I was concentrating so hard on my mission to remove seven years' worth of built-up cal from the loo we'd never actually used (Mallorcan water is notoriously hard), that I didn't hear The Boss come into The Den's tiny shower room behind me:
"Er, I thought we were supposed to be painting the persianas?" He stood with his hands on his hips, wearing a quizzical frown - and a fine head-to-toe film of dust, resulting from his labours with the electric sander and our exterior shutters.
When it comes to decorating, The Boss is head of sanding (the dust makes me sneeze and, besides, he'd never let me play with - sorry, use - the electric sander. I'm the 'lucky' person who gets to wield the brush with bristle alopecia - something all paintbrushes here seem to suffer from - and treacle-like Spanish gloss paint.
I'd finished painting the back door shutters and had been waiting for him to finish sanding the next set. With my brush sitting in a jar of turps, I'd decided to fill the time usefully and tackle the cleaning job I was determined to do. I didn't realise that it would take so long to actually reach it!
A word of warning if you're thinking of living in an old finca: Every job completed results in a new one (or more) for the everlasting To Do list. Not only did we have a shower room door peppered with woodworm holes but, on first flush of the newly-gleaming loo, we also discovered there was a problem with some of the twiddly bits in the cistern and the water wouldn't stop running. Twiddly bits were removed and the loo was once again out of commission for the foreseeable future.
A pair of newly-sanded shutters, balding brush and can of gloopy gloss beckoned; plumbing and woodworm problems would have to wait.
Jan Edwards ©2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
DIRTY DEN HAD IT COMING . . .
I've just cleaned the loo in our third bedroom - for the first time in the seven years we've owned the finca. Now before you recoil in horror, I should explain: our third bedroom has only ever been used as a store room since we moved here in 2004. And that dear little ensuite room that houses loo, basin and shower, has been stuffed full of detritus from day one. It wasn't even possible to see the porcelain, let alone give it a regular going over with a cloth and a few squirts of Ecover.
But this summer, I'm determined that this useful annexe bedroom - adjoining the house but with its own separate entrance - will become usable. After all, when we set out to find our home in the sun, three bedrooms had been a must. The Original Plan was to turn this room into a third bedroom/office, containing my desk, computer and all the tomes that a writer needs on a handy shelf. I pictured myself here writing my novel, pausing occasionally to drink in the inspiring view of the valley (or take a quick siesta on the single bed). We even hired an electrician to install a bank of four sockets for all the necessary plugs - for when we eventually had electricity. We could have saved ourselves the money: desk and all necessary kit are still in the house.
When our possesions arrived from the UK - where they'd been housed in a tiny cottage - they were packed in 220 cartons. 220! Admittedly, some of them contained only a few items but, even so, it was clear that we had Far Too Much Stuff. Moral of the story: Have a good sort out before you move abroad.
Many of those possessions haven't seen daylight since we dumped them into the annexe - renamed The Den - for want of a garage, shed or other useful storage space. From time to time, I've made a half-hearted effort to reduce the amount of stuff, but it's hard when there's no room to move and you never know what might run across your foot (it has to be the perfect hidey hole for a small furry creature).
However, with my new resolve to commission this bedroom, I hacked my way through to the shower room - discovering on the way that its door has a nasty case of woodworm - and began the process of sorting and moving things out of the way. And when I finally reached the porcelain fittings, I realised that I'd need industrial-strength cleaning products and a Biohazard protective suit. Sadly, yellow Marigolds would have to do . . .
Jan Edwards 2009 ©
But this summer, I'm determined that this useful annexe bedroom - adjoining the house but with its own separate entrance - will become usable. After all, when we set out to find our home in the sun, three bedrooms had been a must. The Original Plan was to turn this room into a third bedroom/office, containing my desk, computer and all the tomes that a writer needs on a handy shelf. I pictured myself here writing my novel, pausing occasionally to drink in the inspiring view of the valley (or take a quick siesta on the single bed). We even hired an electrician to install a bank of four sockets for all the necessary plugs - for when we eventually had electricity. We could have saved ourselves the money: desk and all necessary kit are still in the house.
When our possesions arrived from the UK - where they'd been housed in a tiny cottage - they were packed in 220 cartons. 220! Admittedly, some of them contained only a few items but, even so, it was clear that we had Far Too Much Stuff. Moral of the story: Have a good sort out before you move abroad.
