As our first Christmas on Mallorca approached, we thought back fondly to the wonderful butcher's shop in the village of Adderbury, where I'd lived for eleven years. Not only did Rob and his wife sell locally produced meat of a very high quality, they stocked lots of deli-type items and had even expanded their premises to provide a mini-supermarket offering general groceries. Their plump, flaky croissants – still warm from the special oven they'd installed – were a naughty treat. Our last Christmas in the UK we'd treated ourselves to a Kelly Bronze turkey from Rob's fine emporium. Cost a fortune. Tasted fantastic. Where would we find something that good on Mallorca?
We'd only seen turkeys here as frozen lumps of nobbliness in supermarket chest freezers, so we sought the advice of the butcher's stall in Manacor market. There, a cheerful chap wearing a jolly knitted hat, bottle-bottom specs and a big grin, explained that a fresh turkey would be no problem. He'd make a note of what we wanted and have it in by Christmas Eve. We'd turned to leave when, with a deadpan face, he called out a final question: did we want it dead or alive? We had a good laugh and, as it happened, a decent enough turkey for Christmas.
By the following Christmas we'd found Anype – a great little local butcher's shop, tucked away in a side street in Manacor – and they sold us a great turkey. Since then, we've been regular customers of Antonia and her husband Pedro, buying something most Saturdays, We're hardly their best customers: the locals seem to buy enormous quantities of meat, whereas we don't eat very much meat, but that's certainly not reflected in the way we're treated.
Each Christmas they've given us a small Anype-branded gift as a token of their appreciation. But what we've most valued have been all the laughs and great chats we've enjoyed with this couple - in spite of our less-than-perfect castellano (they usually speak only mallorquìn on a day-to-day basis).
But when we went in to order this year's turkey, there was bad news (for us and their many loyal customers): Antonia and Pedro are closing their shop on December 31, and retiring. Pedro is now 67 and, not surprisingly, ready to give up the long hours, hard work and chilly hands that are the lot of an old-fashioned butcher.
We collected our turkey and some of their delicious home-made sausages today, and delivered a Christmas card (the only one they had received since the locals don't tend to go in for these things). Both Antonia and I were a bit teary-eyed, even though we'll be back in the shop next week to stock up the freezer. And to ask where they'll be buying their meat in future . . .
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
GETTING INTO THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
The Christmas cake has been made and, after it's iced, nobody will notice that it's rather darker than it should be. Once again, the combined efforts of Delia (the recipe) and myself (the hard graft) have been thwarted by our rather useless Italian oven. With its smart brass fittings and matte finish, it looks good - but then so do many Italian things. The problem is that the thermostat doesn't work properly and the temperature goes up and down like a bride's nightie.
At least my homemade mincemeat looks and tastes rather fabulous (and I've had to taste it a few times to make sure). And so it should, with that much brandy and spiced rum in it. I even bought a small piece of festive fabric from a material shop in Manacor so that I could make kitsch little covers for the jar lids. Sorry . . . were you just dazzled by the sun reflecting off my halo?
Actually, cake and mincemeat aside, I've been struggling to feel festive. Several times I've sat down to write the Christmas cards and given up. It's because it's been a bit of a rough fortnight. We've both had colds and been hacking away like two people who chain-smoke Ducados (not an attractive sound). And Smokey, our Maine Coon cat, has been really poorly. He'd been having tests to determine why he was losing weight (despite a healthy appetite) when he too was laid low by a filthy cold. In the past fortnight we've been to the vet's nine times, during which he's had an ultrasound scan, various blood tests, some scarily expensive injections, and examinations. None of the visits has been less than an hour. At home, we've had to feed him hourly by syringe - he went completely off his food once the cold started - and give him various pills at different times of day. No wonder I'm behind with the ironing. Anyway, he's almost back to normal now and his weight loss problem has been solved.
So it was good to get out and visit Palma yesterday, for the 10th Ecumenical Christmas Carol Service in the city's beautiful cathedral. On Friday, the Christmas lights in the city had been officially switched on, so it was hard not to feel a frisson of Christmas spirit as we made our way through the streets. It was our fifth visit to this annual service, and I challenge anyone not to feel festive after singing a few carols, listening to the cathedral choir - Els Vermells de la Seu - and the talented little cuties in the Centre Stage Junior Chorus. Apart from the fact that some of the verses of traditional carols are sung in castellano or mallorquín (there seemed to be more words than available tune in some cases), and the inclusion of the Sibil-la, it has a rather British feel.
The Sibil-la is a chant dating back to the 10th century, traditionally sung before or during Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve - and Mallorca is now the only place where it's performed. The story of Judgement Day, it's sung unaccompanied by a lone chorister clad in oriental robes and holding aloft a rather heavy-looking sword. Between each verse there's a dramatic burst of music from the cathedral's magnificent organ. I'd sum it all up as hauntingly beautiful . . . and a bit long (plenty of time to reflect on one's own misdemeanours, I suppose).
For one small person, the service proved to be a bit too much. Just as the opening bars of "A Holly Jolly Christmas" were being played on the piano, an indignant voice (aged around three) piped up from a nearby pew: "Not another one!" The little boy's parents' faces were as red as the Centre Stage Juniors' sweaters, but the rest of us who heard it enjoyed a muffled giggle behind our order of service sheets.
I felt so festive when we arrived home, I had to start writing my Christmas cards - and have another spoonful of mincemeat. I think it's going to be fine . . .
At least my homemade mincemeat looks and tastes rather fabulous (and I've had to taste it a few times to make sure). And so it should, with that much brandy and spiced rum in it. I even bought a small piece of festive fabric from a material shop in Manacor so that I could make kitsch little covers for the jar lids. Sorry . . . were you just dazzled by the sun reflecting off my halo?
Actually, cake and mincemeat aside, I've been struggling to feel festive. Several times I've sat down to write the Christmas cards and given up. It's because it's been a bit of a rough fortnight. We've both had colds and been hacking away like two people who chain-smoke Ducados (not an attractive sound). And Smokey, our Maine Coon cat, has been really poorly. He'd been having tests to determine why he was losing weight (despite a healthy appetite) when he too was laid low by a filthy cold. In the past fortnight we've been to the vet's nine times, during which he's had an ultrasound scan, various blood tests, some scarily expensive injections, and examinations. None of the visits has been less than an hour. At home, we've had to feed him hourly by syringe - he went completely off his food once the cold started - and give him various pills at different times of day. No wonder I'm behind with the ironing. Anyway, he's almost back to normal now and his weight loss problem has been solved.
So it was good to get out and visit Palma yesterday, for the 10th Ecumenical Christmas Carol Service in the city's beautiful cathedral. On Friday, the Christmas lights in the city had been officially switched on, so it was hard not to feel a frisson of Christmas spirit as we made our way through the streets. It was our fifth visit to this annual service, and I challenge anyone not to feel festive after singing a few carols, listening to the cathedral choir - Els Vermells de la Seu - and the talented little cuties in the Centre Stage Junior Chorus. Apart from the fact that some of the verses of traditional carols are sung in castellano or mallorquín (there seemed to be more words than available tune in some cases), and the inclusion of the Sibil-la, it has a rather British feel.
The Sibil-la is a chant dating back to the 10th century, traditionally sung before or during Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve - and Mallorca is now the only place where it's performed. The story of Judgement Day, it's sung unaccompanied by a lone chorister clad in oriental robes and holding aloft a rather heavy-looking sword. Between each verse there's a dramatic burst of music from the cathedral's magnificent organ. I'd sum it all up as hauntingly beautiful . . . and a bit long (plenty of time to reflect on one's own misdemeanours, I suppose).
For one small person, the service proved to be a bit too much. Just as the opening bars of "A Holly Jolly Christmas" were being played on the piano, an indignant voice (aged around three) piped up from a nearby pew: "Not another one!" The little boy's parents' faces were as red as the Centre Stage Juniors' sweaters, but the rest of us who heard it enjoyed a muffled giggle behind our order of service sheets.
I felt so festive when we arrived home, I had to start writing my Christmas cards - and have another spoonful of mincemeat. I think it's going to be fine . . .
Thursday, November 27, 2008
COUNT US OUT, THANK YOU
At the beginning of November each year our local supermarket clears a space in a corner
and erects a temporary display stand: three shelves laden with 500 gm bags of paprika and balls of string in different colours. I remember being curious about these items when I spotted them during our first autumn here. Why did people buy such large bags of paprika? I use the spice fairly often in my own cooking, but a little jar of the stuff usually lasts ages. And the string? Something to do with the approaching festive season perhaps?
Of course, it wasn't long before I came to learn that these are essential items used in the annual event known as la matanza (or matança, in Catalan). November is the time when, traditionally, many rural folk here slaughter the portly pig that's been grazing contentedly most of the year in a field of fig trees.
It's when they invite family and friends to their homes to muck in and share the gory task of turning the deceased beast into sobrassada (a paprika-loaded pâté-type sausage), botifarró (another type of sausage) and cuts of pork for the coming winter months. And, of course, there's the obligatory feasting and fun afterwards. Not that I have personal experience of any of this, having never been to a matanza; frankly, it doesn't sound at all like my idea of a good time.
Since we moved here, kind Mallorcan neighbours have given us plants for the garden, and delicious fruit and vegetables in abundance. We've been invited to several homes for lunch or dinner and, amusingly, I was even once invited to a riotously noisy Tupperware party (of the 23 women there, I was the only foreigner).
But what we really, really don't want to receive from our generous neighbours - and it's why we keep a low profile in our valley in early November - is an invitation to a matanza . . . . no, gracias.
and erects a temporary display stand: three shelves laden with 500 gm bags of paprika and balls of string in different colours. I remember being curious about these items when I spotted them during our first autumn here. Why did people buy such large bags of paprika? I use the spice fairly often in my own cooking, but a little jar of the stuff usually lasts ages. And the string? Something to do with the approaching festive season perhaps?
Of course, it wasn't long before I came to learn that these are essential items used in the annual event known as la matanza (or matança, in Catalan). November is the time when, traditionally, many rural folk here slaughter the portly pig that's been grazing contentedly most of the year in a field of fig trees.
It's when they invite family and friends to their homes to muck in and share the gory task of turning the deceased beast into sobrassada (a paprika-loaded pâté-type sausage), botifarró (another type of sausage) and cuts of pork for the coming winter months. And, of course, there's the obligatory feasting and fun afterwards. Not that I have personal experience of any of this, having never been to a matanza; frankly, it doesn't sound at all like my idea of a good time.
Since we moved here, kind Mallorcan neighbours have given us plants for the garden, and delicious fruit and vegetables in abundance. We've been invited to several homes for lunch or dinner and, amusingly, I was even once invited to a riotously noisy Tupperware party (of the 23 women there, I was the only foreigner).
But what we really, really don't want to receive from our generous neighbours - and it's why we keep a low profile in our valley in early November - is an invitation to a matanza . . . . no, gracias.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
BURNING DESIRE
It's been a long time in the planning but, today, we've had our first bonfire for months. It's not that we've been too lazy to have one before now, or that the summers are too hot to stand by a blazing fire (although they certainly are). Lighting a fire outdoors here can only legally be done during a designated period because of the risk to forests and shrub land. But finding out when that period starts and ends can be somewhat challenging, as we discovered during our first year here.
