jasmine, which is not called yellow jasmine, but yes, winter jasmine.

The jasmine is especially for Andrew in Hong Kong for whom I have provided an internet gardening consultancy service. While I may not have solved his problems, or his jasmine’s problems, I provide photos of mine just to prove that mine is rampant and more. Luckily it thrives on neglect. Less is more when gardening, I think.

I doubt my broad beans/habas would thrive on neglect but luckily José has been watering them, and we’ve had some rain over the past few weeks, so I got a nice harvest of two or three kilos, of which naturally some went over the wall to next doors.

Beans

My spinach/espinacas or acelgas/beet spinach whichever it is, is also producing a decent harvest.

Spinach, next to Easter cactus

I use the small leaves for salad and the larger ones in casserole.

Spinach leaves, fresh from the garden

For the past few weeks I’ve also had a small plant that decided to seed itself on the garden path which is on the side of the street. Amazingly no-one has taken the leaves. I did though on this week’s trip, in case they tempted anyone in future.

Spinach is one of my favourite plants. Apart from the fact that it is so versatile as a veg, it also happily settles itself anywhere. Here it is nesting with the aloe vera which is just coming into bloom. Another useful plant, although we don’t drink the juice, I do use the gel for cuts, grazes, and as a general skin emollient. And, for cat bites of course.

Aloe vera, and more spinach

Wandering around town early one morning, we noticed some work generation going on. Because there is so much unemployment around, the local council tends to generate additional work for unemployed people. When their two years dole has run out they get three months work, and then can go back to signing their benefits.

Work generation although not much income generation (not much work either given that two out of three are standing around)

As well as construction labourers, the other work tends to be gardening and cleaning the beach from Easter onwards. Hard work that one. They get dropped off at one point and then just work their way down the beach picking up rubbish. Sounds ok, but it isn’t much fun in 30 odd degrees of blazing sun walking eight kilometres on sand/pebbles and wearing protective clothing while holidaymakers are idling around in beachwear doing nothing.

And here we have a van catering for the English-speaking market. Or attempting to.

Spot the error

Meanwhile before I left Gib for Spain, I noticed the Spanish Foreign Minister, José Manuel García-Margallo, said he would never set foot in Gibraltar unless the Spanish flag was flying above the Rock.

It may have escaped García-Margallo’s notice, but I don’t think Gibraltarians have the slightest interest in whether or not he ever sets foot on the Rock. Quite frankly if he did, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was stoned. With rocks. From the Rock.

This beliigerent and aggressive ‘politician’ has rejected the previous Cordoba Agreement signed by the socialist government under Zapatero, and, stated before the United Nations that the only talks on sovereignty of Gibraltar will be between the UK and Spain. Thus pushing Gib’s nose right out of it. After all, what do the people who live here matter? That’s before we even get into the Treaty of Utrecht, which as you all know by now, was signed 300 years ago by Great Britain and Spain, and included Spain ceding Gib in perpetuity. Simple.

He has, of course, also bleated on about waters and air space and criticised the local mayor in La Linea, Gemma Araujo, (who happens to be socialist and not right-wing) of siding with Gibraltar. Well, it’s hardly surprising when the economy in La Linea is, like most of Spain, up shit creek. And without Gibraltar providing a paddle, or rather, jobs for Spaniards it would be a hell of a lot worse.

Note, García-Margallo wants to continue with co-operation between the UK and Spain, and Gibraltar and the Campo (ie the countryside area across the frontier in Spain). Well, he would, wouldn’t he? How to have your cake and eat it.

In fact, never mind García-Margallo, it would be helpful if a lot of other Spaniards stopped setting foot in Gibraltar every day to work here and take money out of Gib to spend in Spain while Gibraltarians are STILL unemployed. Maybe you should recommend that to them Señor? And provide jobs for them in Spain? Sí, Señor.

On a closely-related theme, the first news I looked for on returning to Gib was the result of the Falklands referendum. You know, those Malvinas that belong to Argentina.

It was hardly surprising that the Falkland Islanders wished to remain British. In fact, they even topped the Gibraltar referendum results with a massive 99.8% in favour of remaining British. The Gibraltar results were, in 1967 – 98.64, and in 2002, a slight decrease to 98.48%. Hardly a vote in favour of leaving the UK though, just like the Falklands result.

But what do we have next? Oh, yes, the new pope, Francis 1, pressing Argentina’s claim to the Falklands, well, that’s surprising isn’t it? seeing as the 76-year-old pensioner is Argentinian. Bet Kirchner was clapping her pretty little hands when he got in.

It strikes me as being excessively hypocritical that the major players on the world scene bleat on about self-determination and then totally ignore it. Both Spain and Argentina refer to the problem that needs solving and that there should be bi-lateral talks only, thereby negating the people concerned to less than nothing. There. Is. No. Problem. But does anyone do anything about their claims? Do they stuff. Not only are they allowed to whinge on about it, people, ie the UN and other countries (invariably with Spanish speaking and/or Catholic interests), actually give them credence. Why?

Fact Number One. These are British Overseas Territories.
Fact Number Two. The population of said overseas territories wish to remain British.
Fact Number Three. People do not wish to be either Spanish or Argentinian.

The only problem about Gibraltar and the Falklands is that Spain and Argentina want them and the people who live there don’t want to change.

I did wonder to myself, after reading about García-Margallo’s comment, why the Foreign Minister of Spain was dealing with Gibraltar. If Spain is so convinced it is theirs, surely it should be the portfolio of the Home Office? Or whatever the Spanish equivalent is. Perhaps the Spanish haven’t thought of that. Too busy allegedly accepting backhanders, quelling protest marches and refusing to pay people dole money.