Many of those possessions haven't seen daylight since we dumped them into the annexe - renamed The Den - for want of a garage, shed or other useful storage space. From time to time, I've made a half-hearted effort to reduce the amount of stuff, but it's hard when there's no room to move and you never know what might run across your foot (it has to be the perfect hidey hole for a small furry creature).
However, with my new resolve to commission this bedroom, I hacked my way through to the shower room - discovering on the way that its door has a nasty case of woodworm - and began the process of sorting and moving things out of the way. And when I finally reached the porcelain fittings, I realised that I'd need industrial-strength cleaning products and a Biohazard protective suit. Sadly, yellow Marigolds would have to do . . .
Jan Edwards 2009 ©
Friday, April 24, 2009
THE BRUNCH BUNCH
One of the great things about living in a rural community where some properties are holiday homes, is that the arrival of their owners - for a holiday or some essential finca maintenance - provides an opportunity to enjoy some social time with people you don't see often enough to become, let's say, over-acquainted with.
We've enjoyed getting to know other Europeans in our valley, in particular the very amusing German couple, who holidayed at their finca until they realised it wasn't much of a holiday with so much work to do. They sold up and bought a hassle-free second home in Germany. But when the new owners, a Swiss family, came to introduce themselves, we knew we'd like them. Well, they did come bearing Swiss chocolate!
Their visits so far have been full of expeditions to buy things for the house and garden, find tradesmen and sort out the type of problems that finca owners usually only discover once they've taken possession.
Our Swiss friends do things differently to other Europeans we know. For example, a greeting involves three kisses on alternate cheeks (we always forget and withdraw after the second kiss) and - as we discovered one afternoon - going to theirs for drinks also involves a hearty spread of food! Not that I'm complaining . . .
Earlier this week they invited us for brunch today. At 10am this morning, we were sitting on their terrace in glorious sunshine, enjoying genuine Swiss muesli, delicious breads, cheeses, ham and fruit, accompanied by orange juice, good coffee and a glass of Cava. Fab.
Instead of inviting friends for lunch or dinner in future, I think I´ll make it brunch: it´s such a civilised thing to do . . . and you can get away with not doing any cooking!
Jan Edwards Copyright 2009
We've enjoyed getting to know other Europeans in our valley, in particular the very amusing German couple, who holidayed at their finca until they realised it wasn't much of a holiday with so much work to do. They sold up and bought a hassle-free second home in Germany. But when the new owners, a Swiss family, came to introduce themselves, we knew we'd like them. Well, they did come bearing Swiss chocolate!
Their visits so far have been full of expeditions to buy things for the house and garden, find tradesmen and sort out the type of problems that finca owners usually only discover once they've taken possession.
Our Swiss friends do things differently to other Europeans we know. For example, a greeting involves three kisses on alternate cheeks (we always forget and withdraw after the second kiss) and - as we discovered one afternoon - going to theirs for drinks also involves a hearty spread of food! Not that I'm complaining . . .
Earlier this week they invited us for brunch today. At 10am this morning, we were sitting on their terrace in glorious sunshine, enjoying genuine Swiss muesli, delicious breads, cheeses, ham and fruit, accompanied by orange juice, good coffee and a glass of Cava. Fab.
Instead of inviting friends for lunch or dinner in future, I think I´ll make it brunch: it´s such a civilised thing to do . . . and you can get away with not doing any cooking!
Jan Edwards Copyright 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
BACK ON THE CHAINSAW GANG
After The Boss's early experiences, the subject of chainsaws was not raised again until he happened to spot someone on a TV programme, using one in the Brazilian rainforest. Alarmingly, trees were falling like skittles. For a change, the BBC had helpfully managed not to conceal the brand name of the chainsaw and I saw The Boss surreptitiously make a note of it. Well, he replied, when I bravely mentioned the 'c' word, if such a chainsaw could tackle trees like that, it wouldn't flinch at mere almond and wild olive, would it?
Our trusty friend Google found us the details of the company's sales agent on Mallorca and we set off for the island's largest and most confusing industrial estate, clutching our battered map of Palma.
Frankly, it wasn't really my kind of retail outlet, but The Boss was in his element as he headed for the chainsaw section. I, meanwhile, was mesmerised by a large wooden bear which stood in a corner of the store: it had been fashioned from a tree trunk using a chainsaw. Now that was impressive. I began to imagine our field, full of interesting wood sculptures . . .
Meanwhile, The Boss had narrowed down his search, with the help of a young man who looked as though he'd never wielded a chainsaw in his life. In spite of that, he knew his stuff and recognised his potential customer as someone who likes to mull over any purchases. We came home, not with a chainsaw, but the manufacturer's catalogue of products. What man needs a subscription to GQ magazine, with one of these tomes to hand?
