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 . . .
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