Yes, that’s right. The word on the street today was (could be right, could be wrong) that a number of Brits who live in Spain, and have worked in Gib, and their contributions have been transferred to Spain, are not entitled to dole money because they are not Spanish and there isn’t enough money to pay everyone. Good one eh? Compare that with the good old UK where every immigrant under the sun seems to be able to get housing, benefit, and health care, although naturally I couldn’t because I have lived out of my own country for too long. In which I paid 40% tax rate.

Disclaimer: I have never claimed any benefits from Spain, nor has my partner. We have paid wealth tax, which was an illegal tax imposed on foreigners in Spain and has since been scrapped due to an EU ruling. It wasn’t much, a hundred euros a year, but still, I’ve not had it back.

The phrase ‘couldn’t run a piss-up in a brewery’ comes to mind. In the case of the Spanish politicians (I’m talking both local and national here), they would accept a load of back-handers to fund the piss-up, sack all the staff, drink the brewery dry, before the guests arrive, and then lay claims to a neighbouring brewery on grounds of territorial integrity and shortage of beer in their own brewery.

However, while Spanish politicians are the scum of the earth, our local neighbours are lovely people.

Walking around the beach one day, we did the usual Hóla, buenos días, to anyone and everyone and acquired a new walking friend. In her dressing gown, naturally.

I say we, but I mean he, because as usual, being a woman I was superfluous. I amused myself by taking a few photos, while the two of them chatted happily together.

‘You speak very good Spanish, and understand very well,’ she said adoringly to Partner. I groaned. Until she told us she was ‘viuda’ and I could see Partner didn’t understand. ‘Widow,’ I said. Smugly. That was my sole contribution to the conversation. She still loved him to bits anyway, hell, it was only one word he didn’t know.

She was 83, and she’d been a widow for 16 years. Her husband had been killed in a car accident. She liked to get out and walk every morning and every afternoon. Partner and her had the usual Spanish conversation about if you don’t use your legs, they won’t work. ‘Exacto,’ she said.

Walking and talking in step

Got to admire a woman of that age, walking out in her dressing-gown, doing a couple of miles twice a day, and not being afraid to speak to a foreigner. One of the many good things about Spain.

And another one, that I have learned to admire, is their capacity to make something out of nothing. Beach furniture outside a bar/hut/mini-chiringuito, made out of pallets and scrap timber.

Tables and benches to go

To end up, yet more jasmine. After all, it only lasts for a few weeks a year, so might as well make the most of it.

Jasmine

Yet more jasmine

Happy pig

Top marks for everyone who has dutifully taken their history lesson and learned:

a) who ‘occupied’ Gibraltar and for how long [answers: Moslem 700+ years, British 300+ years, Spanish <250 years, added bonus point for those of you who remember it is currently a British Overseas Territory]

b) that England (later Great Britain) took Gibraltar in 1704 as part of the Spanish war of succession, and the rights to Gibraltar were later ceded by Spain in perpetuity to GB under the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 at the end of the war of succession.

Remember that though, because there will be more on this next week.

Back to present-day Spain.

Wandering around our pueblo we noticed a new development at one of the local bar-restaurants (the village has six for some bizarre reason) – take-away pizzas. That could be useful for an evening meal. If we aren't asleep by the time it opens. Shall have to ask around and see if it is any good and find out when it opens.

Pizza para llevar

The nearest pizza places before this were in town which is four kms away. Not exactly five minutes walk down the street, and cold and soggy before you return, so you might as well eat at the restaurant in town which is far too much like hard work.

On we walked around the houses lining the main road, and we noticed this new and extremely compact vegetable garden. Got to love the way people use space in Spain. In the UK, we like to have lots of space to wander around in and feel affluent. Here, many people use whatever tiny bit of space they have to best advantage.

Compact veg garden

The house itself has been reformed and has been for sale for some time now. The entrance is below street level and it's not a very big house. A British acquaintance we knew went to look at it (it was cheap) but obviously decided not to buy.

The reformed house

A closer look at the veg garden: peas, broad beans, runner beans, cabbage, cauliflower, lettuce and onions. Pretty impressive. So impressive that when we returned home, we started making our plans for adding another veg plot on the terrace.

So little space, so many crops

On the return leg we stopped to talk to a pig. As you do.

(Just out of the picture on the right is a young cockerel, but I have my own, so he didn't get his pic taken).

Happy pig?

(The happy pig was the name of one of my childhood books – I loved it – happy pig had balloons and was generally such a smiley pig).

Hello pig.

Gently snoseing

Oh, here is his/her pal. With the evil eye.

Perhaps s/he didn't like my camera.

What’s going on here?

So cute, rubbing their sensitive noses together.

Still got my eye on you though

Poor little porkers, they will probably end up as jamon serrano. It is ironic that I come to live in one of the best cured ham-producing countries in the world when I am vegetarian, but life is like that. And I couldn’t eat either of those pigs. Not even evil eye.

And back up the main street, one of the local fieldworkers ploughing his ground. I can't call them farmers because basically everyone rents the plots of ground so they are not landowners and they don't have farms. So while I say 'his' ground, I mean the ground he rents. He's never without a huge cigar in his mouth, but sadly he kept turning round to check his work as he was ploughing, so no pic of cigar. Maybe next time.

Earning a living

Still, on with the gardening/growing/crops theme, here is what is left of my nispero tree. One of two, both of which sadly we had to cut down because the roots were beginning to cause cracks in the walls and we didn’t want to see the wall in the street one day, especially not on top of someone or someone’s car.

A sad looking nispero stump

Now being a right-on person and not using pesticides or herbicides, I didn’t want to use poison to kill it off. I did plenty of internet-searching and came up with a few options.

1) Dig it out.

All well and good but because it is in a narrow wall we couldn’t even get a spade in there. No leverage.

2) Salt.

This is meant to work, but apparently it doesn’t do much for the neighbouring part of the garden and remains in the soil. Another no.