Neighbours tried to be helpful but seemed a bit vague about the actual dates. We'd already fallen foul of the Manacor ayuntamiento by illegally building a small outhouse, so wanted to avoid any further visits from the police, delivering bad news from the authorities.
At the town hall, getting a definitive answer to our simple question about the dates of the bonfire exclusion period proved to be impossible. We were referred to department after department. Staff peered at us suspiciously - did we look like prospective arsonists? - then launched into a torrent of mallorquín with colleagues, before returning to us with a shrug and an apology . . . but no dates. We even asked a member of the Guardia Civil, who happened to be cruising through the valley one day as we were out on a walk.. He referred us to the town hall . . .
Since then, we've played it safe and, once the warm spring weather arrives, we leave our pile of cuttings, dead branches and other garden detritus to grow until after the first of the autumn storms. This year, our bonfire pile has grown spectacularly with the addition of the dilapidated wooden shutters which we replaced with new ones last year. The Boss has been itching to put a match to the thing.
Today that itch was scratched. As I sat working at my computer, he stood outside, swathed in billowing smoke, periodically poking at the blazing pile with a garden fork and indulging man's primeval instincts to create and control fire. Now, all that's left of the enormous pile of garden rubbish that was an eyesore all summer is a small pile of warm, grey ash. That and the faint whiff of smoke about The Boss's person. But at least he didn't accidentally set fire to the leg of his jeans this time . . .
Neighbours tried to be helpful but seemed a bit vague about the actual dates. We'd already fallen foul of the Manacor ayuntamiento by illegally building a small outhouse, so wanted to avoid any further visits from the police, delivering bad news from the authorities.
At the town hall, getting a definitive answer to our simple question about the dates of the bonfire exclusion period proved to be impossible. We were referred to department after department. Staff peered at us suspiciously - did we look like prospective arsonists? - then launched into a torrent of mallorquín with colleagues, before returning to us with a shrug and an apology . . . but no dates. We even asked a member of the Guardia Civil, who happened to be cruising through the valley one day as we were out on a walk.. He referred us to the town hall . . .
Since then, we've played it safe and, once the warm spring weather arrives, we leave our pile of cuttings, dead branches and other garden detritus to grow until after the first of the autumn storms. This year, our bonfire pile has grown spectacularly with the addition of the dilapidated wooden shutters which we replaced with new ones last year. The Boss has been itching to put a match to the thing.
Today that itch was scratched. As I sat working at my computer, he stood outside, swathed in billowing smoke, periodically poking at the blazing pile with a garden fork and indulging man's primeval instincts to create and control fire. Now, all that's left of the enormous pile of garden rubbish that was an eyesore all summer is a small pile of warm, grey ash. That and the faint whiff of smoke about The Boss's person. But at least he didn't accidentally set fire to the leg of his jeans this time . . .
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
SEASON OF DRIPS AND WELLIE BOOTFULNESS
For the past few days The Boss and I have been preparing the place for winter. We've moved everything - garden furniture and pots of plants - from the small back terrace to the more sheltered one at the front of the house.
In summer, our back terrace is the perfect retreat from the heat, with lovely cool breezes wafting up the valley. In winter, it gets no sunshine, is permanently damp (with an unattractive green film on the tiles) and is in the direct line of fire of any north wind whistling our way - and that wind can be mighty fierce. One night, we sat indoors on the sofa watching the French doors flinching in the chilly blast of gale-force winds. Expecting the doors to burst open at any moment, we hastily moved a piece of furniture up against them to act as ballast. Imagine what that kind of weather can do to a few pots of pelargoniums!
The wooden steamer chairs have been put away for the winter, along with the hammock in which I passed quite a few lazy hours reading and snoozing in the height of summer. And the BBQ has been wheeled away to a spot under cover. It all feels a little bit sad . . .
You've probably guessed that I'm not really an autumn person, which makes it somewhat ironic that the colours that suit me best are from the autumn palette! This is a time when we've probably seen the last of friends and family members coming to stay with us; we've had our last swim in the sea, and I've eaten my last fish finger lunch at our favourite beach café. (I'd never eat fish fingers at home, but for some reason they taste great by the sea.) It's a time when we get out the plastic buckets to catch the drips leaking through the roof into the sitting room (despite countless workmen climbing up there to try and fix the problem) and have to start using the generator more often to support our solar system.
But one thing compensates for all of this: it'll soon be time to light the wood-burning stove. In anticipation of cosy nights in front of the fire, the logs have been sorted and stacked and it'll take only a small drop in temperature for The Boss to whip out his box of matches. Soon the cats will be stretched out on the rug, basking in the heat of burning almond and olive wood.
Our first autumn here was chilly, damp and - without electricity - pretty uncomfortable. Memories of the super-efficient gas central heating system and inglenook fireplace we'd had back in the UK didn't help. So buying the wood-burner was probably the best investment we've made here.
And, as I discovered last year, it doesn't just heat the house. Tuck a couple of foil-wrapped potatoes inside, away from the flames, and about an hour later we can tuck into delicious steaming jacket spuds . . . and those are definitely something else that's great about autumn.
In summer, our back terrace is the perfect retreat from the heat, with lovely cool breezes wafting up the valley. In winter, it gets no sunshine, is permanently damp (with an unattractive green film on the tiles) and is in the direct line of fire of any north wind whistling our way - and that wind can be mighty fierce. One night, we sat indoors on the sofa watching the French doors flinching in the chilly blast of gale-force winds. Expecting the doors to burst open at any moment, we hastily moved a piece of furniture up against them to act as ballast. Imagine what that kind of weather can do to a few pots of pelargoniums!
The wooden steamer chairs have been put away for the winter, along with the hammock in which I passed quite a few lazy hours reading and snoozing in the height of summer. And the BBQ has been wheeled away to a spot under cover. It all feels a little bit sad . . .
You've probably guessed that I'm not really an autumn person, which makes it somewhat ironic that the colours that suit me best are from the autumn palette! This is a time when we've probably seen the last of friends and family members coming to stay with us; we've had our last swim in the sea, and I've eaten my last fish finger lunch at our favourite beach café. (I'd never eat fish fingers at home, but for some reason they taste great by the sea.) It's a time when we get out the plastic buckets to catch the drips leaking through the roof into the sitting room (despite countless workmen climbing up there to try and fix the problem) and have to start using the generator more often to support our solar system.
But one thing compensates for all of this: it'll soon be time to light the wood-burning stove. In anticipation of cosy nights in front of the fire, the logs have been sorted and stacked and it'll take only a small drop in temperature for The Boss to whip out his box of matches. Soon the cats will be stretched out on the rug, basking in the heat of burning almond and olive wood.
Our first autumn here was chilly, damp and - without electricity - pretty uncomfortable. Memories of the super-efficient gas central heating system and inglenook fireplace we'd had back in the UK didn't help. So buying the wood-burner was probably the best investment we've made here.
And, as I discovered last year, it doesn't just heat the house. Tuck a couple of foil-wrapped potatoes inside, away from the flames, and about an hour later we can tuck into delicious steaming jacket spuds . . . and those are definitely something else that's great about autumn.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
FEELING DRAINED . . .
One of the many repairs we hadn't expected to make – and so hadn't budgeted for – was to our water cisterna. What could go wrong with a basic concrete cube, with a hatch door on top for access and an outlet pipe on the side? It could leak, that's what.
The Boss noticed the thin but constant trickle of water running from a small crack in the side of the cisterna. He'd been out with the long-handled loppers, cutting back the wild olive shrubs that had encroached all over that side of the cisterna, when he spotted the tell-tale signs.
It wasn't a serious leak, but even a small loss of such a precious resource was too much. It was time for a visit to see Juan 1 (the owner) and Juan 2 (the foreman) of our friendly local building company. Juan 1 – a keen antiques collector, by the way – arrived to inspect the problem.
He wasn't surprised to see the crack, the trickle or the thin film of moss growing in the damp patch of concrete, guessing that the cisterna had probably been leaking for some time.
As with previous building problems (and there have been more than a few), we were offered two solutions: one expensive, the other less so. He could knock down the existing cisterna – the concrete block walls of which had weakened under the weight of regular 15,000 litre deliveries – and build us a smart new one. It sounded the ideal solution but would cost too much – as well as leave us without water for longer than we could bear. Alternatively, he could line the cisterna with a special kind of safe plastic paint which would seal the crack; this cheaper option would mean we'd be without water for less than 48 hours.
No contest. The date for the work was set and when it arrived, we reluctantly had to empty the cisterna. To give us at least some water over the next 48 hours, we first filled the bath, then every decent-sized receptacle we could find: saucepans, jugs, and watering cans full of water were stored in the guest bathroom. At least we'd be able to wash ourselves, the dishes, and have some for cooking and making hot drinks.
Next we gave the garden the best watering it had ever had (and were later rewarded with some particularly perky plants). A passing tortoise stopped to lap at one of the many pools of water forming in the garden and even drank from the end of the hose – a magical moment.
Time was running out and within half an hour of the scheduled arrival of the builders, water was still gushing out and turning our garden into a paddy field. At last, the job was finished, with just minutes to spare. We waited. And waited. Then, we received the phone call informing us that the builders had had to delay the job by a day.
Deep joy. An extra day of not being able to flush the loo . . .
The Boss noticed the thin but constant trickle of water running from a small crack in the side of the cisterna. He'd been out with the long-handled loppers, cutting back the wild olive shrubs that had encroached all over that side of the cisterna, when he spotted the tell-tale signs.
It wasn't a serious leak, but even a small loss of such a precious resource was too much. It was time for a visit to see Juan 1 (the owner) and Juan 2 (the foreman) of our friendly local building company. Juan 1 – a keen antiques collector, by the way – arrived to inspect the problem.
He wasn't surprised to see the crack, the trickle or the thin film of moss growing in the damp patch of concrete, guessing that the cisterna had probably been leaking for some time.
As with previous building problems (and there have been more than a few), we were offered two solutions: one expensive, the other less so. He could knock down the existing cisterna – the concrete block walls of which had weakened under the weight of regular 15,000 litre deliveries – and build us a smart new one. It sounded the ideal solution but would cost too much – as well as leave us without water for longer than we could bear. Alternatively, he could line the cisterna with a special kind of safe plastic paint which would seal the crack; this cheaper option would mean we'd be without water for less than 48 hours.
No contest. The date for the work was set and when it arrived, we reluctantly had to empty the cisterna. To give us at least some water over the next 48 hours, we first filled the bath, then every decent-sized receptacle we could find: saucepans, jugs, and watering cans full of water were stored in the guest bathroom. At least we'd be able to wash ourselves, the dishes, and have some for cooking and making hot drinks.
Next we gave the garden the best watering it had ever had (and were later rewarded with some particularly perky plants). A passing tortoise stopped to lap at one of the many pools of water forming in the garden and even drank from the end of the hose – a magical moment.
Time was running out and within half an hour of the scheduled arrival of the builders, water was still gushing out and turning our garden into a paddy field. At last, the job was finished, with just minutes to spare. We waited. And waited. Then, we received the phone call informing us that the builders had had to delay the job by a day.
Deep joy. An extra day of not being able to flush the loo . . .
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
TAP TURNS ON THE WATER . . .
Until moving abroad to live in a finca in rural Mallorca, I took it for granted that water came out of the tap if I turned it on. But it's a very different matter here in the country, where there's no mains water and we have to buy our supply by the tanker-load (15,000 litres at a time).
