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
Thursday, August 21, 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
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