3) Human urine.

Worth a go in the dark.

4) Chicken manure.

Got plenty of that too.

5) Seal up the stump to prevent the light getting to it.

Easy enough as well.

So, we reckoned on 3,4 and 5 as our options for a natural way to kill off the stump and roots.

It’s nearly two years since we cut them down, and initially after a period of a few months, I was sad to see that new shoots were vibrantly growing back, even under the plastic and black plastic pot.

This month however, those perky shoots seem to have died back. Could be a success story for urine and chicken manure. And certainly nothing else in the same patch of garden wall has any problems with growing. Two of my lettuces are right next to this tree stump.

Oh, and as well as being chemical-free, it was money-free as well.

When I’m not gardening, walking, cooking, or losing at cards at the finca (a disaster, I got beaten at seven card rummy and gin rummy) I’m reading.

Three books read were: two Jack Higgins, Exocet and Thunder Point, and Len Deighton’s Funeral in Berlin.

Good reads

As soon as I started Exocet I realised I’d read it before. An officer in the Grenadier Guards is seconded to the SAS, goes to the Falklands, gets pulled back to do another job regarding the potential (illegal) acquisition of more Exocets by the Argentinian government. The story moves through UK, France, Falklands and Argentina, and is a good action novel. Also somewhat timely given the 30 year anniversary of the war conflict and the forthcoming sovereignty referendum in the Falkland Islands. Needless to state I read it again and enjoyed it all over. Sometimes books are often better the second time around.

Thunder Point had a wicked anti-hero, or villain for a goody. An ex-IRA killer, who went on to sell his services to any terrorist organisation, is employed (under duress) by the British Secret Service to carry out a job for them in the Caribbean. Another good read.

Funeral in Berlin was a different kettle of fish. Apart from anything else it was set in the Cold War period – hence the scene of activity being Berlin and lots of toing and froing across the wall.

I did get lost in some of the double deals and triple deals and twists with every turn, but that may have been because I read too quickly and I also read it at night. The plot is centred around the premise of the Russians selling a scientist to the west, but nothing is ever what it seems with Deighton.

What is good about both these authors, is that they are hard-hitting (in different ways) and although there are plenty of deaths, there are no gory details or gratuitous murders. The people in their books are professionals and killing is their job. Whether you or I agree with that is another matter, but at least they aren’t writing about sick psycho serial killers and giving us every vile horrific detail about victims being tortured to death.

Before we left Gib, our neighbour plonked a load of books with us. I managed to read one of them at the finca (after I had finished the decent library books). It was the Ravenscar Dynasty by Barbara Taylor Bradford.

This is not a book I would ever choose. But it was readable, at least it was largely set in Yorkshire (Ms Bradford comes from Leeds, and worked in journalism for the Yorkshire Post company so I suppose we have something in common) so that was a minor advantage. It’s about family feuds, family business, handsome hero and, well, you get the idea. Oh, everybody is rich too.

Not one I would recommend, because it isn’t my taste, but if you like that sort of thing then no doubt you would enjoy it. It wasn’t well written, it wasn’t badly written, it just wasn’t anything. Looking up Ms Bradford, I see that her original manuscripts are housed in the Brotherton Library of the University of Leeds alongside those of the Brontës. Does that mean they are comparable authors? I would like to think not. I see Ms Bradford even has an award (OBE) for services to literature. Um.

Speaking of awards I can neatly mention some of the ones I have totally failed to acknowledge over the past few months.

Thanks to the following:

Gerry at Restawyle for Blog of the Year 2012 (told you I was late)

Helen at The Venomous Bede for Versatile Blogger Award

Sisterhood of the World and Very Inspiring Blogger from being mrscarmichael

There were some questions with this sisterhood one, so I thought for once I would graciously answer them.

1) Favourite colour – sludge green

2) Favourite animal – all of them (excludes people of course)

3) Favourite non-alcoholic drink – tomato juice with ice, lemon and tabasco

4) Facebook or Twitter – neither

5) Favourite pattern – Vogue Designer by Armani (I think, because I don’t have it to hand) an asymmetrical jacket, short skirt, all seams over-stitched on the front, and the jacket stiffened with iron-on interfacing before it was put together. Great design. Pic to follow at some point when I remember.

6) Getting or giving presents – getting simple ones – food or flowers

7) Favourite number – 5 and all its multiples, followed by sevens, followed by twos

8) Favourite day of the week – Sunday, it is so peaceful in both Spain and Gib, and when I don’t have to work Monday, there is none of that depression that sets in post lunch when you start thinking about WORK. It’s also a great day to cycle or walk in Spain due to less traffic.

9) Favourite flower – gladioli, lilies, crocuses, jasmine, hibiscus – oh, only one?

10) My passion? – Not a word I use often, although it does occur in my about me page. Otherwise those of you who read Clouds can work out what I get remotely animated about (the latest post being about horse meat in lasagna). Those of you who don’t read Clouds will just have to wonder.

And on blog awards generally, about which I am extremely lax, I never realised there was any value in them until I read timethief’s excellent post about backlinks today.

I’ll end on a serious point for Valentine’s Day because it merits it. Maurice on Duck? Starfish? but…23 has written an excellent post commemorating a tragic oil industry disaster that happened 31 years ago on this day. Not just that, he points out we still don’t learn our lessons from history.

Well worth a read.

Better than reading blog posts about red roses – £45 a dozen today apparently – and no, thank goodness, he didn’t buy me any.

What price life?

Honestly! I can’t leave Gibraltar for a couple of days before the place falls to rack and ruin.

There I am happily taking my Christmas/New Year holiday finally, when I get a notification on the Twitter account I never use, about the shooting in Gibraltar last week!

What shooting?