When we need a top-up, we ring Jaume (our local water supplier) to request a delivery. He doesn't seem like a man who really enjoys his job, despite the fact that, whatever the time of day, the background noises suggest that he's in a bar - probably not drinking water. We're never quite sure whether or not he's going to arrive because his only response is to grunt and hang up. Clearly not a graduate of the academy of telecommunications skills . . .
Without fail, though, Jaume arrives in his large white tanker and stops in the lane alongside our cisterna - the rather unsightly large concrete cube which houses our water supply. Next he unravels the vehicle's mighty elephant trunk-like hose and yanks it into the gaping mouth of the cisterna to begin the job of transferring the water. It takes up to 15 minutes from start to finish and blocks the narrow lane to all traffic for that time. Hours can go by without a vehicle using this lane, so why does he always arrive just as our mallorquin neighbours are leaving for work, thus delaying their journey?
Thus replenished, the cisterna feeds the house with water - courtesy of gravity, an electric water pump and several metres of black tubing. A bamboo pole is the essential tool for the weekly task of measuring how much remains in the cisterna. When the water reaches only as far as the little red paint splodge on the pole, it's time for another meaningful conversation with 'The Water-Bored' . . .
Jan Edwards Copyright 2008
When we need a top-up, we ring Jaume (our local water supplier) to request a delivery. He doesn't seem like a man who really enjoys his job, despite the fact that, whatever the time of day, the background noises suggest that he's in a bar - probably not drinking water. We're never quite sure whether or not he's going to arrive because his only response is to grunt and hang up. Clearly not a graduate of the academy of telecommunications skills . . .
Without fail, though, Jaume arrives in his large white tanker and stops in the lane alongside our cisterna - the rather unsightly large concrete cube which houses our water supply. Next he unravels the vehicle's mighty elephant trunk-like hose and yanks it into the gaping mouth of the cisterna to begin the job of transferring the water. It takes up to 15 minutes from start to finish and blocks the narrow lane to all traffic for that time. Hours can go by without a vehicle using this lane, so why does he always arrive just as our mallorquin neighbours are leaving for work, thus delaying their journey?
Thus replenished, the cisterna feeds the house with water - courtesy of gravity, an electric water pump and several metres of black tubing. A bamboo pole is the essential tool for the weekly task of measuring how much remains in the cisterna. When the water reaches only as far as the little red paint splodge on the pole, it's time for another meaningful conversation with 'The Water-Bored' . . .
Jan Edwards Copyright 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
ALL ABOARD!
There's a new tourist attraction on Mallorca – and we seem to be it. Of course, I don't mean us as individuals, but the rural valley in which we live. It all began in the spring, with the occasional appearance of a tourist-packed orange minibus, being driven slowly down the lane that abuts one of the borders of our land. There's a point on this lane where these minibuses slow down to drink in the views over our property and down in the distance to Llorenzo's farm on the valley floor.
Over the summer, the frequency of the minibus appearances increased – to the extent that they became daily and, on some days, there were two of them travelling in convoy. Even this week, with autumn rains lashing down, at least one bus has come by each day. We could set our watches by their arrival; we've usually been sitting outside having a coffee break at the time. It's been a bit like being in a goldfish bowl ("Ooh, look, people!"), but we've usually given a cheery wave in their direction. Such precise time-keeping surely means these excursions are for German visitors.
But what exactly do they come to see? I'm curious to know how much tourists have to pay for these trips and how they're pitched to them: "Having trouble sleeping? Come and count sheep!"; "A trip into the valley that time forgot"; "A magical mystery tour" or "Discover The Real Mallorca". Surely it's not the latter, as rural tourism's hardly something new . . .
This is a lovely picturesque valley, but I just hope these folks feel they're getting value for their holiday euros. Does the experience of journeying through our narrow country lanes, noses pressed eagerly against the minibus windows, as they pass tumbledown stone walls, fields full of asphodels and hobbled sheep, and the occasional finca, meet their expectations of the trip? There isn't even a traditional local restaurant serving frit mallorquí or a cup of coffee . . .
Perhaps next year we should erect one of those mirador signs for keen photographers, and set up a roadside stall selling drinks and snacks? Could be a nice little earner – but not half as lucrative as selling minibus excursions.
Jan Edwards ©2008
Over the summer, the frequency of the minibus appearances increased – to the extent that they became daily and, on some days, there were two of them travelling in convoy. Even this week, with autumn rains lashing down, at least one bus has come by each day. We could set our watches by their arrival; we've usually been sitting outside having a coffee break at the time. It's been a bit like being in a goldfish bowl ("Ooh, look, people!"), but we've usually given a cheery wave in their direction. Such precise time-keeping surely means these excursions are for German visitors.
But what exactly do they come to see? I'm curious to know how much tourists have to pay for these trips and how they're pitched to them: "Having trouble sleeping? Come and count sheep!"; "A trip into the valley that time forgot"; "A magical mystery tour" or "Discover The Real Mallorca". Surely it's not the latter, as rural tourism's hardly something new . . .
This is a lovely picturesque valley, but I just hope these folks feel they're getting value for their holiday euros. Does the experience of journeying through our narrow country lanes, noses pressed eagerly against the minibus windows, as they pass tumbledown stone walls, fields full of asphodels and hobbled sheep, and the occasional finca, meet their expectations of the trip? There isn't even a traditional local restaurant serving frit mallorquí or a cup of coffee . . .
Perhaps next year we should erect one of those mirador signs for keen photographers, and set up a roadside stall selling drinks and snacks? Could be a nice little earner – but not half as lucrative as selling minibus excursions.
Jan Edwards ©2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
I ♥ SEPTEMBER
September is probably my favourite month on Mallorca. The searing heat of August is over – usually washed away by the first storm after summer – and life gets back to normal. Like returning to school or college, there's a feeling of a new beginning.
In July and August, many businesses in Manacor (our nearest town), close at lunchtime for the rest of the day. September sees the return of afternoon trading hours, so we can once again choose which end of the day we want to shop or do other chores in town. Even after five summers here, it's still a bit frustrating that there's a mass shut-down at lunchtime – though who can blame the locals for heading for the beach in such heat?
Manual labour outdoors isn't on my agenda in the height of summer. One job that's impossible is decorating: once the temperature hits 25 degrees, gloss paint turns into something akin to liquid tar.
Come September - after a long break from DIY - I'm champing at the bit to begin the sanding, painting and varnishing necessary to prepare our sun-scorched persianas (slatted shutters) for the ravages of winter. We have a lot of weather in this part of Mallorca . . .
When we're not working on the finca, September's social calendar is pretty rich. A favourite is the Nit de l'Art in Palma – a celebration of art in the city's galleries and streets. Palma has more art galleries in relation to population size than any other city in Spain, so it's a full evening of browsing, partying and people-watching. And the last weekend of the month sees September out in fine style, with the wine festival in Binissalem. Another souvenir wine-tasting glass for the collection . . .
As the September days shorten, my early morning walks don't need to be quite so early, so I can linger in bed for another quarter of an hour and still enjoy the new day's freshness before the sun pops over the side of the valley to warm things up.
September also brings a brief ornithological treat to our valley: the bee-eaters spend a few days checking out the local scene (but not eating bees, apparently). We're always stupidly excited when we hear their distinctive calls, and rush outside with the binoculars in hope of a sighting. Their exotically colourful plumage, gliding and swooping add up to a fantastic flying display. Within days, they're off, until this time next year.
And finally, September is when my Dad always has the second of his two holidays a year with us. Before we moved to Mallorca, he'd never holidayed on the island; now he's been out nine times and has come to love the place and its warm and hospitable people almost as much as I do. And
September's weather here is much better than in the UK!
In July and August, many businesses in Manacor (our nearest town), close at lunchtime for the rest of the day. September sees the return of afternoon trading hours, so we can once again choose which end of the day we want to shop or do other chores in town. Even after five summers here, it's still a bit frustrating that there's a mass shut-down at lunchtime – though who can blame the locals for heading for the beach in such heat?
Manual labour outdoors isn't on my agenda in the height of summer. One job that's impossible is decorating: once the temperature hits 25 degrees, gloss paint turns into something akin to liquid tar.
Come September - after a long break from DIY - I'm champing at the bit to begin the sanding, painting and varnishing necessary to prepare our sun-scorched persianas (slatted shutters) for the ravages of winter. We have a lot of weather in this part of Mallorca . . .
When we're not working on the finca, September's social calendar is pretty rich. A favourite is the Nit de l'Art in Palma – a celebration of art in the city's galleries and streets. Palma has more art galleries in relation to population size than any other city in Spain, so it's a full evening of browsing, partying and people-watching. And the last weekend of the month sees September out in fine style, with the wine festival in Binissalem. Another souvenir wine-tasting glass for the collection . . .
As the September days shorten, my early morning walks don't need to be quite so early, so I can linger in bed for another quarter of an hour and still enjoy the new day's freshness before the sun pops over the side of the valley to warm things up.
September also brings a brief ornithological treat to our valley: the bee-eaters spend a few days checking out the local scene (but not eating bees, apparently). We're always stupidly excited when we hear their distinctive calls, and rush outside with the binoculars in hope of a sighting. Their exotically colourful plumage, gliding and swooping add up to a fantastic flying display. Within days, they're off, until this time next year.
And finally, September is when my Dad always has the second of his two holidays a year with us. Before we moved to Mallorca, he'd never holidayed on the island; now he's been out nine times and has come to love the place and its warm and hospitable people almost as much as I do. And
September's weather here is much better than in the UK!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
HOLIDAY DREAMS
It had dawned on me that we hadn't had a proper foreign holiday – one with relaxation, pool, great food, no cooking, and drinks in glasses accessorised with paper umbrellas – since 2002. I started dreaming (day and night) about being on holiday: I was back at Le Maquis, a small but very special hotel in Porticcio on Corsica, where we once had a fabulously relaxing time and ate way too much. I'd be nose-deep in a Michael Crichton (book, of course), parked on a lounger by the sparkling swimming pool and sipping at a cool drink brought to me by a smartly-uniformed waiter. Dream on . . .
As well as coming to stay with us on Mallorca, several of our recent visitors have been holidaying in more exotic places like Australia, Japan and the States, and regaled us with tempting travellers' tales. But when I mentioned my need for a holiday to one couple, I had a fairly typical response: “You're permanently on holiday - and you live on Mallorca!”
Excuse me?! Permanently on holiday? We live in an old finca and, believe me, it's no holiday. There's always a list of jobs to be done when you have an old house with a lot of land. Just keeping the window shutters in decent repair is one of those jobs like painting the Forth Bridge – you never actually finish it. Why is it that some people imagine that our days are spent sightseeing, enjoying long lunches in glitzy waterside eateries, and lazing around on one of the island's many beautiful beaches? If only . . .
We also spend quite a bit of time looking after friends and family members who come to stay with us on a holiday or short break. It's something we really love doing but, to make sure everyone has a great stay, calls for a fair flurry of activity in the housework/shopping/catering/entertaining departments.
Sadly, our budget and a few other factors mean a "proper" holiday isn't possible, but The Boss recently celebrated An Important Birthday, and it was the perfect excuse to slip away for a couple of nights and pretend to be holidaymakers.
Our trip took us to Cala Rajada in the north-east of the island. It's only a 25 minute drive from our finca (close enough for me to be able to return each day to feed/water/cuddle the two cats; there are no decent catteries near Manacor) but we'd only visited twice before, so it was a bit of a voyage of discovery.
