All the tough macho builders on the firm stamped their tough macho feet and insisted they would not work on Saturday because it was Valentine’s Day. Awwww. Bless.
Not only that, but Partner finished early on Friday and announced he was taking Monday too as he was owed some lieu time. We decided to spend the weekend at the finca.
But on Saturday morning, it did not seem like an auspicious start.
The weather was cloudy and gloomy.
I woke up fretting about the smashed window and wondered whether it would shatter on the journey.
Partner mentioned that he had thought about boarding it up because he was worried about the Guardia Civil not letting us through the border. They have been known to turn people back with a cracked number plate so badly cracked glass could be a real loser depending on the officer and the day.
He went down to sort that out. The worst that could happen was that we would get turned round.
We packed up and he took the dog down. I did all the last-minute checks. I read a shitty email from someone which didn’t exactly help. When I got there he was fiddling about with the passenger door. The lock was playing up.
I began to think we were destined not to go. He sorted it. We set off and flew through the border.
As we travelled up the coast, the sun came out.
We arrived at the finca which looked really pretty with the winter jasmine coming into bloom and the margueritey type things in flower.
I checked the post. No bill from the electricity company as usual. I groaned. Another half day in the nearby town to sit around waiting to get a print out of the bill would be called for. I plugged in my router from Gib to see if it worked. It did – apart from the fact that it wouldn’t connect to the internet. By which I mean, it came on, the ethernet connection worked, the ADSL was working but could I hell reach the internet.
I cooked tea and went to bed frustrated.
On Sunday we had agreed to go cycling. This was A Big Event because I hadn’t been back on the bike since the Cat-Chasing Monster pulled me over two years ago and I damaged my arm/wrist/fingers. My grip was non-existent for ages and I couldn’t have changed gear or pull on the brakes to save my life (literally).
But it although it was sunny, it was also cold. We agreed to take the Cat-Chasing Monster for a walk down the beach instead.
By the time we got back the sun had warmed everything up and there was no wind. It was now – or who knew when.
I put on posh cycling gear complete with padded arse, on the principle that even if I couldn’t do the part I could at least look it.
Off we went, both wobbling down the street. No traffic at the crossroads fortunately as I wasn’t up to indicating. Shot round onto the old railroad track and bounced up and down.
“I’ve forgotten how to change gear,” I called.
“Just try and you’ll work it out.”
I did. The chainwheel came off.
We had an argument and put the chainwheel back.
“Don’t get ahead of me,” I said.
“OK,” he replied. And shot off, but waited for me at the bridge. At this point, I had managed to get enough balance to start indicating with left arm, and assertively moving into middle of road. Feeling good.
We followed a couple of very brown cyclists (from the nudist camp site at a guess) down the no-entry side road – de rigeur in Spain for cyclists.
“We’ll go to Trini’s,” I called to Partner.
He shot off again. He shot past Trini’s and into the distance. Where the hell was he going?
The veg shop that doesn’t open on Sundays? One of the bars? (not going in the direction of the one we had planned on going to). Down the promenade past the sailing club? Who knew.
I went wearily went down to the bar. Not there. I went back to Trini’s wondering if it had finally computed where we were meeting. Nope. Back to the bar – and then I saw him in front of me. I whistled a couple of times but he was clearly deaf to the world.
When I got to the roundabout he had disappeared again. Damn. I cycled down to the promenade to see if I could spot him. Pring pring went my phone. I pulled in and took it out of my back pocket (not being clever enough to continue cycling and carry out such a complicated manoeuvre).
It stopped ringing. I rang him back. No answer. I clicked the phone shut. Two missed calls. He’d rung me from each of his phones. I rang the second one. We finally made contact.
I looked round – couldn’t say anyone walking past with ‘British’ tattoed on their forehead that I might offend. I felt free to say what I thought.
“YOU STUPID FUCKING GIT!” I shouted. “I’ll see you at the bar. NOW.”
I shut the phone quickly as the excitement of so much activity was sure to deplete the battery. Sure enough, it started beeping, and the bateria baja sign came up.
We met at the bar and went off immediately to the correct veg shop, and then back to the bar to catch up on the latest gossip news. We spent a pleasant hour or so sitting in the sun and cycled happily back.
First outing in so long had gone well. I had that great rush that you get from exercise and didn’t feel particularly whacked. We sat on the terrace in the sun while I prepared lunch. After a siesta we had artichoke salad. I had used all the food up, and we had an early night.
In the morning, we packed up, tidied round, I pruned some of the overgrowing plants, showered – and locked up. Just before we left, the postie arrived with the missing electricity bill. A good end to the weekend. We had a super drive back and felt really chilled out after the break.