It seems last Tuesday that a man was shot in the late afternoon at Europa Point (photos of which were on my previous post – Europa – not a shot man). His injuries were so severe that he was moved from the local Gib hospital, to a specialist one in Cadiz.

Where, the daily bulletins were, that his status was critical. For those of you not familiar with hospital/journo speak, it means you might die, you might not. Fortunately a few days later, he was pronounced stable – ordinary speak: on the mend, and may survive.

The police arrested three men to help them with their enquiries/on suspicion of attempted murder. And then released them on bail without charge. Six vehicles were also seized. The cliff face at Europa was abseiled and a diver found a firearm on the seabed. Another gun was recovered from a local residence. As well as searching the six vehicles, police also searched four homes, two stores, two commercial premises and a garage. Ninety police officers were involved in the investigation – yes Gib does have a lot of police officers.

As for the injured 38-year-old man? He’s a member of the Royal Gib Police although statements have said the shooting was not work related and he was off duty at the time.

But this is no good. Gib is a safe place. The last time I remember a shooting was when I was crossing the frontier and the Guardia Civil opened fire. (Not at me, that I know of).

Meanwhile all this was going on, I had arrived back in Spain to chill out for a week. As soon as we arrived at the finca, José decided to come and cut back my garden. He used to work at a nursery, and still propagates carnations and roses, ferns, spider plants, and anything he feels like really. As you do at nearly 86.

However this was not what I had planned. Rushing around like the proverbial fly picking up after roses, jasmine, plumbago and everything else he recklessly chucked on the floor.

He cut down rosebuds and flowers. I decided to stick them in vases glasses. The jasmine and roses smell delicious, the plumbago is pretty, and the pelargonium may root. Or not.

Rosebuds and jasmine

Plumbago and jasmine

My first afternoon back is meant to be, have a beer, eat some food (often that I’ve left in the freezer before), read a book, and fall asleep at siesta time. Wake up and make salad. This plan was not happening. At all.

Next day, I tripped off down to the veg shop. My dear readers will know that I will never win shopaholic prize of the year, my only concession being visiting veg shops/market stalls, and health food shops.

For once, I even recorded the prices, so you can all consider I live cheaply or expensively. Prices per kilo and in euros unless pound sign added. And a Gib comparison added where appropriate.

Tomatoes – 80 cents, the cheapest ones and just as good if not better than the others. Gib price – I normally buy organic from Morrisons, £1 for four, no weight, I’d estimate around 10 ozs for the four.

Peas – 3.30/3.50. No peas in Morries at the moment, but in summer they vary between £1 on special, or £1.50/1.75 per bag. Unhelpfully I can’t remember the weight of the bag.

Setas (oyster mushrooms – but ours are huge!! and very fresh) – 4.50. In Morries they are now £8 a kilo!! They are so dear they are priced by the 100 grammes at 80 p so it doesn’t sound so expensive.

Avocado – 2.50. Mine came to around 43 cents. Morries prices – £1.50 ish for two organic ones. They didn’t seem to be ripe.

Oranges – 1.20, they were mid price range, there were some cheaper and some dearer.

Lemons – 80 cents. Around £1.75 in Gib.

Cebolleta. Fresh green onions – 1.40. No comparison with Morries because they don’t sell them and can’t remember the Gib market price.

Potatoes – 15 kg sack for 8.50 ie 56 cents a kilo. At Mercadona (Spanish supermarket) a five kilo sack is 3.50. In Gib, normal potatoes are around a quid a kilo. Organic Marie Piper salad pots are £1.40 for 750gms. The Spanish potatoes are much better.

Two barras of pan rustica in the same pack, 95 cents. A loaf of pain de campagne in Gib – 400gms, £1.85.

A block of tempeh, 250 gms, (does for two or three meals) – 3.34. Not available in Gib.

Jar of Delicious capers – 65gms – 1.20. Can’t remember Gib price. £1.75 maybe?

Jar of gazpacho olives – 1.80.

Pack of San Miguel, 12 x 33 cl – 5.10. In Gib, a pack of 6 x 50 cl is £5.20 (although went down to £3.99 before Christmas). I’m sure you can all work out that four litres for 5.10€ is cheaper than three litres at £5.29.

Bottle of cava – Jaume Serra Brut Nature – 2.15. Bottle of Montcadi in Gib, £4.29.

Meanwhile, I escaped going to the shops today and partner was chatting to a local on the bus. He’s got UK relatives so he’d been back for Christmas.

‘Rained every day,’ he moaned. ‘And so expensive.’

The cheapest cigarettes he could find were £7.50 a pack!! Really?? Just, good grief.

Beer was £5 a pint.

As far as I know because a) I don’t smoke and b) I don’t go to the pub, fags are about £2 a packet here (that may possibly explain a little of the smuggling?) and I think beer is around £3 a pint in the pubs.

Encerrado!

In my own house no less. Imprisoned. Locked in.

I set off to do the weekend turnaround on the bus. Nice sleepy journey up. Arrived in Málaga just after 1pm. Plenty of time to catch the 1.30 bus to the village.

But no! What was that long queue doing there for tickets? There must have been 20 or 30 people. Naturally, most of them were booking tickets for a few hours hence, or even in a few days time.

There was a ticket machine, for which you needed a debit/credit card. I watched a few people fail to achieve any success from it and decided not to risk a captured card. I stood in the queue wondering why they didn’t have a window for immediate departures.

Behind me were two people wanting the same route and the same time of bus. We all missed our bus because of the crazy queue. I went to one of the bus station bars to drown my sorrows with a small cerveza, San Miguel, 1.20€. I didn’t buy any food as I had been overly stuffed the last time.

When the bus arrived, I joined the queue. The passengers in front and behind me paid in cash on the bus. Not for them the stupidity of joining a queue at the ticket office.