The Boss spent several happy evenings browsing through the 234 pages, marvelling at what was available. Quite a lot of the stuff seemed to have little to do with sawing down trees or carving your own Barney the Bear. Anyone for a Stihl-branded mug, keyring, model truck, football, picnic rug, or trendy sunglasses? There was even a kiddie-sized toy version, for the boy - or girl, let's not be sexist - who wants to look like Daddy.
What really matters is that the chainsaw (and a few appropriate accessories) he came home with from Palma a few days later has, so far, worked like a dream, starting first time every time (I hope I haven't jinxed that now) and making the annual tree tidying job a lot easier. Anytime now, I'm sure he'll be carving me that life-sized donkey for the field . . .
Jan Edwards © 2009
Our trusty friend Google found us the details of the company's sales agent on Mallorca and we set off for the island's largest and most confusing industrial estate, clutching our battered map of Palma.
Frankly, it wasn't really my kind of retail outlet, but The Boss was in his element as he headed for the chainsaw section. I, meanwhile, was mesmerised by a large wooden bear which stood in a corner of the store: it had been fashioned from a tree trunk using a chainsaw. Now that was impressive. I began to imagine our field, full of interesting wood sculptures . . .
Meanwhile, The Boss had narrowed down his search, with the help of a young man who looked as though he'd never wielded a chainsaw in his life. In spite of that, he knew his stuff and recognised his potential customer as someone who likes to mull over any purchases. We came home, not with a chainsaw, but the manufacturer's catalogue of products. What man needs a subscription to GQ magazine, with one of these tomes to hand?
The Boss spent several happy evenings browsing through the 234 pages, marvelling at what was available. Quite a lot of the stuff seemed to have little to do with sawing down trees or carving your own Barney the Bear. Anyone for a Stihl-branded mug, keyring, model truck, football, picnic rug, or trendy sunglasses? There was even a kiddie-sized toy version, for the boy - or girl, let's not be sexist - who wants to look like Daddy.
What really matters is that the chainsaw (and a few appropriate accessories) he came home with from Palma a few days later has, so far, worked like a dream, starting first time every time (I hope I haven't jinxed that now) and making the annual tree tidying job a lot easier. Anytime now, I'm sure he'll be carving me that life-sized donkey for the field . . .
Jan Edwards © 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
JOINING THE CHAINSAW GANG
He might look as though he's going to a fancy dress party as a lumberjack, but that man in the safety helmet, thick goggles, ear defenders, and gauntlets of the calibre usually seen only on falconers, means business. Actually, it's The Boss. And he looks pretty scary carrying his new chainsaw. I wouldn't want to tell him that I'd scorched the collar of his best shirt, whilst
ironing . . .
Underneath all that mean-looking safety gear, he's actually beaming, because if ever there was a tool to make a man feel super macho, it's a chainsaw. The noise, the speed, the power . . . it's the perfect package. Unless, of course, the damned thing won't start.
Like lawnmowers, chainsaws can be annoyingly temperamental. As The Boss found out when he first hired one to tackle a few jobs around the land. The demonstration at the local hire shop went well enough, but when he arrived home, the machine refused to start. Completely. Mind you, its condition suggested that it had probably already cleared one South American rain forest and - like lots of South American people - had moved to Mallorca in the hope of an easier life.
Next step was to buy one of his own, and the island's answer to B&Q just happened to have a special offer on chainsaws. So special, in fact, that alarm bells should have rung. Like its hired predecessor, it refused to start when we got it home. The Boss, by now in something of a bad mood, drove all the way back to Palma, where it obligingly roared into life for one of the store assistants, terrifying two elderly Spanish women who were browsing nearby.
Back at the finca, the chainsaw had clearly decided it was probably time to stop messing around and do a bit of work. Dead branches were sliced off almond trees and, a few hours later, there was a pile of neatly cut logs left to season in the sunshine. Sadly, that was the last day the thing ever worked. The store sent us to the local approved service agent (the fault was not apparently covered by the warranty), who declared it "beyond economical repair". A strongly worded letter was written to the manufacturer's chief executive - who, being Italian and possibly not able to read English, probably balled it up and threw it into the bin.
It would be some time before anyone mentioned chainsaws again in our house . . .
Jan Edwards ©2009
ironing . . .
