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
Friday, April 24, 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
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