I’d thought about risking that, but I’ve tried it before and been told ‘No, go and buy your ticket from the ticket office.’ He probably didn’t like foreigners. And if I’d done that and got sent back to the ticket office I would probably have missed the next bus as well.

Did I have half an hour to spare? Yes. But why can’t there be a consistent policy? Local journey passengers can pay on the bus, or queue here for immediate departures?

Arriving home, my neighbour immediately came out to greet me. We discussed the progress of my broad beans, the weather, all the usual.

Broad beans starting to flower

He told me there hadn’t been much rain, but the front door was sticking a bit at the bottom so I needed to kick it.

Um. The last time I did that, I kicked off the paint and was not the most popular woman on earth with Painting Partner. I gave it a gentle nudge and it opened.

Front door

About 3am I woke up in a panic. I wouldn’t be able to open the front door to get out. It would be stuck. I couldn’t get out of the window, those nice fancy rejas – window grilles to prevent burglars – prevent an occupant escaping as well as unwanted visitors entering, and the other door out from the patio into the street was playing up with the lock not wanting to work. I couldn’t risk leaving the house unlocked.

I spent most of the night awake fretting about that, and going through various scenarios.

1) Call Jose when he woke up on Sunday morning and ask him to push the front door.

2) Risk trying the patio door lock – and risk the security of the property.

3) Consider climbing over the patio wall, say 12 foot high and a steep drop down.

The only good thing I could focus on was that I had some bread in the freezer, and some left-over food in there too, some tins of sweetcorn, lots of rice, pasta, lentils, beans, and a couple of courgettes, one egg, and some garlic in the fridge. Oh and lots and lots of olives.

I figured I could make it until the weekend when I would be rescued by Partner (who had work commitments).

Meanwhile in panic mode, I decided to text him. At 3.45am. No answer :(

Eventually he got in touch around 8am telling me to open the lock, stick in a credit type card to stop the lock shutting and pull on the bottom of the door (there is a gap). Well that was worse than useless. No way could I get anywhere with my feeble grip. And the card fell out too.

Fuck it. I grabbed the top of the door, which was free, and yanked. I nearly fell on the floor when the door opened.

But next problem. Would I be able to shut it? Well, the short answer is yes I did. OK, not the first time, because I had left one of the bolts open so that I didn’t get locked out (unlikely given the sticking on the bottom, but still, best to keep to a routine). Once I’d closed the bolt, it slammed with a resounding bang.

My neighbour was watching of course. I duly reported that I had turned off the water, he watched me locking the door, and then asked if I had locked everything securely inside. What a sweety. I really couldn’t ask for better neighbours.

I walked out of the gate and looked back up the street in case he was watching me off, he was. I gave him a wave.

Leaving the village to hit the main road

The return journey was uneventful apart from the fact I spent 40 minutes at the bus stop when buses normally arrive at least every 30 mins. And the bus from Málaga to La Linea was full of crazy people who insisted on pulling curtains to hide from the sun.

They didn’t just pull the curtain for their seat, they decided to pull it back into mine. I moved seat. I liked to see where I am travelling and I like the sun.

Some women got on in Marbella. ‘Can you pull your curtain please?’ said one of them in not very good Spanish.

‘Non.’ I said. And just to make it clear, I added ‘No quiero.’ I don’t want. The bus was more than half empty. If you don’t like it, fuck off and sit in another seat, sensibly on the other side of the bus where there is less bright sunlight. And what was even more annoying was that every time the bus changed direction, all these curtain twitchers kept pulling them backwards and forwards. Serious cases of OCD.

The bus driver put on the air-conditioning. In December! According to the temperature sign in the bus it was 22 degrees. I put my Goretex back on. It was freezing with the air-con.

By the time we got to La Linea, the weather had changed anyway, grey and damp. No-one had their curtain pulled across.

The air-con was off and I was roasted! Why do people have to change things all the time? There is no need to pull curtains and hide from the sun in December. There is no need to put on the air-conditioning. Just take off your coat.

It was of course, bitterly cold (well, relatively) when I got off the bus and headed for the frontier. Nasty cold damp wind. I trudged slowly up Main Street, and fell into the flat, where a delicious casserole was waiting for me. I just love men who cook (future post on Clouds about that one).

Then we both went to sleep. Neither of us had slept since 3/4am when I had woken up in a fit of panic and texted him. He’d read the text but not replied thinking I was asleep. As if!! So we’d both spent half the night worrying about something that didn’t happen. That’s old age for you.

Spanish Sunday Summary

Driving up to the finca, I was stunned with the cotton wool ball clouds that suddenly appeared. Must be the time of year.

They suddenly came in from one side, settled over the hills and looked so tangible. Fluffy and brilliant white against the blue sky.

I should have posted these on Cloudsmovingin, but they are on here instead. Along with a few others.

Taking this pic, I thought how wonderfully exotic it is to be on an autovia with signs for Cordoba, Granada and Sevilla. Sounds so much more glamourous than Leeds, Wakefield and Dewsbury.

Where to go? Such choices

My remaining chickens were well, although complaining that they wanted some fresh corn and wheat. Which we duly bought.

El, we never did give him a proper name, who is at least five years old, maybe six or even seven? We got him from a local gypsy.

El

I was trying to take pix of his spurs as the length of them denotes their age. His are long. But on the earlier pic (link above) they are barely visible.

Before El we actually bought a cockerel. His spurs were much longer than those of young El, so he clearly wasn’t young. He didn’t last long either.

But El and Jimena are rather like a fratchety old couple, scratching around the chicken shed together. And when she gets tired of his attention she goes and hides in her den that he can’t get into because he is too big.

Jimena is at least eight, nearer to nine. She still lays eggs.

Jimena

And for those of you who commiserated with me about my ferns on Everypic here is the successful interloper who seems to be thriving without my loving care.