Underneath all that mean-looking safety gear, he's actually beaming, because if ever there was a tool to make a man feel super macho, it's a chainsaw. The noise, the speed, the power . . . it's the perfect package. Unless, of course, the damned thing won't start.
Like lawnmowers, chainsaws can be annoyingly temperamental. As The Boss found out when he first hired one to tackle a few jobs around the land. The demonstration at the local hire shop went well enough, but when he arrived home, the machine refused to start. Completely. Mind you, its condition suggested that it had probably already cleared one South American rain forest and - like lots of South American people - had moved to Mallorca in the hope of an easier life.
Next step was to buy one of his own, and the island's answer to B&Q just happened to have a special offer on chainsaws. So special, in fact, that alarm bells should have rung. Like its hired predecessor, it refused to start when we got it home. The Boss, by now in something of a bad mood, drove all the way back to Palma, where it obligingly roared into life for one of the store assistants, terrifying two elderly Spanish women who were browsing nearby.
Back at the finca, the chainsaw had clearly decided it was probably time to stop messing around and do a bit of work. Dead branches were sliced off almond trees and, a few hours later, there was a pile of neatly cut logs left to season in the sunshine. Sadly, that was the last day the thing ever worked. The store sent us to the local approved service agent (the fault was not apparently covered by the warranty), who declared it "beyond economical repair". A strongly worded letter was written to the manufacturer's chief executive - who, being Italian and possibly not able to read English, probably balled it up and threw it into the bin.
It would be some time before anyone mentioned chainsaws again in our house . . .
Jan Edwards ©2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
SURREAL SPRING . . . WITH SKATES ON
After three weeks of warm spring weather, the island has had a substantial wash and has scrubbed up rather well. The countryside's thin coating of dust has gone and everything looks a little brighter . . . except the sun.
Last week we were recording top temperatures at our finca of around 22 degrees Celsius. This week, 12. It's grey, wet and windy too, and I feel really sorry for those visitors who arrived on the island at the weekend - having missed all the earlier sunshine and warmth. Particularly those who come to enjoy outdoor pursuits, such as golf or cycling.
We don't see golfers in our valley, but cyclists are a common sight - standing out in their brightly coloured cycling gear, against a backdrop of wild olive, Holm oaks, almond and fig trees.
We certainly hadn't seen, or expected to see, any rollerbladers whizzing around these parts - after all, the lane that passes our property heads down to the valley floor and is quite steep in parts. Then, one spring afternoon last year, sitting on the back terrace with visiting friends, we heard the unfamiliar engine note of a vehicle that had paused in the lane outside our back gates. (When you have few neighbours and live on a lane that peters out into a muddy field, you learn to identify every passing vehicle from the sound of its engine).
It was a minibus, disgorging its load of nine extremely lean people, clad in matching Lycra all-in-one suits, helmets . . . and rollerblades. If that were not strange enough, they proceeded to rollerblade down the hill at a terrifying speed and within seconds had disappeared from view. We thought the minibus would follow and retrieve its passengers at the bottom, but a while later, the roller bladers returned . . . skating uphill! My calf muscles were screaming in sympathy. This bizarre sequence was repeated three times before the skaters - who must have burned a few thousand calories between them, but didn't even have the grace to look slightly tired - clambered back into the minibus, which then departed. It was entertaining (well, not much goes on around here), but surreal.
Ever since we moved to Mallorca, I've promised myself I'll have a go at rollerblading along Palma's Paseo Maritimo. All I need are the skates. But don't expect to see me putting in any training in our valley.
Jan Edwards ©2009
Last week we were recording top temperatures at our finca of around 22 degrees Celsius. This week, 12. It's grey, wet and windy too, and I feel really sorry for those visitors who arrived on the island at the weekend - having missed all the earlier sunshine and warmth. Particularly those who come to enjoy outdoor pursuits, such as golf or cycling.
We don't see golfers in our valley, but cyclists are a common sight - standing out in their brightly coloured cycling gear, against a backdrop of wild olive, Holm oaks, almond and fig trees.
We certainly hadn't seen, or expected to see, any rollerbladers whizzing around these parts - after all, the lane that passes our property heads down to the valley floor and is quite steep in parts. Then, one spring afternoon last year, sitting on the back terrace with visiting friends, we heard the unfamiliar engine note of a vehicle that had paused in the lane outside our back gates. (When you have few neighbours and live on a lane that peters out into a muddy field, you learn to identify every passing vehicle from the sound of its engine).
