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 . . .
Thursday, February 19, 2009
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 . . .
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
TALKING TURKEY . . . AND FAREWELL TO FRIENDS
As our first Christmas on Mallorca approached, we thought back fondly to the wonderful butcher's shop in the village of Adderbury, where I'd lived for eleven years. Not only did Rob and his wife sell locally produced meat of a very high quality, they stocked lots of deli-type items and had even expanded their premises to provide a mini-supermarket offering general groceries. Their plump, flaky croissants – still warm from the special oven they'd installed – were a naughty treat. Our last Christmas in the UK we'd treated ourselves to a Kelly Bronze turkey from Rob's fine emporium. Cost a fortune. Tasted fantastic. Where would we find something that good on Mallorca?
We'd only seen turkeys here as frozen lumps of nobbliness in supermarket chest freezers, so we sought the advice of the butcher's stall in Manacor market. There, a cheerful chap wearing a jolly knitted hat, bottle-bottom specs and a big grin, explained that a fresh turkey would be no problem. He'd make a note of what we wanted and have it in by Christmas Eve. We'd turned to leave when, with a deadpan face, he called out a final question: did we want it dead or alive? We had a good laugh and, as it happened, a decent enough turkey for Christmas.
By the following Christmas we'd found Anype – a great little local butcher's shop, tucked away in a side street in Manacor – and they sold us a great turkey. Since then, we've been regular customers of Antonia and her husband Pedro, buying something most Saturdays, We're hardly their best customers: the locals seem to buy enormous quantities of meat, whereas we don't eat very much meat, but that's certainly not reflected in the way we're treated.
Each Christmas they've given us a small Anype-branded gift as a token of their appreciation. But what we've most valued have been all the laughs and great chats we've enjoyed with this couple - in spite of our less-than-perfect castellano (they usually speak only mallorquìn on a day-to-day basis).
But when we went in to order this year's turkey, there was bad news (for us and their many loyal customers): Antonia and Pedro are closing their shop on December 31, and retiring. Pedro is now 67 and, not surprisingly, ready to give up the long hours, hard work and chilly hands that are the lot of an old-fashioned butcher.
We collected our turkey and some of their delicious home-made sausages today, and delivered a Christmas card (the only one they had received since the locals don't tend to go in for these things). Both Antonia and I were a bit teary-eyed, even though we'll be back in the shop next week to stock up the freezer. And to ask where they'll be buying their meat in future . . .
Merry Christmas!
We'd only seen turkeys here as frozen lumps of nobbliness in supermarket chest freezers, so we sought the advice of the butcher's stall in Manacor market. There, a cheerful chap wearing a jolly knitted hat, bottle-bottom specs and a big grin, explained that a fresh turkey would be no problem. He'd make a note of what we wanted and have it in by Christmas Eve. We'd turned to leave when, with a deadpan face, he called out a final question: did we want it dead or alive? We had a good laugh and, as it happened, a decent enough turkey for Christmas.
By the following Christmas we'd found Anype – a great little local butcher's shop, tucked away in a side street in Manacor – and they sold us a great turkey. Since then, we've been regular customers of Antonia and her husband Pedro, buying something most Saturdays, We're hardly their best customers: the locals seem to buy enormous quantities of meat, whereas we don't eat very much meat, but that's certainly not reflected in the way we're treated.
Each Christmas they've given us a small Anype-branded gift as a token of their appreciation. But what we've most valued have been all the laughs and great chats we've enjoyed with this couple - in spite of our less-than-perfect castellano (they usually speak only mallorquìn on a day-to-day basis).
But when we went in to order this year's turkey, there was bad news (for us and their many loyal customers): Antonia and Pedro are closing their shop on December 31, and retiring. Pedro is now 67 and, not surprisingly, ready to give up the long hours, hard work and chilly hands that are the lot of an old-fashioned butcher.
We collected our turkey and some of their delicious home-made sausages today, and delivered a Christmas card (the only one they had received since the locals don't tend to go in for these things). Both Antonia and I were a bit teary-eyed, even though we'll be back in the shop next week to stock up the freezer. And to ask where they'll be buying their meat in future . . .
Merry Christmas!