And successfully growing up through

To round off the summary with a neat ending, ie back to more clouds, pix of the famous Gib Levanter. Well probably not famous to anyone who doesn’t live in Gib.

The Levanter over Gib viewed from La Linea

In summary, the breeze/wind from the east brings with it moisture, hits the eastern face of the Rock, then condenses and forms a cloud above it. So everywhere around Gib can have beautiful sunshine and blue skies, yet in the city, we have a cloud hanging over us. Quite useful in a way as it does avoid having endless sunshine.

Today’s weather is described as mostly cloudy, haze and relative humidity of 88%.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Geckos, gardens and Gib

This young gecko had a narrow escape when he made a slight movement.

Out of the corner of his eye, Partner noticed it, and quickly picked up a shoe to give it an almighty whack. Fortunately he put on his glasses before he did and realised it was a gecko and not a cockroach.

Gecko was left alone to wander around the stone archway of the front door.

Lucky gecko

Later than day, young gecko had moved the full length of the kitchen ceiling, upside down, and made his way half way across the bedroom ceiling. We lay in bed, fascinated, watching him crawling happily across. What amazing suction they have – and – no fear of heights either. Our very own wildlife programme at home for free.

I like geckos. I like to think they eat cockroaches, which is a good reason for avoiding spraying nasty toxins around my home. I would rather the geckos eat unpoisoned cockies. At one point we must have had a colony of geckos as there seemed to be bits of dead cockroach legs on the bathroom floor every morning.

Geckos also eat spiders and mosquitoes. Now I’m happy with them eating the mozzies too, but not so keen on them eating the spiders. After all, spiders eat flies, and I like to think every spider in my house is a money spider. I guess that’s the natural cycle though.

But I did see a couple of pretty striped spiders who had escaped the attention of young gecko so hopefully they found a safe place to catch flies. Meanwhile the last I saw of young gecko was when he had travelled into the bathroom and was winding his way around the railings on the windows. Cute.

During the day, I saw a far larger one shooting around the garden but he had disappeared before I had chance to even think of a photo.

However, in the heat of August, here in the garden, is my escarole, still going strong courtesy of my wonderful neighbour – and – new parsley seeds that I scattered from the old plant seem to have sprung into life. The mysteries of gardening are beyond me, but if it works and survives great. Letting plants go to seed, look scruffy, and then saving the seed, or letting them reseed themselves is one of the many things I have learned here in Spain. Hardly difficult, but a more natural way of life than tidying those scruffy plants.

Escarole and new parsley shoots

Geckos weren’t the only contented animals we saw. En route, there is what looks like a horse/donkey animal sanctuary. I wish. If only I could do that too.

Happy donkeys and horses

But still, geckos and spiders are a start.

Continuing with the animal theme, I visited our vet for some Cox-2 inhibitors (NSAIDs) for our dog. And took a couple of pix of our former flat where we rented ten years ago, and the green park we looked over.

Third floor flat

I found it very strange living above the trees on the third floor. Most unnerving. Little Roughseas would climb trees, but live above them? We would watch the locals wander into the park every morning with their bottles and their joints and they happily passed the morning away causing no trouble to anyone. The park hasn’t changed, but the people are no longer there.

Peaceful – empty – park

What doesn’t change is the sea. On the way up, the beautiful shimmering, glistening sea.

Sunlight on the Med

And when we left Gibraltar, what amazing light.

Gibraltar North Face

But on the way back – where had Gib gone? Who had put down a filmy cover and stolen her?

Hey! Where is Gib?

Ah, phew, here she is. Here we are in the boring old queue for the frontier, looking at western beach. Good to know the Spaniards hadn’t towed you out to sea after all.

Enjoying the sun at western beach

Courtesy of The Pink Agendist I discovered there had been a suspected bomb in Gib last night.

Apparently a rucksack was exploded remotely by the Gib Reg bomb squad and the frontier was closed for three hours.

Good to live in a safe place like Gib? But great to have the Royal Gib Reg and all the other armed forces on hand. Round of applause for people doing a very special job.

But while all this excitement was going on, we were happily ensconced in King’s Bastion Leisure Centre, celebrating my partner’s first day of freedom after being sacked due to lack of work. There was a Bourne film advertised so we happily went along.

Another unfull cinema, and a good film – The Bourne Legacy.

Plot: Nasty CIA are still messing with people’s heads and turning them into robots and then deciding to kill the ones that malfunction. Or something like that. But one always gets away and needs to be chased.

No Matt Damon as Jason Bourne, who was no notable absence in this film, but a great new character in Aaron Cross played by Jeremy Renner.

Top marks to Renner, who I really liked. Looked like a cross between Steve McQueen and Daniel Craig, so not a bad start.

Rachel Weisz is OK as female lead, but the character struck me as being a bit naive. You work in a government lab, faffing around with DNA and don’t realise what you are doing? Even though you have a PhD? Huh? Nowhere near as good as Olga Kurylenko who played the excellent Camille in the last Bond film (Quantum of Solace). That’s a comment on characters not actresses. At least I think it is. Speaking of Bond, Skyfall is due to be released in October/November this year depending on your part of the world.

Back to The Bourne Legacy. Partner met a couple we had noticed in the cinema last night. She liked it, the kids liked it, he didn’t. That’s 3/4. We liked it. 2/2. So that’s 5/6 on the scale of nothing to do with rotten tomatoes, so worth a watch if you like a shoot the shit out of them action film. NB, it includes a long motorbike chase. Well these sort of films always include some sort of long chase don’t they?

If you want an incisive critical review, there are plenty on the internet. They basically say the same as mine but take longer to read.

Sources: The Pink Agendist (as cited above) and the Gibraltar Chronicle.