We stayed at The Sea Club, a unique place that's rather like chilling out in the colonial-style seaside home of British friends. It's relaxing, comfortable, totally unstuffy, has a fascinating history (Sean Connery's stayed there) and there are no smart uniforms to make you feel underdressed when you're slopping around in your swimmies or shorts. Want a drink? If there's nobody behind the bar, you help yourself and write what you've had in the honesty book!
It wasn't the 5-star hotel I'd been dreaming about, but it was every bit as enjoyable and had two great advantages over the Corsican holiday: one, we didn't have to go through all the hassle of flying home afterwards and, two, it's close enough that we can return for the odd night when we've saved up some more dosh. Time to crack on with the freelance writing . . .
Jan Edwards ©2008
As well as coming to stay with us on Mallorca, several of our recent visitors have been holidaying in more exotic places like Australia, Japan and the States, and regaled us with tempting travellers' tales. But when I mentioned my need for a holiday to one couple, I had a fairly typical response: “You're permanently on holiday - and you live on Mallorca!”
Excuse me?! Permanently on holiday? We live in an old finca and, believe me, it's no holiday. There's always a list of jobs to be done when you have an old house with a lot of land. Just keeping the window shutters in decent repair is one of those jobs like painting the Forth Bridge – you never actually finish it. Why is it that some people imagine that our days are spent sightseeing, enjoying long lunches in glitzy waterside eateries, and lazing around on one of the island's many beautiful beaches? If only . . .
We also spend quite a bit of time looking after friends and family members who come to stay with us on a holiday or short break. It's something we really love doing but, to make sure everyone has a great stay, calls for a fair flurry of activity in the housework/shopping/catering/entertaining departments.
Sadly, our budget and a few other factors mean a "proper" holiday isn't possible, but The Boss recently celebrated An Important Birthday, and it was the perfect excuse to slip away for a couple of nights and pretend to be holidaymakers.
Our trip took us to Cala Rajada in the north-east of the island. It's only a 25 minute drive from our finca (close enough for me to be able to return each day to feed/water/cuddle the two cats; there are no decent catteries near Manacor) but we'd only visited twice before, so it was a bit of a voyage of discovery.
We stayed at The Sea Club, a unique place that's rather like chilling out in the colonial-style seaside home of British friends. It's relaxing, comfortable, totally unstuffy, has a fascinating history (Sean Connery's stayed there) and there are no smart uniforms to make you feel underdressed when you're slopping around in your swimmies or shorts. Want a drink? If there's nobody behind the bar, you help yourself and write what you've had in the honesty book!
It wasn't the 5-star hotel I'd been dreaming about, but it was every bit as enjoyable and had two great advantages over the Corsican holiday: one, we didn't have to go through all the hassle of flying home afterwards and, two, it's close enough that we can return for the odd night when we've saved up some more dosh. Time to crack on with the freelance writing . . .
Jan Edwards ©2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
JUST CALL ME TROLLEY DOLLY
Before we moved to Mallorca, all our food shopping was done at the local Sainsbury's. One clean sweep through the aisles on a Saturday morning and we were sorted until the next weekend. Working long hours at the Beeb during the week, I didn't want to spend my Saturdays scouring markets or individual food shops for the weekly necessities.
Since moving to the island, though, we've discovered the pleasure of buying our fresh produce in the small shops and market in our nearest town, Manacor. We've found an excellent butcher, the best bakery for ensaïmadas and delicious wholemeal croissants, and know where to buy the most succulent prawns. We potter around the market staking out the fresh fruit and vegetables (most of which are locally grown) and generally have a jolly time, bantering with the traders in our version of Spanish.
As our Saturday morning shopping trip progresses, The Boss begins to take on the appearance of an overburdened donkey (minus the hairy ears), with bulging straw baskets hanging from each shoulder. Being a true gentleman, he refuses to let me share the load, but always has a whinge about having to carry the stuff. But his reaction when I suggested a possible solution? No way was he going to use one of those shopping trolley things.
Granted, I wouldn't personally have been seen with one on the streets of Oxfordshire - even if I'd been heavily disguised - but I look around any Mallorcan town or village and there are plenty of women (and men) of all ages using them. There's no apparent stigma to them here - and why should there be when they make shopping easier and less tiring? In fact, they could almost be seen as something of a status symbol - saying far more about you than a clutch of splitting Mercadona carrier bags. And, on that note, they're also better for the environment! (See my chum Vicki's blog Married With Children Mallorca for her stance on plastic carrier bags).
Like cars, there's a range to suit all tastes and budgets: choice of fabrics; two or four-wheeled; some with brakes; some with optional thermal side pockets - perfect when shopping for fish or a secret stash of Magnums.
Perhaps the Rolls Royce of shopping trolleys is the Rolser. Say it quickly and "Mine's a Rolser" has something of a ring about it, don't you think? Unlike cars, you don't need a licence, though experience suggests that some trolley-owning folks could use a few 'driving' lessons.
So, in the interests of becoming more like Mallorcans, we might just invest in a shopping trolley.
Clear a path . . . coming through!
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Since moving to the island, though, we've discovered the pleasure of buying our fresh produce in the small shops and market in our nearest town, Manacor. We've found an excellent butcher, the best bakery for ensaïmadas and delicious wholemeal croissants, and know where to buy the most succulent prawns. We potter around the market staking out the fresh fruit and vegetables (most of which are locally grown) and generally have a jolly time, bantering with the traders in our version of Spanish.
As our Saturday morning shopping trip progresses, The Boss begins to take on the appearance of an overburdened donkey (minus the hairy ears), with bulging straw baskets hanging from each shoulder. Being a true gentleman, he refuses to let me share the load, but always has a whinge about having to carry the stuff. But his reaction when I suggested a possible solution? No way was he going to use one of those shopping trolley things.
Granted, I wouldn't personally have been seen with one on the streets of Oxfordshire - even if I'd been heavily disguised - but I look around any Mallorcan town or village and there are plenty of women (and men) of all ages using them. There's no apparent stigma to them here - and why should there be when they make shopping easier and less tiring? In fact, they could almost be seen as something of a status symbol - saying far more about you than a clutch of splitting Mercadona carrier bags. And, on that note, they're also better for the environment! (See my chum Vicki's blog Married With Children Mallorca for her stance on plastic carrier bags).
Like cars, there's a range to suit all tastes and budgets: choice of fabrics; two or four-wheeled; some with brakes; some with optional thermal side pockets - perfect when shopping for fish or a secret stash of Magnums.
Perhaps the Rolls Royce of shopping trolleys is the Rolser. Say it quickly and "Mine's a Rolser" has something of a ring about it, don't you think? Unlike cars, you don't need a licence, though experience suggests that some trolley-owning folks could use a few 'driving' lessons.
So, in the interests of becoming more like Mallorcans, we might just invest in a shopping trolley.
Clear a path . . . coming through!
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
DONE AND DUSTED
Are you looking for a way to be happier? Well, I've recently read something very interesting: apparently researchers at University College London have found that just 20 minutes of housework a week reduces stress and lifts one's spirits.
Now, I haven't seen the research – and I've got far too much housework to do to investigate further – but what I've read has made me think.
For a start, it suggests to me that, in general, people are now doing less than 20 minutes of housework a week – otherwise the findings wouldn't really be relevant to many people. It seems such a small amount of time compared to the hours I spend trying to keep our finca clean and tidy.
It's not that I'm a domestic goddess, who likes nothing better than buffing her mirrors or sweeping dust bunnies out from under the bed (although I doubt a real domestic goddess would have let things get that bad down there); it's simply that living in an old finca in the Mallorcan countryside is rather housework-intensive.
Dust is the demon here. In the winter, our woodburning stove is mainly to blame. Just bringing the log basket in usually leaves a trail of shredded bark, insects, moss etc on the floor and then there's the carrying out of the ashes every morning. If we're really lucky when we open the outside door, the wind doesn't blast the ashes out of the pan and all over the room. We're not often that lucky.
But come the spring and summer, when the stove is cold and doors and windows flung open, there's another challenge in keeping the place tidy: the detritus blown in by the strong winds that usually whip through our valley. In July and August, when the ground is parched, clouds of dust - as well as the usual dead leaves and bits of twig - often accompany us in from the garden.
And don't get me started on those strange terracotta ceiling tiles that grace these old fincas. Until The Boss got up there with a ladder and pot of filler, the gaps between some of them in our guest bathroom ceiling were so large that all manner of bugs – both dead and alive – regularly fell through from the space between the roof tiles and ceiling, littering the bathroom floor.
Our two long-haired cats make their own contribution to my domestic duties. They were the same in the UK, but the hairs didn't show on the carpet like they do on tiled floors! Minstral, our Birman, is so furry that clouds of fine white hairs waft in his wake as he walks. And isn't clearing up furballs fun? Just as well that I love them . . . the cats, not the furballs.
I've just realised that I could have mopped the floor and dusted the dining room in the time I've taken to write this, but do I care?
No. Reducing my housework to just 20 minutes a week is definitely going to lift my spirits.
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Now, I haven't seen the research – and I've got far too much housework to do to investigate further – but what I've read has made me think.
For a start, it suggests to me that, in general, people are now doing less than 20 minutes of housework a week – otherwise the findings wouldn't really be relevant to many people. It seems such a small amount of time compared to the hours I spend trying to keep our finca clean and tidy.
It's not that I'm a domestic goddess, who likes nothing better than buffing her mirrors or sweeping dust bunnies out from under the bed (although I doubt a real domestic goddess would have let things get that bad down there); it's simply that living in an old finca in the Mallorcan countryside is rather housework-intensive.
Dust is the demon here. In the winter, our woodburning stove is mainly to blame. Just bringing the log basket in usually leaves a trail of shredded bark, insects, moss etc on the floor and then there's the carrying out of the ashes every morning. If we're really lucky when we open the outside door, the wind doesn't blast the ashes out of the pan and all over the room. We're not often that lucky.
But come the spring and summer, when the stove is cold and doors and windows flung open, there's another challenge in keeping the place tidy: the detritus blown in by the strong winds that usually whip through our valley. In July and August, when the ground is parched, clouds of dust - as well as the usual dead leaves and bits of twig - often accompany us in from the garden.
And don't get me started on those strange terracotta ceiling tiles that grace these old fincas. Until The Boss got up there with a ladder and pot of filler, the gaps between some of them in our guest bathroom ceiling were so large that all manner of bugs – both dead and alive – regularly fell through from the space between the roof tiles and ceiling, littering the bathroom floor.
Our two long-haired cats make their own contribution to my domestic duties. They were the same in the UK, but the hairs didn't show on the carpet like they do on tiled floors! Minstral, our Birman, is so furry that clouds of fine white hairs waft in his wake as he walks. And isn't clearing up furballs fun? Just as well that I love them . . . the cats, not the furballs.
I've just realised that I could have mopped the floor and dusted the dining room in the time I've taken to write this, but do I care?
No. Reducing my housework to just 20 minutes a week is definitely going to lift my spirits.
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
SEEING STARS AND NOT A CELEB IN SIGHT
Our first night of living on Mallorca wasn't quite as relaxing as we'd hoped, but it was a revelation.
At around 3.30am, I heard The Boss up and about, stumbling around in the dark. He'd been woken by an acrid burning smell drifting through the house from the kitchen. As this room contained only a sink, small cupboard, ancient gas stove (dubbed 'The Dragon' for the obvious flame-throwing reason) and gas fridge/freezer, it didn't take long to trace the source of the smell.