Monday, December 8, 2008
GETTING INTO THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
The Christmas cake has been made and, after it's iced, nobody will notice that it's rather darker than it should be. Once again, the combined efforts of Delia (the recipe) and myself (the hard graft) have been thwarted by our rather useless Italian oven. With its smart brass fittings and matte finish, it looks good - but then so do many Italian things. The problem is that the thermostat doesn't work properly and the temperature goes up and down like a bride's nightie.
At least my homemade mincemeat looks and tastes rather fabulous (and I've had to taste it a few times to make sure). And so it should, with that much brandy and spiced rum in it. I even bought a small piece of festive fabric from a material shop in Manacor so that I could make kitsch little covers for the jar lids. Sorry . . . were you just dazzled by the sun reflecting off my halo?
Actually, cake and mincemeat aside, I've been struggling to feel festive. Several times I've sat down to write the Christmas cards and given up. It's because it's been a bit of a rough fortnight. We've both had colds and been hacking away like two people who chain-smoke Ducados (not an attractive sound). And Smokey, our Maine Coon cat, has been really poorly. He'd been having tests to determine why he was losing weight (despite a healthy appetite) when he too was laid low by a filthy cold. In the past fortnight we've been to the vet's nine times, during which he's had an ultrasound scan, various blood tests, some scarily expensive injections, and examinations. None of the visits has been less than an hour. At home, we've had to feed him hourly by syringe - he went completely off his food once the cold started - and give him various pills at different times of day. No wonder I'm behind with the ironing. Anyway, he's almost back to normal now and his weight loss problem has been solved.
So it was good to get out and visit Palma yesterday, for the 10th Ecumenical Christmas Carol Service in the city's beautiful cathedral. On Friday, the Christmas lights in the city had been officially switched on, so it was hard not to feel a frisson of Christmas spirit as we made our way through the streets. It was our fifth visit to this annual service, and I challenge anyone not to feel festive after singing a few carols, listening to the cathedral choir - Els Vermells de la Seu - and the talented little cuties in the Centre Stage Junior Chorus. Apart from the fact that some of the verses of traditional carols are sung in castellano or mallorquín (there seemed to be more words than available tune in some cases), and the inclusion of the Sibil-la, it has a rather British feel.
The Sibil-la is a chant dating back to the 10th century, traditionally sung before or during Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve - and Mallorca is now the only place where it's performed. The story of Judgement Day, it's sung unaccompanied by a lone chorister clad in oriental robes and holding aloft a rather heavy-looking sword. Between each verse there's a dramatic burst of music from the cathedral's magnificent organ. I'd sum it all up as hauntingly beautiful . . . and a bit long (plenty of time to reflect on one's own misdemeanours, I suppose).
For one small person, the service proved to be a bit too much. Just as the opening bars of "A Holly Jolly Christmas" were being played on the piano, an indignant voice (aged around three) piped up from a nearby pew: "Not another one!" The little boy's parents' faces were as red as the Centre Stage Juniors' sweaters, but the rest of us who heard it enjoyed a muffled giggle behind our order of service sheets.
I felt so festive when we arrived home, I had to start writing my Christmas cards - and have another spoonful of mincemeat. I think it's going to be fine . . .
At least my homemade mincemeat looks and tastes rather fabulous (and I've had to taste it a few times to make sure). And so it should, with that much brandy and spiced rum in it. I even bought a small piece of festive fabric from a material shop in Manacor so that I could make kitsch little covers for the jar lids. Sorry . . . were you just dazzled by the sun reflecting off my halo?
Actually, cake and mincemeat aside, I've been struggling to feel festive. Several times I've sat down to write the Christmas cards and given up. It's because it's been a bit of a rough fortnight. We've both had colds and been hacking away like two people who chain-smoke Ducados (not an attractive sound). And Smokey, our Maine Coon cat, has been really poorly. He'd been having tests to determine why he was losing weight (despite a healthy appetite) when he too was laid low by a filthy cold. In the past fortnight we've been to the vet's nine times, during which he's had an ultrasound scan, various blood tests, some scarily expensive injections, and examinations. None of the visits has been less than an hour. At home, we've had to feed him hourly by syringe - he went completely off his food once the cold started - and give him various pills at different times of day. No wonder I'm behind with the ironing. Anyway, he's almost back to normal now and his weight loss problem has been solved.
