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.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
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.
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