We threw open every window and door and went outside to gulp down some fresh night air – which was when I noticed the most incredible sky: inky black and freckled with a million stars. The last time I'd seen anything like it in the UK it had been several degrees below freezing!
Living somewhere with little light pollution enables us to enjoy gorgeous night skies – and tonight's should be rather special.
One of Mother Nature's spectacular treats – the Perseids meteor shower (also known as "The Tears of St Lawrence") – happens every August, when the Earth passes close to the Swift-Tuttle comet's orbit. Its debris enters our atmosphere, at around 60 kilometres a second, appearing as streaks of light flashing across the skies - commonly known as shooting or falling stars.
The optimum time for Perseids-watching – assuming there are no clouds – is in the early hours of tomorrow morning (Tuesday 12) and if you want to catch the best of the action, you'll need to be skygazing in the middle of the night – anytime between midnight and pre-dawn.
The lights of any local night club/all-night petrol station/fast food joint are going to be a nuisance in your shooting star-spotting, so head for somewhere less light-polluted and look north-east.
Our baptism into Perseids-watching saw us get out of bed at 3am, grab a cup of coffee and a blanket (to keep out the dew) and flop onto the loungers on our terrace. (Note: mosquito spray would have been a good idea). Scanning the skies we saw shooting star after shooting star. Amazing.
You don't need binoculars to view the Perseids, but if you're clever with a camera it's worth trying to capture some of the spectacle if you can.
If tonight's out of the question for you, or – as last year in our part of Mallorca – the sky is shrouded in cloud, it should also be possible to spot the Perseids over the next few nights.
Have a heavenly night!
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
At around 3.30am, I heard The Boss up and about, stumbling around in the dark. He'd been woken by an acrid burning smell drifting through the house from the kitchen. As this room contained only a sink, small cupboard, ancient gas stove (dubbed 'The Dragon' for the obvious flame-throwing reason) and gas fridge/freezer, it didn't take long to trace the source of the smell.
We threw open every window and door and went outside to gulp down some fresh night air – which was when I noticed the most incredible sky: inky black and freckled with a million stars. The last time I'd seen anything like it in the UK it had been several degrees below freezing!
Living somewhere with little light pollution enables us to enjoy gorgeous night skies – and tonight's should be rather special.
One of Mother Nature's spectacular treats – the Perseids meteor shower (also known as "The Tears of St Lawrence") – happens every August, when the Earth passes close to the Swift-Tuttle comet's orbit. Its debris enters our atmosphere, at around 60 kilometres a second, appearing as streaks of light flashing across the skies - commonly known as shooting or falling stars.
The optimum time for Perseids-watching – assuming there are no clouds – is in the early hours of tomorrow morning (Tuesday 12) and if you want to catch the best of the action, you'll need to be skygazing in the middle of the night – anytime between midnight and pre-dawn.
The lights of any local night club/all-night petrol station/fast food joint are going to be a nuisance in your shooting star-spotting, so head for somewhere less light-polluted and look north-east.
Our baptism into Perseids-watching saw us get out of bed at 3am, grab a cup of coffee and a blanket (to keep out the dew) and flop onto the loungers on our terrace. (Note: mosquito spray would have been a good idea). Scanning the skies we saw shooting star after shooting star. Amazing.
You don't need binoculars to view the Perseids, but if you're clever with a camera it's worth trying to capture some of the spectacle if you can.
If tonight's out of the question for you, or – as last year in our part of Mallorca – the sky is shrouded in cloud, it should also be possible to spot the Perseids over the next few nights.
Have a heavenly night!
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
WHO´S FOR JULIO?
Budgetary constraints mean that we have to choose carefully when planning our culture fixes here on Mallorca. I'd love to have seen the performances of George Benson, Bonnie Tyler and Al Jarreau during their visits to the island, but sadly there's a limit to how much we can spend on nights out (doing up an old finca is a costly business). It's a far cry from my old radio days in the UK, when I was often given free tickets to gigs and the theatre. But we do splash the cash from time to time: Van Morrison, Joe Cocker, and Simply Red were all absolutely brilliant and worth every centimo..
We're lucky to get some great acts appearing here. In fact, for a certain sector of music lovers, there's a huge treat in store: Julio Iglesias is performing at the Auditorium in Palma for one night, and one night only, as part of a worldwide tour celebrating the legendary Latino's 40 years in the biz. Now I'm not exactly a huge Julio fan – his son Enrique is more my glass of Sangria – but I do respect his achievements as a performer. But I wouldn't – and couldn't – pay 500 or 750 euros for a ticket to see him!
Yes, you read correctly: 500 or 750 euros. Have the organisers not heard of la crisis, the Spanish buzzword for the current economic downturn? Who's going to buy these tickets?
The delightful Spanish Royal family is currently on the island enjoying some time at their holiday home, the Palacio Marivent, and might want to see Spain's best-known singer in action. But would they have to pay for their tickets?
So the audience for this concert seems set to be the wealthy and privileged – and predominantly female. Julio will be 65 next month but, like a lot of men, seems to have become better looking with age. He's clearly lost none of the appeal he had when he was younger and a renowned babe magnet.
Do women throw their knickers at Julio on stage, as they do at Tom Jones's concerts? If so, with ticket prices so high, you can bet there won't be any baggy, off-white pairs from a high street chain store whizzing in Julio's direction. Nothing less than La Perla for the King of Crooners!
Julio Iglesias is undoubtedly the most successful Latin singer in musical history, but if The Boss and I were suddenly to have a one thousand euro windfall, which would it be? Two tickets in the cheap seats for His Julioness? Or the following fixtures for our finca (coming in at roughly the same price):
- new loo seat to replace the cracked one in our shower room
- replacement shutters for several windows
- installation of an insect screen or two
- wall tiles above the kitchen worktops and sink (at last)
Sadly, it's no contest. Pass the tile-cutter.
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
We're lucky to get some great acts appearing here. In fact, for a certain sector of music lovers, there's a huge treat in store: Julio Iglesias is performing at the Auditorium in Palma for one night, and one night only, as part of a worldwide tour celebrating the legendary Latino's 40 years in the biz. Now I'm not exactly a huge Julio fan – his son Enrique is more my glass of Sangria – but I do respect his achievements as a performer. But I wouldn't – and couldn't – pay 500 or 750 euros for a ticket to see him!
Yes, you read correctly: 500 or 750 euros. Have the organisers not heard of la crisis, the Spanish buzzword for the current economic downturn? Who's going to buy these tickets?
The delightful Spanish Royal family is currently on the island enjoying some time at their holiday home, the Palacio Marivent, and might want to see Spain's best-known singer in action. But would they have to pay for their tickets?
So the audience for this concert seems set to be the wealthy and privileged – and predominantly female. Julio will be 65 next month but, like a lot of men, seems to have become better looking with age. He's clearly lost none of the appeal he had when he was younger and a renowned babe magnet.
Do women throw their knickers at Julio on stage, as they do at Tom Jones's concerts? If so, with ticket prices so high, you can bet there won't be any baggy, off-white pairs from a high street chain store whizzing in Julio's direction. Nothing less than La Perla for the King of Crooners!
Julio Iglesias is undoubtedly the most successful Latin singer in musical history, but if The Boss and I were suddenly to have a one thousand euro windfall, which would it be? Two tickets in the cheap seats for His Julioness? Or the following fixtures for our finca (coming in at roughly the same price):
- new loo seat to replace the cracked one in our shower room
- replacement shutters for several windows
- installation of an insect screen or two
- wall tiles above the kitchen worktops and sink (at last)
Sadly, it's no contest. Pass the tile-cutter.
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
TICKS AND THE GRITTY
It didn't take too long for us to realise that our initial dreams of growing citrus fruit trees and vegetables were not going to materialise.
Having dealt with the back field full of asphodels, using The Boss's new "toy" - a brushcutter - we had to face the stark truth. Our soil was not only gritty and of very poor quality, there wasn't much of it. Having barely breached the earth's surface with a garden fork, we hit rock. At that point, we decided to abandon the field for the time being and concentrate on another, smaller part of our land, where the soil is all of an inch or two deeper, with the aim of doing some serious weeding and planting a couple of agaves we'd been given by a neighbour.
The majority of our land is pretty much useless for cultivation purposes; what was once a valley with a decent number of fruit trees had been left untended for so long that nature had reclaimed it, suffocating the fruit trees with wild olives, wild broom and . . . well, plain old weeds.
It might not be much good as a garden, but it's a fantastic haven for wildlife. Every day birds of prey give us a flying demonstration, as they scour the "jungle" for its resident population of rabbits and other small rodents. And we're often lucky enough to see wild Mediterranean tortoises going - slowly - about their business.
But less than welcome are the ticks - of which there are many, as the countryside around us is largely given over to sheep farming. Ticks are rather fond of sheep, but they're also quite partial to a bit of human blood. In the UK I happily used to give my blood - for the benefit of other humans - but ticks are something else - something that will lay its eggs under your skin if unchecked. Gross.
Some people have a cuppa, a G&T or San Miguel at the end of a hard session's gardening. We have a rather different "après gardening" routine, which involves stripping off all our clothes, shaking them out wildly, then inspecting each other minutely for the presence of those dreaded little black beasties - before they can sink themselves into our flesh. You've seen chimps in the zoo?
It was never like this for Alan Titchmarsh . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Having dealt with the back field full of asphodels, using The Boss's new "toy" - a brushcutter - we had to face the stark truth. Our soil was not only gritty and of very poor quality, there wasn't much of it. Having barely breached the earth's surface with a garden fork, we hit rock. At that point, we decided to abandon the field for the time being and concentrate on another, smaller part of our land, where the soil is all of an inch or two deeper, with the aim of doing some serious weeding and planting a couple of agaves we'd been given by a neighbour.
The majority of our land is pretty much useless for cultivation purposes; what was once a valley with a decent number of fruit trees had been left untended for so long that nature had reclaimed it, suffocating the fruit trees with wild olives, wild broom and . . . well, plain old weeds.
It might not be much good as a garden, but it's a fantastic haven for wildlife. Every day birds of prey give us a flying demonstration, as they scour the "jungle" for its resident population of rabbits and other small rodents. And we're often lucky enough to see wild Mediterranean tortoises going - slowly - about their business.
But less than welcome are the ticks - of which there are many, as the countryside around us is largely given over to sheep farming. Ticks are rather fond of sheep, but they're also quite partial to a bit of human blood. In the UK I happily used to give my blood - for the benefit of other humans - but ticks are something else - something that will lay its eggs under your skin if unchecked. Gross.
Some people have a cuppa, a G&T or San Miguel at the end of a hard session's gardening. We have a rather different "après gardening" routine, which involves stripping off all our clothes, shaking them out wildly, then inspecting each other minutely for the presence of those dreaded little black beasties - before they can sink themselves into our flesh. You've seen chimps in the zoo?
It was never like this for Alan Titchmarsh . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
YOU WANT EXCITEMENT?
First-time visitors to our finca usually gaze out over the surrounding countryside with wonder in their eyes. And it's not always because we live in a naturally beautiful valley. Or that, often, the only sounds piercing the silence are birdsong, buzzing cicadas and dongling sheep bells.
No, it's more a case of “I wonder what they do for excitement around here?”