So it was good to get out and visit Palma yesterday, for the 10th Ecumenical Christmas Carol Service in the city's beautiful cathedral. On Friday, the Christmas lights in the city had been officially switched on, so it was hard not to feel a frisson of Christmas spirit as we made our way through the streets. It was our fifth visit to this annual service, and I challenge anyone not to feel festive after singing a few carols, listening to the cathedral choir - Els Vermells de la Seu - and the talented little cuties in the Centre Stage Junior Chorus. Apart from the fact that some of the verses of traditional carols are sung in castellano or mallorquín (there seemed to be more words than available tune in some cases), and the inclusion of the Sibil-la, it has a rather British feel.
The Sibil-la is a chant dating back to the 10th century, traditionally sung before or during Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve - and Mallorca is now the only place where it's performed. The story of Judgement Day, it's sung unaccompanied by a lone chorister clad in oriental robes and holding aloft a rather heavy-looking sword. Between each verse there's a dramatic burst of music from the cathedral's magnificent organ. I'd sum it all up as hauntingly beautiful . . . and a bit long (plenty of time to reflect on one's own misdemeanours, I suppose).
For one small person, the service proved to be a bit too much. Just as the opening bars of "A Holly Jolly Christmas" were being played on the piano, an indignant voice (aged around three) piped up from a nearby pew: "Not another one!" The little boy's parents' faces were as red as the Centre Stage Juniors' sweaters, but the rest of us who heard it enjoyed a muffled giggle behind our order of service sheets.
I felt so festive when we arrived home, I had to start writing my Christmas cards - and have another spoonful of mincemeat. I think it's going to be fine . . .
Thursday, November 27, 2008
COUNT US OUT, THANK YOU
At the beginning of November each year our local supermarket clears a space in a corner
and erects a temporary display stand: three shelves laden with 500 gm bags of paprika and balls of string in different colours. I remember being curious about these items when I spotted them during our first autumn here. Why did people buy such large bags of paprika? I use the spice fairly often in my own cooking, but a little jar of the stuff usually lasts ages. And the string? Something to do with the approaching festive season perhaps?
Of course, it wasn't long before I came to learn that these are essential items used in the annual event known as la matanza (or matança, in Catalan). November is the time when, traditionally, many rural folk here slaughter the portly pig that's been grazing contentedly most of the year in a field of fig trees.
It's when they invite family and friends to their homes to muck in and share the gory task of turning the deceased beast into sobrassada (a paprika-loaded pâté-type sausage), botifarró (another type of sausage) and cuts of pork for the coming winter months. And, of course, there's the obligatory feasting and fun afterwards. Not that I have personal experience of any of this, having never been to a matanza; frankly, it doesn't sound at all like my idea of a good time.
Since we moved here, kind Mallorcan neighbours have given us plants for the garden, and delicious fruit and vegetables in abundance. We've been invited to several homes for lunch or dinner and, amusingly, I was even once invited to a riotously noisy Tupperware party (of the 23 women there, I was the only foreigner).
But what we really, really don't want to receive from our generous neighbours - and it's why we keep a low profile in our valley in early November - is an invitation to a matanza . . . . no, gracias.
and erects a temporary display stand: three shelves laden with 500 gm bags of paprika and balls of string in different colours. I remember being curious about these items when I spotted them during our first autumn here. Why did people buy such large bags of paprika? I use the spice fairly often in my own cooking, but a little jar of the stuff usually lasts ages. And the string? Something to do with the approaching festive season perhaps?
Of course, it wasn't long before I came to learn that these are essential items used in the annual event known as la matanza (or matança, in Catalan). November is the time when, traditionally, many rural folk here slaughter the portly pig that's been grazing contentedly most of the year in a field of fig trees.
It's when they invite family and friends to their homes to muck in and share the gory task of turning the deceased beast into sobrassada (a paprika-loaded pâté-type sausage), botifarró (another type of sausage) and cuts of pork for the coming winter months. And, of course, there's the obligatory feasting and fun afterwards. Not that I have personal experience of any of this, having never been to a matanza; frankly, it doesn't sound at all like my idea of a good time.
Since we moved here, kind Mallorcan neighbours have given us plants for the garden, and delicious fruit and vegetables in abundance. We've been invited to several homes for lunch or dinner and, amusingly, I was even once invited to a riotously noisy Tupperware party (of the 23 women there, I was the only foreigner).
But what we really, really don't want to receive from our generous neighbours - and it's why we keep a low profile in our valley in early November - is an invitation to a matanza . . . . no, gracias.
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