It was a minibus, disgorging its load of nine extremely lean people, clad in matching Lycra all-in-one suits, helmets . . . and rollerblades. If that were not strange enough, they proceeded to rollerblade down the hill at a terrifying speed and within seconds had disappeared from view. We thought the minibus would follow and retrieve its passengers at the bottom, but a while later, the roller bladers returned . . . skating uphill! My calf muscles were screaming in sympathy. This bizarre sequence was repeated three times before the skaters - who must have burned a few thousand calories between them, but didn't even have the grace to look slightly tired - clambered back into the minibus, which then departed. It was entertaining (well, not much goes on around here), but surreal.
Ever since we moved to Mallorca, I've promised myself I'll have a go at rollerblading along Palma's Paseo Maritimo. All I need are the skates. But don't expect to see me putting in any training in our valley.
Jan Edwards ©2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
HOE, HOE, HOE!
Weeding time approaches. I've done nothing for months to the little patch of our land that we've made into a Mediterranean garden (containing, basically, any plant with sharply pointed leaves). Once the rains come in autumn - and they sure kept on coming in 2008 - the weeds shoot up at an alarming rate and no amount of daily weeding would be enough to keep on top of the situation. So, I choose to ignore the weeds and see only the plants throughout the winter.
But March is here, the sap is rising, and so is my inclination to have a Sort Out. In fact, the garden could potentially double in size, because The Boss went a bit gung ho with the pruning saw and has managed to turn a huge shrub into a proper tree - freeing up a lot of ground space beneath it. It's way too tempting to leave it barren . . .
And as if to enforce my decision to expand the garden, Hans and Inga - a charming German couple who live further down the valley - have kindly given us a stack of agaves after their annual tidy-up.
So, it's computer off - and gardening gloves on . . .
Jan Edwards
Copyright 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
ANYONE FOR A HOLIDAY?
We've reached that time of the year when we start to receive phone calls and e-mails from friends and family members who'd like to come over and visit us in the summer. The first firm booking is in the diary for five nights in June - a lovely time to be on Mallorca - and there are already two provisional visits pencilled in for other months.
Unlike some of the expats we've spoken to, we actually love having visitors to stay with us - although, I admit, we've been lucky in that most of ours are house-trained!
Will 2009 bring more visitors than usual? With the current global economic crisis, I think folk who like their annual fix of fun in the sun will be looking for cheaper alternatives for their holidays. And what better than going to stay with a relative, friend, ex-neighbour or old uni chum, who's moved to a Mediterranean hotspot?
But for those expats who really don't want to share their rural homes with visitors from the 'old country', here are a few handy phrases for use in response to any unwelcome requests:
'You don't mind rats, do you? This is the country, after all . . .'
'Great! We're looking for some help to clean out the old well!'
'You won't need to bring a hairdryer or electric shaver . . . there's not enough electricity for that sort of stuff.'
'Actually, our septic tank's leaking a bit, but you don't notice the smell after a day or two.'
'Better bring plenty of mosquito repellent - we're overrun with the damn things this year.'
Personally, I've not had to use any of the above . . . so far.
Unlike some of the expats we've spoken to, we actually love having visitors to stay with us - although, I admit, we've been lucky in that most of ours are house-trained!
Will 2009 bring more visitors than usual? With the current global economic crisis, I think folk who like their annual fix of fun in the sun will be looking for cheaper alternatives for their holidays. And what better than going to stay with a relative, friend, ex-neighbour or old uni chum, who's moved to a Mediterranean hotspot?
But for those expats who really don't want to share their rural homes with visitors from the 'old country', here are a few handy phrases for use in response to any unwelcome requests:
'You don't mind rats, do you? This is the country, after all . . .'
'Great! We're looking for some help to clean out the old well!'
'You won't need to bring a hairdryer or electric shaver . . . there's not enough electricity for that sort of stuff.'
'Actually, our septic tank's leaking a bit, but you don't notice the smell after a day or two.'
'Better bring plenty of mosquito repellent - we're overrun with the damn things this year.'
Personally, I've not had to use any of the above . . . so far.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
GENERATING PROBLEMS . . .
When The Boss said he was thinking about buying a Lombardini, I don't think I was listening properly. I thought he'd said a Lamborghini - and that maybe he'd won the lottery.
Said Lombardini - a beefy little red number - is actually a diesel generator, which supports our solar energy system when the sun doesn't shine enough to charge the batteries. It's been cleverly rigged up so that it starts automatically when the battery levels fall below a certain point, then runs for three hours before switching itself off. There's also a system that prevents it starting before 9am and stops it at 10pm - so that it doesn't disturb anyone in the locality. (Now, I'm impressed by all this clever stuff, but any techies reading this will probably think "So what?")