Believe me, we have our moments. Life here rarely sparks an adrenalin rush, but pulse rates have been known to quicken.
Take the other day, when we noticed that two donkeys were grazing in the field across the lane from us. Now I'm really fond of these gentle creatures and was stupidly thrilled to have them as neighbours. We'd often seen sheep there, but never donkeys. We hadn't even known that the farmer - who works in the valley but lives in Manacor - owned donkeys.
“You won't be so happy if they start braying at 3 o'clock in the morning,” warned The Boss.
Several times that afternoon, I went out to gaze at Don Camilo and Petra (yes, I'd already named them) as they stood in the shade of an almond tree, nibbling contentedly at the scrubby undergrowth. So how, later that day, did DC and Petra come to be ambling along in the lane, like a couple of elderly women searching for snails after rain?
When The Boss and I walked down to the field entrance, it was obvious. The typical “gate” used around here – a bundle of dead branches stuffed into the opening in an old dry stone wall – had hardly been enough to contain two newborn lambs, let alone a pair of determined donkeys.
The Boss was actually a little smug about the farmer's apparent error. Probably because this particular farmer - a charming man, by the way - had recently criticised the way our almond trees had been pruned.
Our lane doesn't see much traffic but donkeys wandering at will are a definite hazard, so - as good country citizens - we set about rounding up the renegades and returning them to the field.
No easy feat, and one that certainly quickened all parties' pulses.
Once they were back in, we took on the task of building an impenetrable barrier, using a larger quantity of branches and sticks. Satisfied that we'd done a decent job, we left the pair to appreciate their own side of the fence and went in search of a well-earned G&T.
And that's what passes for excitement around here . . .
PS The following day we learnt that the donkeys had actually escaped from a field in the lower neighbouring valley and, having walked all the way up the hill, had seized the opportunity of a poorly-gated field for a quick snack. When they “escaped”, they'd presumably intended heading home!
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
No, it's more a case of “I wonder what they do for excitement around here?”
Believe me, we have our moments. Life here rarely sparks an adrenalin rush, but pulse rates have been known to quicken.
Take the other day, when we noticed that two donkeys were grazing in the field across the lane from us. Now I'm really fond of these gentle creatures and was stupidly thrilled to have them as neighbours. We'd often seen sheep there, but never donkeys. We hadn't even known that the farmer - who works in the valley but lives in Manacor - owned donkeys.
“You won't be so happy if they start braying at 3 o'clock in the morning,” warned The Boss.
Several times that afternoon, I went out to gaze at Don Camilo and Petra (yes, I'd already named them) as they stood in the shade of an almond tree, nibbling contentedly at the scrubby undergrowth. So how, later that day, did DC and Petra come to be ambling along in the lane, like a couple of elderly women searching for snails after rain?
When The Boss and I walked down to the field entrance, it was obvious. The typical “gate” used around here – a bundle of dead branches stuffed into the opening in an old dry stone wall – had hardly been enough to contain two newborn lambs, let alone a pair of determined donkeys.
The Boss was actually a little smug about the farmer's apparent error. Probably because this particular farmer - a charming man, by the way - had recently criticised the way our almond trees had been pruned.
Our lane doesn't see much traffic but donkeys wandering at will are a definite hazard, so - as good country citizens - we set about rounding up the renegades and returning them to the field.
No easy feat, and one that certainly quickened all parties' pulses.
Once they were back in, we took on the task of building an impenetrable barrier, using a larger quantity of branches and sticks. Satisfied that we'd done a decent job, we left the pair to appreciate their own side of the fence and went in search of a well-earned G&T.
And that's what passes for excitement around here . . .
PS The following day we learnt that the donkeys had actually escaped from a field in the lower neighbouring valley and, having walked all the way up the hill, had seized the opportunity of a poorly-gated field for a quick snack. When they “escaped”, they'd presumably intended heading home!
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
HORTICULTURAL HORROR
Even before we'd bought our finca on Mallorca, I'd imagined being able to go into the garden and pick a lemon from our own tree, for our evening gin and tonic. By the time we'd bought the place and begun to plan The Big Move, my imagination had turned that lemon tree into a small grove of citrus fruit trees.
We bought a pile of books about Mediterranean gardening, and The Boss - a bit of a whizz with a spreadsheet - created a multi-page document detailing what would be suitable to grow in the mallorquin climate, mindful of the water situation.
Our land is quite a reasonable size and comprises a rectangular field, a small rock and succulents garden (created by the previous owners), and a steep valley completely overgrown with wild olive and typical shrubs of the garrigue. To this date, I have still not 'walked' our entire land, not being deft enough with a machete to hack my way through the jungle. One day.
When we moved in, the rock garden needed only a serious session of weeding to transform it to its former glory - but the large field where we'd envisioned planting neat rows of vegetables and fruit trees was waist-high in weeds.
A mallorquin neighbour explained that these were asphodels, and very common in the valley. Sure enough, the field on the opposite side of our lane was also in a similar condition. What he perhaps didn't feel he could bring himself to tell us what that asphodels usually grow in very poor quality soil.
Wading into the sea of flowering weeds, The Boss made a decision. If only he had realised that it would take more than buying a brushcutter - the first of his new "boy's toys" - to rid us of that little lot . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
We bought a pile of books about Mediterranean gardening, and The Boss - a bit of a whizz with a spreadsheet - created a multi-page document detailing what would be suitable to grow in the mallorquin climate, mindful of the water situation.
Our land is quite a reasonable size and comprises a rectangular field, a small rock and succulents garden (created by the previous owners), and a steep valley completely overgrown with wild olive and typical shrubs of the garrigue. To this date, I have still not 'walked' our entire land, not being deft enough with a machete to hack my way through the jungle. One day.
When we moved in, the rock garden needed only a serious session of weeding to transform it to its former glory - but the large field where we'd envisioned planting neat rows of vegetables and fruit trees was waist-high in weeds.
A mallorquin neighbour explained that these were asphodels, and very common in the valley. Sure enough, the field on the opposite side of our lane was also in a similar condition. What he perhaps didn't feel he could bring himself to tell us what that asphodels usually grow in very poor quality soil.
Wading into the sea of flowering weeds, The Boss made a decision. If only he had realised that it would take more than buying a brushcutter - the first of his new "boy's toys" - to rid us of that little lot . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
THE START OF SOMETHING DIG
I'd been dreaming about using my kitchen blender. I was pressing the pulse button, watching fresh fruit from Manacor market meld into a delicious smoothie. Then I'd wake up salivating, only to remember that the blender - along with a battery of other electrical appliances I'd learnt to live without - was still packed in the box in which it had travelled to Mallorca.
The reason for the dreams was that the start date for our solar energy system installation was nearing, and we'd been told we'd have power within three weeks. After eight electricity-free months, things like the hair dryer, laptop, electric fridge/freezer and washing machine would soon be back in action. Though I wasn't quite so excited about ironing again . . .
It was a Saturday when we received a phone message to say that a JCB would come the next day at 8am to dig the necessary trenches for underground cabling; The Boss was to meet the vehicle on the main road and escort it down to our property. We weren't thrilled about the early hour on a Sunday because it would be a noisy start to the day for our neighbours - and mean we'd miss our weekend lie-in.
So it was an unusually early start to The Boss's Sunday, as he set off to meet the JCB. I waited, as excited as a small boy would be at the thought of seeing a big yellow digger up close and in action. And waited.
Eventually, he returned . . . alone. Having waited more than half an hour, he'd had a call on his mobile from the solar energy company, saying they'd made a mistake in the message they'd left us the previous day; the JCB would actually be coming on Monday.
This minor inconvenience was just the start of a long and frustrating project - details of which I'll spare you!
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
The reason for the dreams was that the start date for our solar energy system installation was nearing, and we'd been told we'd have power within three weeks. After eight electricity-free months, things like the hair dryer, laptop, electric fridge/freezer and washing machine would soon be back in action. Though I wasn't quite so excited about ironing again . . .
It was a Saturday when we received a phone message to say that a JCB would come the next day at 8am to dig the necessary trenches for underground cabling; The Boss was to meet the vehicle on the main road and escort it down to our property. We weren't thrilled about the early hour on a Sunday because it would be a noisy start to the day for our neighbours - and mean we'd miss our weekend lie-in.
So it was an unusually early start to The Boss's Sunday, as he set off to meet the JCB. I waited, as excited as a small boy would be at the thought of seeing a big yellow digger up close and in action. And waited.
Eventually, he returned . . . alone. Having waited more than half an hour, he'd had a call on his mobile from the solar energy company, saying they'd made a mistake in the message they'd left us the previous day; the JCB would actually be coming on Monday.
This minor inconvenience was just the start of a long and frustrating project - details of which I'll spare you!
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
THERE'S ALWAYS THE SUN . . .
Shocked by the size of the bill we'd received from a local electrician - for what had seemed to be a very basic check of our finca wiring - we decided to use a different company to undertake the major work of installing additional switches, sockets and wiring for our future electricity supply.
We'd been determined to use local labour for any major jobs around the place but, when our two new electricians eventually arrived with their toolboxes and huge reels of cable, we discovered they were actually Argentinian. No matter; they were also efficient, tidy and seemingly shock-proof. We were happy to leave them to get on with the job, while we solved the problem of sourcing some electricity.
GESA didn't want to know us: we were too far away from the nearest mains source for it to be viable to connect our property. Like most of our neighbours, we would be getting our power from the sun, via a solar energy system, with a generator for back-up. Now, doesn't that sound easy?
Knowing nothing at all about the subject, we placed ourselves at the mercy of a company specialising in these things. All we had to do was give them a list of our electrical appliances and a rough idea of usage, then they came up with a solution.
That solution involved 16 solar panels, 21 batteries, an invertor and - of course - a decent-sized generator. All except the solar panels would be housed in the little casita we had built without previous permission, but had had legalised. The panels themselves were to be mounted on a rack, cemented into a base. What we gave no thought to at that time was where we'd actually put what would end up looking like a sunbathing version of the Angel of the North . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
We'd been determined to use local labour for any major jobs around the place but, when our two new electricians eventually arrived with their toolboxes and huge reels of cable, we discovered they were actually Argentinian. No matter; they were also efficient, tidy and seemingly shock-proof. We were happy to leave them to get on with the job, while we solved the problem of sourcing some electricity.
GESA didn't want to know us: we were too far away from the nearest mains source for it to be viable to connect our property. Like most of our neighbours, we would be getting our power from the sun, via a solar energy system, with a generator for back-up. Now, doesn't that sound easy?
Knowing nothing at all about the subject, we placed ourselves at the mercy of a company specialising in these things. All we had to do was give them a list of our electrical appliances and a rough idea of usage, then they came up with a solution.
That solution involved 16 solar panels, 21 batteries, an invertor and - of course - a decent-sized generator. All except the solar panels would be housed in the little casita we had built without previous permission, but had had legalised. The panels themselves were to be mounted on a rack, cemented into a base. What we gave no thought to at that time was where we'd actually put what would end up looking like a sunbathing version of the Angel of the North . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
POWERLESS
Living without electricity for eight months was not part of our grand plan. Although the notion of candlelit evenings had seemed a romantic one to me when we'd first bought the finca, it didn't take long for me to get a reality check.