Art for art’s sake

One of the many things you learn at university (or can learn) is how to be pretentious.

So mixing with an arty and somewhat posh set (some of whom were quite well-off), I sucked up artistic aspirations. Not just that, my degree happened to look at art too. The archaeology aspect of it looked at the most brilliant art and architecture from the glorious period of the Roman empire.

One holiday – one of those lovely endless university ones – I took myself off to London and the Courtauld Institute. Some of my friends had raved about it, so I thought I had better get up to speed. Although perhaps best known for its Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings it has excellent collections from a number of periods and styles. And truth was, that it was rather nice, so I bought me three Turner prints.

I liked Turner. Moody, vague, ethereal, not all there. Suited me down to the ground.

My new arty self found a local picture framer and I had them framed in silver with non-reflecting glass. Sadly one of them broke at some point a few years ago, and I only had the glass replaced last week.

‘The frame could do with replacing,’ said your man in the shop just up the street from me, a most convenient location.

I’m not sure why he mentioned it when I collected it. Somewhat late in the day.

‘Well yes, but you didn’t have a silver frame like that when I brought it in, and I also have two others that form part of a set and are equally distressed.’

End of discussion.

So it went happily back to the finca this weekend to join its colleagues, or siblings or whatever similar prints are called.

New glass and back on the wall – Colchester

Small companion Turner print – Heaped thundercloud over sea and land

Medium-sized companion print – Dawn after the wreck

Just before we were about to leave for the finca, I remembered I had promised to take another photo back for my neighbours.

In the May Romería, I had taken a photo of their grandson.

One of my internet pals offered to fiddle with it. I’ve written on other posts that I rarely fiddle with photos. I do like cropping some photos, but that’s because I spent a while learning how to get maximum impact from a cropped photo on a sub-editing course. But basically most of my photos are as they were taken, apart from some that I may darken from to time – too much sunlight here! I like the idea that they are a record, a tiny piece of history. Manipulating them is like re-writing history. It is no longer a record but creative art.

Before (left) and after (right)

This was different. To me this was more like a portrait for someone, and getting rid of extraneous clutter was perfect. I love what she did with it. So did my neighbours. When I took the first photo back I thought there was going to be a fight between the mother and the grandmother about who got it, so I needed to print off another one which I finally remembered to do about ten minutes before leaving Gib.

So it cost me some ink from colour print cartridges and some glossy paper. The first time, they asked me how much they owed me. How embarassing. This time, I got seven tomatoes, four huge courgettes and 16 pimientos. Much easier.

Freshly picked pimientos and tomatoes

In these times of economic crisis, austerity measures, global uncertainty (unless you are a rich banker of course) and all the rest of it, it’s important to focus on the big issues in life.

Dog excrement (this is my polite blog hence the long word) all over the pavement is clearly a big one for a lot of people. As we dutifully pick up after our dog, I can honestly say, it isn’t my fault. What annoys me about the people who don’t pick up is that it gives the rest of us a bad name. In fact what annoys me most, is people who think they have to pick up from the pavement, but not on gardens, because people don’t walk on there.

Honestly. Who do they think does the gardening? There you are, meant to be doing a nice interesting job working with plants, trees, flowers, and you spend half your time cleaning up after someone else’s dog. Not good.

But what is just as annoying, and never seems to get any publicity – is cats using MY garden as THEIR personal toilet area. Like the poor old Gib gardeners cleaning up after someone else’s dog, I’m cleaning up after someone else’s cat. And not even getting paid for it.

Having covered the vast majority of remotely bare soil in plant pots with wire to prevent them jumping on there, we discovered the ingenious little wretches had turned their paws to my olive trees. Front paws in one pot and back paws in another. More wiring was called for on Sunday morning.

Protecting the olive trees from pesky cats

However I will end on a sunny note.

Western Beach in Gibraltar as we approached the frontier on Sunday afternoon.

Enjoying the summer at Western Beach

Round and round the gardens

Prrrring prrring. Prrrring prrrring. Who was that disturbing me on the ‘phone when I was busy doing nothing?

Ah, it was the working half of the household, requiring a jacket, cap and neck protection because he was working in full sun.

He took the cap the other day but without the neck protection.

‘Aren’t you going to take the neck bit?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to look silly.’

He’d clearly decided that looking silly was better than burning.

After searching high and low in the flat, I eventually found the required goodies and dutifully trotted up to the job.

Decorator joins the French foreign legion

Clothing handed over, idle chat finished, I wandered off. Sensibly I had the camera with me and as the job was right opposite the botanical gardens, in I nipped.

I’ve made a lot more effort this year to try and go in different months to see the changes. Although we have such a mild – sub-tropical – climate often with little variation in temperatures, it’s surprising how different the gardens can look.

Why is the street light on at 11am?

Lighting my way in the day

Round the gardens I went, anti-clockwise for once, and up to the native section, in the hopes that the rare and unique Gibraltar species may be in flower. My luck was in. The Gibraltar sea lavender was blooming. Well sort of. I was pretty disappointed in this one!

Sea lavender – a rare species

More about Gib’s rare plants on this post about the Alameda Gardens back in February.

But the fountain was nice. A cool and green spot in the heat of the day.

Cool fountain

Better still were the two baby, or rather not so baby but young, seagulls who were out to play and testing their wings.

Hop, skip and a jump up the steps

I decided to wander past the Wildlife Sanctuary or whatever it is called. I’ve never been in. Apart from the fact that it is a couple of quid (I think) I don’t like gawping at animals in cages.

Not much space to fly

When I went on the – free – tour round the gardens (monthly on a Saturday), we were told that the animals in the park mainly come from seizures by HM Customs of animals that were being smuggled. In which case, I suppose the park is a) better than them being killed and b) better than their probable destination.