Our generator is only five years old and religiously serviced at the required intervals, so it doesn't seem too noisy (I am touching wood as I write this). It sits in a small outbuilding halfway down the field, and I can't hear it from inside the house. In the past, I spent five years flying for an hour every weekday in a helicopter, wearing headphones that weren't quite fit for purpose and, as a result, I don't seem to hear deep rumbling noises like generators.
A couple nearby, who've had a holiday home here for 20 years, often lament the increase in noise in the valley over the past couple of decades - mainly due to the fact that what used to be just a dirt track is now an asphalted lane. But recently, they've had a greater problem. Since another neighbour (another holiday home owner) resited his old generator, their own little casita has been blighted by noise and vibration.
Things came to a head over Christmas, when they were were still awake at 4am, waiting for the
generator to switch off. Finally, they could stand it no more and, despite the hour, went round to the neighbours' house to complain.
I can sympathise with both parties. In defence of the offending generator's owner, he's not really a technical chappie and probably didn't even know these things could be regulated. But I also have sympathy for our Geordie friends, who bought their place here when our valley was apparently a lot quieter than it is now.
Let's hope there's plenty of sunshine next time both couples are in residence . . .
Said Lombardini - a beefy little red number - is actually a diesel generator, which supports our solar energy system when the sun doesn't shine enough to charge the batteries. It's been cleverly rigged up so that it starts automatically when the battery levels fall below a certain point, then runs for three hours before switching itself off. There's also a system that prevents it starting before 9am and stops it at 10pm - so that it doesn't disturb anyone in the locality. (Now, I'm impressed by all this clever stuff, but any techies reading this will probably think "So what?")
Our generator is only five years old and religiously serviced at the required intervals, so it doesn't seem too noisy (I am touching wood as I write this). It sits in a small outbuilding halfway down the field, and I can't hear it from inside the house. In the past, I spent five years flying for an hour every weekday in a helicopter, wearing headphones that weren't quite fit for purpose and, as a result, I don't seem to hear deep rumbling noises like generators.
A couple nearby, who've had a holiday home here for 20 years, often lament the increase in noise in the valley over the past couple of decades - mainly due to the fact that what used to be just a dirt track is now an asphalted lane. But recently, they've had a greater problem. Since another neighbour (another holiday home owner) resited his old generator, their own little casita has been blighted by noise and vibration.
Things came to a head over Christmas, when they were were still awake at 4am, waiting for the
generator to switch off. Finally, they could stand it no more and, despite the hour, went round to the neighbours' house to complain.
I can sympathise with both parties. In defence of the offending generator's owner, he's not really a technical chappie and probably didn't even know these things could be regulated. But I also have sympathy for our Geordie friends, who bought their place here when our valley was apparently a lot quieter than it is now.
Let's hope there's plenty of sunshine next time both couples are in residence . . .
Monday, February 9, 2009
PASS THE EARPLUGS . . .
I'm sure you've heard the stories of city folk who go to live in the country, seeking peace and quiet, then discover that rural life can be pretty noisy too. We tend to think of our valley being a tranquil sort of place, but that's because we're now used to the various noises of the Mallorcan countryside. They're definitely out there, but it's our visitors who tend to notice them.
Something we both enjoy is the seemingly continuous birdsong: whatever the weather, they're singing their little hearts out. Perhaps it's because the thrush-hunting season is now over?
Which brings me to shooting. It was like the Wild West when we moved here. At first light (by which I mean still pretty dark), gunfire used to go off all around us, reverberating around the valley. How could these hunters see their targets? Actually, I hope they couldn't.
Occasionally, the sound of lead shot bouncing on the roof tiles, like superannuated hail, would wake us up. These were the gun-toting men - not proper country folk - who weren't following the rules about not shooting within a certain distance of houses. These groups of hunters would arrive on Saturday and Sunday mornings in Palma taxis and spend a trigger-happy few hours stomping over the countryside in search of anything that moved. Unfortunately, one of those things was an unsuspecting German cyclist (luckily he was more shaken than shot). SEPRONA - the division of the Guardia Civil responsible for this kind of thing - sent their team to Sort The Problem. These days, the only shooters are local farmers looking for ingedients for the cooking pot.