How was I going to style my hair without a hairdryer? How would we manage to do our laundry and ironing? And, as someone who'd given up a good career to become a freelance writer, how was I going to write when I had no means of charging the battery on my laptop? Even the old typewriter I'd bought in the pre-laptop days was an electric one . . .
To be strictly accurate, we weren't entirely without electricity. We had one small solar panel mounted on the roof and an old battery which, on a good sunny day, provided us with a 12 volt power system. It was just enough to give us about two hours of lighting daily - as long as we had only one light on at a time and continued to use what were probably the world's first low-energy lightbulbs. Trust me, it was brighter by candlelight.
In the interests of safety, we decided that a wiring check would be prudent and we called on the services of Sñr Gomilla - a local electrician who'd only just returned to work after open heart surgery and whose angry-looking chest scar was visible under his unbuttoned shirt.
He was not too impressed with what lurked within our walls. I think it was something to do with the electric shock he got while probing beneath the yellowing plastic switchplates. Luckily it was only a 12 volt system.
And we weren't too impressed when we received the bill for his services. He clearly charged extra for electric shocks sustained . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
How was I going to style my hair without a hairdryer? How would we manage to do our laundry and ironing? And, as someone who'd given up a good career to become a freelance writer, how was I going to write when I had no means of charging the battery on my laptop? Even the old typewriter I'd bought in the pre-laptop days was an electric one . . .
To be strictly accurate, we weren't entirely without electricity. We had one small solar panel mounted on the roof and an old battery which, on a good sunny day, provided us with a 12 volt power system. It was just enough to give us about two hours of lighting daily - as long as we had only one light on at a time and continued to use what were probably the world's first low-energy lightbulbs. Trust me, it was brighter by candlelight.
In the interests of safety, we decided that a wiring check would be prudent and we called on the services of Sñr Gomilla - a local electrician who'd only just returned to work after open heart surgery and whose angry-looking chest scar was visible under his unbuttoned shirt.
He was not too impressed with what lurked within our walls. I think it was something to do with the electric shock he got while probing beneath the yellowing plastic switchplates. Luckily it was only a 12 volt system.
And we weren't too impressed when we received the bill for his services. He clearly charged extra for electric shocks sustained . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
A CAUTIONARY TALE
What do Michael Douglas, Boris Becker and yours truly all have in common? Sadly, it's not a nice fat bank account, but the fact that we've all fallen foul of planning regulations on Mallorca.
All The Boss and I wanted was a small outbuilding to house the solar batteries, invertor and back-up generator to provide electricity. So we sought the advice of some mallorquin builders. Si, they said, shrugging their shoulders as they stood in our field; officially, we needed permission but, given our remote rural location, they thought that our little building was unlikely to come to the attention of The Powers That Be.
We're normally completely law-abiding but, when they warned that it could take more than a year to obtain permission, our decision was made. Until we had this little building, we couldn't have electricity - and there's a limit to how long a girl can survive without a hairdryer!
So construction began, and - apart from guttering and external painting - was completed, when we were denounced. We still don't know who denounced us (our neighbours are all lovely), but we later discovered that the police regularly cruise around the lanes looking for exactly our type of infringement.
We had to apply for retrospective planning permission and were warned that without it we'd have to demolish the building. Things were looking very bleak for our little home in the country . . .
Fortunately, our architect was a real star, and had worked with several local councils. The application was submitted and, based on his optimism, we proceeded with the installation of our solar power energy system. Just as well, really, as it took 18 months for a positive decision to be made!
Having the combined bank balances of Michael and Boris couldn't have made me any happier than receiving that prized permit . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
All The Boss and I wanted was a small outbuilding to house the solar batteries, invertor and back-up generator to provide electricity. So we sought the advice of some mallorquin builders. Si, they said, shrugging their shoulders as they stood in our field; officially, we needed permission but, given our remote rural location, they thought that our little building was unlikely to come to the attention of The Powers That Be.
We're normally completely law-abiding but, when they warned that it could take more than a year to obtain permission, our decision was made. Until we had this little building, we couldn't have electricity - and there's a limit to how long a girl can survive without a hairdryer!
So construction began, and - apart from guttering and external painting - was completed, when we were denounced. We still don't know who denounced us (our neighbours are all lovely), but we later discovered that the police regularly cruise around the lanes looking for exactly our type of infringement.
We had to apply for retrospective planning permission and were warned that without it we'd have to demolish the building. Things were looking very bleak for our little home in the country . . .
Fortunately, our architect was a real star, and had worked with several local councils. The application was submitted and, based on his optimism, we proceeded with the installation of our solar power energy system. Just as well, really, as it took 18 months for a positive decision to be made!
Having the combined bank balances of Michael and Boris couldn't have made me any happier than receiving that prized permit . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
LOVE. YES, ACTUALLY
I've been asked countless times why we chose a rustic little finca that needed a lot of attention. Many people say that they knew instinctively when they found the property that was right for them, quoting a 'gut feeling'. But in my case, it was an arrow straight in the heart.
It was love at first sight. I'll never forget the moment when I climbed out of the hire car - completely jaded from four days of intensive property-viewing - and saw the valley spread out around the cute little stone house. I felt a funny fluttering sensation inside me and could hear music playing. (Actually, it was an orchestra of singing birds, buzzing insects and bleating lambs, with dongling sheep bells forming the percussion section.)
I was completely smitten before even stepping through the low doorway into a large airy room (the dining room, I had already decided). The kitchen would have given Delia Smith a seizure; there were several internal doors missing and, although there were a few plug sockets around the place, they didn't work. The electricity system produced only enough power for a light bulb or two for a couple of hours a day - if the sun had shone on the one roof-mounted solar panel.
Love is blind. I didn't see the inconvenience of living - albeit temporarily - without an electric toaster or my hairdryer. Neither was I daunted by the prospect of having no mains services at the house or living cheek to cheek with a septic tank. And how romantic it would be, living by candlelight!
After the first flush of romance, of course, it soon became apparent that I'd fallen in love with the property equivalent of the man who leaves the loo seat up and the cap off the toothpaste, and snores all night. But I wouldn't have traded it for anything else . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
It was love at first sight. I'll never forget the moment when I climbed out of the hire car - completely jaded from four days of intensive property-viewing - and saw the valley spread out around the cute little stone house. I felt a funny fluttering sensation inside me and could hear music playing. (Actually, it was an orchestra of singing birds, buzzing insects and bleating lambs, with dongling sheep bells forming the percussion section.)
I was completely smitten before even stepping through the low doorway into a large airy room (the dining room, I had already decided). The kitchen would have given Delia Smith a seizure; there were several internal doors missing and, although there were a few plug sockets around the place, they didn't work. The electricity system produced only enough power for a light bulb or two for a couple of hours a day - if the sun had shone on the one roof-mounted solar panel.
Love is blind. I didn't see the inconvenience of living - albeit temporarily - without an electric toaster or my hairdryer. Neither was I daunted by the prospect of having no mains services at the house or living cheek to cheek with a septic tank. And how romantic it would be, living by candlelight!
After the first flush of romance, of course, it soon became apparent that I'd fallen in love with the property equivalent of the man who leaves the loo seat up and the cap off the toothpaste, and snores all night. But I wouldn't have traded it for anything else . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
BACTERIAL WARFARE
One of the less appealing aspects of owning our rural finca was having to live with 'The Beast' - an innocuous-looking but extremely important concrete bunker, adjoining our summer dining terrace. I'll spare you too much detail, just in case you're reading this over breakfast, but let's just say that anything that leaves our property through waste pipes, goes into 'The Beast' (a pozo negro, or septic tank) - to be subjected to some kind of minor bacterial warfare within.
Fearing the worst if we did something to upset the delicate balance of bacteria and . . . yet more bacteria . . . we sought advice. 'Treat it with respect' said the former owner of the property. 'And that means no nasty chemicals or non-biodegradable stuff.'
So, not for us, those giant bottles of lurid-coloured cleaning products, filling several aisles of the local supermarket, and much-loved by Spanish housewives. We were going ecological and, although the cost of buying these products can be higher, we discovered that they do last much longer.
Feeling good about saving some money, and helping the environment of 'The Beast' (and generally), I've even resorted to some old-fashioned remedies: the kind of things my Nan would have used. Back in the UK, one of the occasional guests on my BBC radio programme was an expert on food and 'all things domestic', and Jill often regaled us with tips for tackling household jobs using store cupboard items.
Now I'd much rather be writing stuff than rubbing sink stains, but I have taken on board some of her suggestions - and saved quite a bit more money on cleaning products. My favourite weapons in the war against grime? Vinegar, bicarb of soda and lemon juice. I've been amazed what I can shift using one or more of those!
And, so far, there have been no complaints from 'The Beast' . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Fearing the worst if we did something to upset the delicate balance of bacteria and . . . yet more bacteria . . . we sought advice. 'Treat it with respect' said the former owner of the property. 'And that means no nasty chemicals or non-biodegradable stuff.'
So, not for us, those giant bottles of lurid-coloured cleaning products, filling several aisles of the local supermarket, and much-loved by Spanish housewives. We were going ecological and, although the cost of buying these products can be higher, we discovered that they do last much longer.
Feeling good about saving some money, and helping the environment of 'The Beast' (and generally), I've even resorted to some old-fashioned remedies: the kind of things my Nan would have used. Back in the UK, one of the occasional guests on my BBC radio programme was an expert on food and 'all things domestic', and Jill often regaled us with tips for tackling household jobs using store cupboard items.
Now I'd much rather be writing stuff than rubbing sink stains, but I have taken on board some of her suggestions - and saved quite a bit more money on cleaning products. My favourite weapons in the war against grime? Vinegar, bicarb of soda and lemon juice. I've been amazed what I can shift using one or more of those!
And, so far, there have been no complaints from 'The Beast' . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
DUCK OR . . . !***!****!
When I first visited Mallorca - around 30 years ago - the islanders seemed to be rather short people. That impression was confirmed when our search for an old finca revealed some perilously low doorways.
At Ca'n Pastor, we had to change the entrance to the kitchen. Being somewhat short myself, the low doorway was no problem, but The Boss is taller and didn't fancy cracking his skull every time he walked between the dining room and kitchen. With very little effort from us - and quite a lot of sledgehammer-swinging by a couple of Argentinians - we became the proud owners of a high archway, ensuring that even our tallest visitors would remain concussion-free.
But the low front door was a different matter, because right above it is the keystone - which couldn't be moved. We'd have to learn to duck - some of us more than others. And there's nothing like experience to ram a lesson home.
At the time, Telefonica was denying our existence, so we relied on our mobile phones. But there was no signal in the house and, in fact, only one spot outside where we could get service. Awaiting an important phone call, The Boss had left his phone perched on the garden wall, while he was in the kitchen discussing pipework possibilities with Miguel Angel the gas-fitter.
When a sudden yell came from the dining room, I rushed through to find Miguel Angel - wrench in hand - crouched over a prone, blood-spattered body. Surely their discussion hadn't come to blows?
No, hearing the phone ring outside, The Boss had rushed to answer it, forgetting the low door and smacking his head on the lintel above it. The gushing head wound and subsequent thumping headache proved to be a very salutary lesson.
For the record, Manacor hospital does a nice line in head staples . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
At Ca'n Pastor, we had to change the entrance to the kitchen. Being somewhat short myself, the low doorway was no problem, but The Boss is taller and didn't fancy cracking his skull every time he walked between the dining room and kitchen. With very little effort from us - and quite a lot of sledgehammer-swinging by a couple of Argentinians - we became the proud owners of a high archway, ensuring that even our tallest visitors would remain concussion-free.