We were also told that staff at the park had been trying to negotiate for animals to be transferred to larger zoos/parks/whatever in Spain – but the odd few problems with Gib and Spain put a stop to that.

They also have unwanted exotic pets and animals such as the Cotton-topped tamarin, on loan from international Zoos, to raise awareness of important endangered species.

The park aims to:

• provide the best possible care for all animals at the conservation park
• teach and inspire people of all ages and backgrounds to engage in conservation of wildlife and habitats
• take part in European and international breeding programmes which help protect endangered species
• raise awareness of conservation and biodiversity
• re-home confiscated animals they cannot house at the park
• educate and help people to choose exotic pets wisely whilst supporting international campaigns against the illegal pet trade.

Walking around the outside you can usually see a few birds and monkeys but they must all have been asleep or moved elsewhere. It doesn’t look too bad from this sneaky pic I took through a hole in the fencing.

Inside the conservation park

But what saddos do this??

Feed them to the lions I say

To end on a more cheerful note, here are the lovely fish from the pond in The Dell.

Just swimming around

All flower posts from this trip will make their way onto Everypicturetellsone.

And Partner’s Spanish co-worker didn’t think he looked at all silly in his French foreign legion hat. In fact, he thought it was extremely sensible.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The rain in Spain…..

…..stays mainly on the Costa del Sol and along the N340. Or at least it did at the weekend on our journey back there.

Luckily it wasn’t chucking it down, just a few odd light showers. The good thing about grey overcast rainy skies is that you haven’t got brilliant blue skies and dazzing sunlight beating through the glass. So it was a welcome change.

Returning to the finca, there were no neighbours outside, they were clearly hiding from the rain.

Pippa was most disappointed as he wasn’t allowed outside to lie in the wet by his gate.

We left the door slightly ajar for the light and fresh air and he glared at us from underneath his table den.

Preparing the veg for our meal. The Spanish are obsessed with cutting green off veg. The shop woman asked me if I wanted the greens cutting off, and I said no. If I hadn’t wanted the green, I might as well have bought dried onions, and even if I didn’t want them, the chickens would eat it. Waste, waste, waste…….

As you do in Spain, we sat and watched the rain, waited for our food (bean casserole), and considered an early night in order. I’d got the salad prepared for supper – I’ve made that mistake before, going for a quick siesta after lunch and then sleeping through until goodness knows when, and totally missing out on supper.

When the shops re-opened at 5pm we decided to brave the rain, which was bucketing down by now, and go for some olive oil. I put on one of my many leaking Goretexes, and we grabbed our huge Gibtelecom umbrella for the five minute dash down the town.

Our luck was in at the super. Olive oil was on special offer at just over ten euros for five litres. When we first arrived (some ten years ago), the good stuff was around 15-17€ for five litres. Then the price steadily increased each season until it was around a disgraceful 25€ – apparently because of some problems with the olive harvest. Really? It wouldn’t have been because there was lots of money floating around at the time would it?

Now, it’s the cheapest I’ve ever known it. Clearly no problems with the olive harvest now there is no money. Good quality extra virgin olive oil is around 12-14€ for five litres, and if you time it right, it gets brought down to 10€ or so. I think we paid 10.40€ this weekend.

I do think top class olive oil is absolutely essential. Apart from the fact that it is pretty good for you, it’s also less rich and sickly than using butter, for example. I learned from Adelina not to skimp on it, so a healthy amount always gets chucked in whatever I am cooking. I also use it for making any roux-based sauces.

Olive oil duly bought, we ran back up the street, getting totally wet and giggling away like a pair of kids playing in the rain. We ate our meal, fell into bed – and the asparagus and salad greens were still in the fridge the morning after. Note, this turned out to be a bonus in disguise, as the asparagus is now providing salad pots this week.

It was a good thing it rained out on Saturday, because it was bright and clear on Sunday morning for the Romería. Once, in the years we have been here, it has been cancelled due to the rain. They try and leave it as late as possible before they cancel, but given the preparations to deck out the caravans, buy all the food and drink in, cancel work for those who work in the fields – it has to be cancelled on the Saturday. Even worse, then they have to reapply to hold the procession on another Sunday the same month that doesn’t clash with any other procession, festival or cycle race.

One interesting change I noticed this time was the difference in fashions. I thought those frilly frocks were always the same, but no, it seems even they go through changes.

When we first arrived, my neighbour and all her pals would dress up in those frocks with huge spots on them. Awful in design terms to me. There were far less spots in front of my eyes this time though. It seems spots have gone out of fashion. Interestingly there were more skirts as well. They were in the same style, tight over the hips and then flaring out (presumably so women can actually move in them) with the essential frills at the bottom.

My favourite was the one you can just see a glimpse of on the crossing here. An abstract-patterned skirt, with a pale top and a bright gold sash. Worn with a pair of flat brown boots. Very classy. Knocked spots off the spots.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Vertically challenged?

Not me, hardly at 5’9″ or is it 10″? Who cares.

Although there are times when being amazingly tall for your age and your height being commented on isn’t much fun. But apparently it is much worse for small persons. So I hear. I really have no interest.

But this post is not about my height. It is about buildings.

I have to thank two people for this post. One is my photographic tutor – Vicky - who introduced me to the concept of converging verticals. The other is my PITA Partner, who managed to leave the key to the job behind just when I was on the point of going back to bed. So I had to take it up to him. Not well pleased as I had even opened (and closed) the sandwich bar extremely early in order for the nice return to bed.

But 7.30am is a nice time to takey some piccies.

So enjoy the verticals….

Top of the Rock or top of the morning?

Inside of the newly revamped Governor’s Meadow estate. (Council housing to die for!!)

Oooooh look. You need to wear boots and hard hat and there is lots of safety netting!

Just a moody sultry piccy

Palm tree sentinel