On the far side of the valley, up on the ridge, is a quarry. When we first moved here, we were a bit shocked at the level of noise that came from the place; sometimes sounding like a gigantic lion roaring. (The day we came to see the place and decided immediately to buy it, we came during the quiet long lunch break, when the quarry workers were in town tucking into a menu del día).
It's surprising, though, how quickly a regular sound like quarrying becomes mere background noise. It's only been this morning, as I did battle with a pile of wet washing and the rotary clothes dryer (twice my height and determined to strangle me), that I noticed that nothing's happening up there on the scarred ridge of the valley. La crisis obviously means less stone is needed for construction projects.
Did I mention José Luis's cockerel? The peacocks from the redundant pig farm?
The quad bikes, and the generators? Country noises-off continue next time . . .
Something we both enjoy is the seemingly continuous birdsong: whatever the weather, they're singing their little hearts out. Perhaps it's because the thrush-hunting season is now over?
Which brings me to shooting. It was like the Wild West when we moved here. At first light (by which I mean still pretty dark), gunfire used to go off all around us, reverberating around the valley. How could these hunters see their targets? Actually, I hope they couldn't.
Occasionally, the sound of lead shot bouncing on the roof tiles, like superannuated hail, would wake us up. These were the gun-toting men - not proper country folk - who weren't following the rules about not shooting within a certain distance of houses. These groups of hunters would arrive on Saturday and Sunday mornings in Palma taxis and spend a trigger-happy few hours stomping over the countryside in search of anything that moved. Unfortunately, one of those things was an unsuspecting German cyclist (luckily he was more shaken than shot). SEPRONA - the division of the Guardia Civil responsible for this kind of thing - sent their team to Sort The Problem. These days, the only shooters are local farmers looking for ingedients for the cooking pot.
On the far side of the valley, up on the ridge, is a quarry. When we first moved here, we were a bit shocked at the level of noise that came from the place; sometimes sounding like a gigantic lion roaring. (The day we came to see the place and decided immediately to buy it, we came during the quiet long lunch break, when the quarry workers were in town tucking into a menu del día).
It's surprising, though, how quickly a regular sound like quarrying becomes mere background noise. It's only been this morning, as I did battle with a pile of wet washing and the rotary clothes dryer (twice my height and determined to strangle me), that I noticed that nothing's happening up there on the scarred ridge of the valley. La crisis obviously means less stone is needed for construction projects.
Did I mention José Luis's cockerel? The peacocks from the redundant pig farm?
The quad bikes, and the generators? Country noises-off continue next time . . .
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
BACK IN THE PINK
I'm finding it hard to believe that February is already here. Where did January go?
Admittedly I spent a week of it in bed, battling the flu, and it took another week before
I felt nearly back to normal, but really - how's a girl supposed to get everything done when
time flies by so quickly?
Reflecting back on the dark days of feeling ill (I really hate being out of commission), for the first time in five years I missed the little cottage back in Oxfordshire. To be strictly accurate, however, the only thing I really missed was the central heating.
How I longed for that warm bathroom with its carpet, radiator and heated towel rail, instead
of our chilly shower room with its tiled floor and ominous damp patches on the walls. There's something about being poorly that makes you yearn for comfort and warmth - particularly when you have to crawl out from beneath the duvet to use the bathroom.
But the week's biggest woe came on a day when the rain was pouring down . . . again.
As I snuggled under the duvet feeling very sorry for myself and listening to the relentless pounding of rain on the roof, I detected an additional and all-too-familiar sound. The rain had found a new place to penetrate our leak-prone roof . . . and was plopping steadily onto the duvet.
With January and germs (I hope) now thankfully in the past, we've arrived at one of the most picturesque times of the year on Mallorca. From every window of the house we can see almond trees decked with delicate pink blossoms. Yes, finca life has taken on a much rosier hue.
Admittedly I spent a week of it in bed, battling the flu, and it took another week before
I felt nearly back to normal, but really - how's a girl supposed to get everything done when
time flies by so quickly?
Reflecting back on the dark days of feeling ill (I really hate being out of commission), for the first time in five years I missed the little cottage back in Oxfordshire. To be strictly accurate, however, the only thing I really missed was the central heating.
How I longed for that warm bathroom with its carpet, radiator and heated towel rail, instead
of our chilly shower room with its tiled floor and ominous damp patches on the walls. There's something about being poorly that makes you yearn for comfort and warmth - particularly when you have to crawl out from beneath the duvet to use the bathroom.
But the week's biggest woe came on a day when the rain was pouring down . . . again.