But the low front door was a different matter, because right above it is the keystone - which couldn't be moved. We'd have to learn to duck - some of us more than others. And there's nothing like experience to ram a lesson home.
At the time, Telefonica was denying our existence, so we relied on our mobile phones. But there was no signal in the house and, in fact, only one spot outside where we could get service. Awaiting an important phone call, The Boss had left his phone perched on the garden wall, while he was in the kitchen discussing pipework possibilities with Miguel Angel the gas-fitter.
When a sudden yell came from the dining room, I rushed through to find Miguel Angel - wrench in hand - crouched over a prone, blood-spattered body. Surely their discussion hadn't come to blows?
No, hearing the phone ring outside, The Boss had rushed to answer it, forgetting the low door and smacking his head on the lintel above it. The gushing head wound and subsequent thumping headache proved to be a very salutary lesson.
For the record, Manacor hospital does a nice line in head staples . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
MORE WATER WOES
We knew we'd use more water and electricity as a result of installing an electric water pump but, when The Boss appeared wearing his serious face, a week later, I knew we had 'a problem, Houston'. In fact, our water consumption had more than doubled, and we'd been using enough electricity to power a small pueblo. In future, we'd have to avoid turning the taps on fully . . . which kind of defeated the object of the pump!
To add to our woes, the water heater supplying our shower room had developed an insatiable appetite for butano. Fearing a gas leak, we called back Pep the plumber, who quickly applied his analytical brain to the problem. Within minutes he'd dismissed our leak theory and suspected something far more serious. Muttering in mallorquin, he went out to his van - returning with a pickaxe.
The bad news, Pep explained, was that our hot water pipe was probably leaking, which would cause the water heater to use more gas. The even worse news was that the leaking pipe was under the floor tiles - hence the pickaxe.
We couldn't bear to watch Pep smash up our terracotta floor, so retreated - only to rush back at what sounded like a very loud mallorquin expletive. Kneeling amid shards of terracotta and a new indoor fountain we hadn't expected, was a very wet Pep. He'd accidentally punctured the cold water pipe with his pickaxe.
But he'd also found the seriously-leaking hot water pipe, which explained the increase in our water and power consumption. It seemed that a weak joint in the pipe had ruptured, due to the increased water pressure - as a result of the new water pump.
Pep set to and fixed both pipes. And repairing the big hole in the floor? As we had feared, it was another job for our ever-growing list . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
To add to our woes, the water heater supplying our shower room had developed an insatiable appetite for butano. Fearing a gas leak, we called back Pep the plumber, who quickly applied his analytical brain to the problem. Within minutes he'd dismissed our leak theory and suspected something far more serious. Muttering in mallorquin, he went out to his van - returning with a pickaxe.
The bad news, Pep explained, was that our hot water pipe was probably leaking, which would cause the water heater to use more gas. The even worse news was that the leaking pipe was under the floor tiles - hence the pickaxe.
We couldn't bear to watch Pep smash up our terracotta floor, so retreated - only to rush back at what sounded like a very loud mallorquin expletive. Kneeling amid shards of terracotta and a new indoor fountain we hadn't expected, was a very wet Pep. He'd accidentally punctured the cold water pipe with his pickaxe.
But he'd also found the seriously-leaking hot water pipe, which explained the increase in our water and power consumption. It seemed that a weak joint in the pipe had ruptured, due to the increased water pressure - as a result of the new water pump.
Pep set to and fixed both pipes. And repairing the big hole in the floor? As we had feared, it was another job for our ever-growing list . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
PUMP IT UP
If we'd known about the consequences of installing a water pump, would we have called the plumber?
Our water supply is delivered by tanker into a depósito - a storage tank a few metres up the hill from our little house. Gravity-fed, the flow of water was painfully slow: it took five minutes just to fill the washing-up bowl in the kitchen.
When we called in Pep the plumber, he suggested that an electric water pump would boost the flow significantly. It sounded the perfect solution, so after a quick trip back to the depot for the necessary parts, he was soon back and at work.
It wasn't long before Pep was demonstrating our new supercharged water flow. As he turned on the outdoor tap, an explosion of cal shot out ahead of the gushing water. Apparently our pipes had been well and truly clogged-up (a common problem on this island, where kidneys and water-dependent appliances also suffer the effects of the cal-laden water).
Satisfied that our water flow could now blast the barnacles off a Sunseeker's bottom, Pep packed his tools into his van, then came to shake hands before leaving.
“Er, what about that electric cable lying across the drive?” asked The Boss, in his best Spanish. The cable had been fed through the shrubs from the new pump on the depósito and across the drive, to the house. When would Pep be back to bury the cable?
“¡Hombre!” declared Pep, shaking his head. He wouldn't be. Digging the four-metre trench was a job for The Boss, but - Pep pointed out - it need only be about 10cm deep. “Whatever you do, don't drive over that cable!” So we'd have to solve the problem of getting our car out of the drive until the trench was dug.
And worse was to come . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Our water supply is delivered by tanker into a depósito - a storage tank a few metres up the hill from our little house. Gravity-fed, the flow of water was painfully slow: it took five minutes just to fill the washing-up bowl in the kitchen.
When we called in Pep the plumber, he suggested that an electric water pump would boost the flow significantly. It sounded the perfect solution, so after a quick trip back to the depot for the necessary parts, he was soon back and at work.
It wasn't long before Pep was demonstrating our new supercharged water flow. As he turned on the outdoor tap, an explosion of cal shot out ahead of the gushing water. Apparently our pipes had been well and truly clogged-up (a common problem on this island, where kidneys and water-dependent appliances also suffer the effects of the cal-laden water).
Satisfied that our water flow could now blast the barnacles off a Sunseeker's bottom, Pep packed his tools into his van, then came to shake hands before leaving.
“Er, what about that electric cable lying across the drive?” asked The Boss, in his best Spanish. The cable had been fed through the shrubs from the new pump on the depósito and across the drive, to the house. When would Pep be back to bury the cable?
“¡Hombre!” declared Pep, shaking his head. He wouldn't be. Digging the four-metre trench was a job for The Boss, but - Pep pointed out - it need only be about 10cm deep. “Whatever you do, don't drive over that cable!” So we'd have to solve the problem of getting our car out of the drive until the trench was dug.
And worse was to come . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
THE WALLS HAVE EARS . . . AND TAILS
The first few nights in our old finca were not exactly restful. Unaccustomed to the silence of the countryside and darkness of the bedroom, I wasn't sleeping as soundly as usual. So, when the sound of frantic scratching broke into my dream, I shot out of bed, switched on the light and began to scour the room for the source of the noise. It appeared to be coming from within the thick old stone walls . . .
When you buy an old finca to do up, it's not unusual to find that you've acquired a few little extras with the property: old abandoned agricultural implements, sticks of unwanted furniture - and the odd rodent.
Yes, I knew that a rat was unlikely to burst through the wall in a cloud of plasterdust and flaking paint, to launch itself at my throat, but who thinks rationally in the middle of the night?
So, we rearranged the priority jobs list and filled all the small holes outside in the old stone walls, to make sure the house was totally rodent-proof. Before long, the nocturnal scratchings had ceased and tranquility returned.
But deprived of a warm, dark place to call home, our rats found alternative - and much cosier - accommodation, in the two small adjoining outbuildings housing our gas-powered water heaters. Because these structures have to be well-ventilated, the critters' access can't be blocked.
Rats take refuge in the strangest of places. One day, The Boss decided to open up the old parasol that had been left standing out on the terrace over winter. As he did so, a large furry object jumped out from within and scuttled away.
Apparently, the popularity of the movie Ratatouille caused a rush for rats at UK pet shops. Anyone interested in a nice fat brown one . . . going cheap?
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
When you buy an old finca to do up, it's not unusual to find that you've acquired a few little extras with the property: old abandoned agricultural implements, sticks of unwanted furniture - and the odd rodent.
Yes, I knew that a rat was unlikely to burst through the wall in a cloud of plasterdust and flaking paint, to launch itself at my throat, but who thinks rationally in the middle of the night?
So, we rearranged the priority jobs list and filled all the small holes outside in the old stone walls, to make sure the house was totally rodent-proof. Before long, the nocturnal scratchings had ceased and tranquility returned.
But deprived of a warm, dark place to call home, our rats found alternative - and much cosier - accommodation, in the two small adjoining outbuildings housing our gas-powered water heaters. Because these structures have to be well-ventilated, the critters' access can't be blocked.
Rats take refuge in the strangest of places. One day, The Boss decided to open up the old parasol that had been left standing out on the terrace over winter. As he did so, a large furry object jumped out from within and scuttled away.
Apparently, the popularity of the movie Ratatouille caused a rush for rats at UK pet shops. Anyone interested in a nice fat brown one . . . going cheap?
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
A BRUSH WITH DIY
When a listener to my old BBC radio programme sent me a 'Bob the Builder' doll as a farewell gift, I realised I might have inadvertently given the impression that I'd personally be restoring an old finca, stone-by-stone, when we moved to Mallorca. In fact, all we planned to do was convert what had been someone's quaintly-appointed holiday property into a comfortable permanent home. Hardly a major project - or so we thought.
Lesson number one in doing up an old house on Mallorca is that the work never actually ends . . . and number two is that it will always cost you more than you budgeted for.
I'm a creative, rather than practical, type. This is a girl who - when hanging a picture - always used the heel of her shoe to bang in the nail, so realistically, I wasn't going to be plumbing in a new kitchen or assembling the odd door frame.
Wielding a paintbrush though is something I'll modestly admit to doing quite well. I also find it relaxing, so The Boss was more than happy for me to tackle the varnishing job on the new wooden bedroom door that we - or more accurately, a carpenter - had installed.
Perched on a stepladder, brush and pot of varnish in hand, I was beginning to feel I was finally earning that 'Bob the Builder' doll. Until the moment I discovered that flip-flops weren't really appropriate footwear for the job. Climbing down the ladder, a flip - or was it a flop? - caught on the edge of a step, and I crashed backwards onto the floor, splattering streaks of Honeyed Pine all around the room.
Undeterred, I did eventually finish the job.
Some day soon, I'll get out the Brillo and tackle those varnish stains on the floor tiles . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
Lesson number one in doing up an old house on Mallorca is that the work never actually ends . . . and number two is that it will always cost you more than you budgeted for.
I'm a creative, rather than practical, type. This is a girl who - when hanging a picture - always used the heel of her shoe to bang in the nail, so realistically, I wasn't going to be plumbing in a new kitchen or assembling the odd door frame.
Wielding a paintbrush though is something I'll modestly admit to doing quite well. I also find it relaxing, so The Boss was more than happy for me to tackle the varnishing job on the new wooden bedroom door that we - or more accurately, a carpenter - had installed.
Perched on a stepladder, brush and pot of varnish in hand, I was beginning to feel I was finally earning that 'Bob the Builder' doll. Until the moment I discovered that flip-flops weren't really appropriate footwear for the job. Climbing down the ladder, a flip - or was it a flop? - caught on the edge of a step, and I crashed backwards onto the floor, splattering streaks of Honeyed Pine all around the room.
Undeterred, I did eventually finish the job.
Some day soon, I'll get out the Brillo and tackle those varnish stains on the floor tiles . . .
Copyright Jan Edwards 2008
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