As I snuggled under the duvet feeling very sorry for myself and listening to the relentless pounding of rain on the roof, I detected an additional and all-too-familiar sound. The rain had found a new place to penetrate our leak-prone roof . . . and was plopping steadily onto the duvet.
With January and germs (I hope) now thankfully in the past, we've arrived at one of the most picturesque times of the year on Mallorca. From every window of the house we can see almond trees decked with delicate pink blossoms. Yes, finca life has taken on a much rosier hue.
Monday, January 5, 2009
MUST TRY HARDER IN 2009
Gosh! Where did 2008 go? The year seemed to whizz by, despite the fact that we had an extra day because it was a leap year. There was even an additional one second tacked on at the end of the year, as those of us in Spain were poised to start popping the 'lucky grapes' at midnight. (Apparently the additional second was to compensate for the Earth's rotation slowing down - which might explain why the lids of my mince pies skewed off slightly during baking).
So we look back on twelve months when we were going to undertake a number of DIY tasks around the finca . . . but somehow didn't. In the spirit of the New Year, I've therefore decided to make some finca resolutions - in the hope that by putting them in the public domain, we might just achieve them in 2009:
We will paint the persianas. For the uninitiated, these are the traditional slatted shutters
that grace the windows and doors of many Spanish properties. Ours are made of wood
and desperately need some TLC. In September 2007 we replaced some of the ones at the back of the house with new ones and hastily slapped on one coat of paint before the autumn rains arrived. They're in dire need of a second coat, but it's the most boring job ever . . .
At the sun-baked front of the house, we face a more serious situation and will have to repair or even replace some of the shutters before we can start wielding a paintbrush. One of the two small shutters on the front bedroom window is so old and battered that we daren't open it in case all of the slats fall out (two already have).
We will paint the small walls separating our terraces from the jungle beyond (our
garden). I'm obviously going to have plenty of painting practice in 2009. Every year
since we bought the property in 2002 we've said we'd smarten up the exterior by
tackling this job. Originally (long before our time) painted a pale terracotta colour, they've been badly discoloured by the elements and now even sport patches of bright green moss. I feel a lengthy session with one of those high-pressure jet washers coming on . . .
We will plant a lemon tree. Looking down into our valley at the vast tangle of wild olive trees and assorted shrubs, it's impossible to believe that it used to be lush with citrus and peach trees. Turning the area back into a productive fruit garden is a resolution too far, but I will find a space somewhere to plant a lemon tree. Even before we'd decided where our 'place in the sun' would be, we used to wax lyrical about the prospect of picking one of our own (therefore unwaxed) lemons for a G&T at the end of the day. Just the one drink though - there's far too much work to be done to be nursing a hangover!
Happy New Year . . .
So we look back on twelve months when we were going to undertake a number of DIY tasks around the finca . . . but somehow didn't. In the spirit of the New Year, I've therefore decided to make some finca resolutions - in the hope that by putting them in the public domain, we might just achieve them in 2009:
We will paint the persianas. For the uninitiated, these are the traditional slatted shutters
that grace the windows and doors of many Spanish properties. Ours are made of wood
and desperately need some TLC. In September 2007 we replaced some of the ones at the back of the house with new ones and hastily slapped on one coat of paint before the autumn rains arrived. They're in dire need of a second coat, but it's the most boring job ever . . .
At the sun-baked front of the house, we face a more serious situation and will have to repair or even replace some of the shutters before we can start wielding a paintbrush. One of the two small shutters on the front bedroom window is so old and battered that we daren't open it in case all of the slats fall out (two already have).
We will paint the small walls separating our terraces from the jungle beyond (our
garden). I'm obviously going to have plenty of painting practice in 2009. Every year
since we bought the property in 2002 we've said we'd smarten up the exterior by
tackling this job. Originally (long before our time) painted a pale terracotta colour, they've been badly discoloured by the elements and now even sport patches of bright green moss. I feel a lengthy session with one of those high-pressure jet washers coming on . . .
We will plant a lemon tree. Looking down into our valley at the vast tangle of wild olive trees and assorted shrubs, it's impossible to believe that it used to be lush with citrus and peach trees. Turning the area back into a productive fruit garden is a resolution too far, but I will find a space somewhere to plant a lemon tree. Even before we'd decided where our 'place in the sun' would be, we used to wax lyrical about the prospect of picking one of our own (therefore unwaxed) lemons for a G&T at the end of the day. Just the one drink though - there's far too much work to be done to be nursing a hangover!
Happy New Year . . .
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