Putting Them Through Their Paces

 I bought my first car from a dealer in Almería. I was eighteen and had recently (that morning, probably) passed the driving test in Huercal Overa. The car was a kind of old Renault van called a 4F with the push-pull gears but fitted with an Ondine engine rather than the usual 4L couchez-avec egg-beater. This meant that the old girl could thunder along at a rather better speed than suggested by the body and was just the ticket for me. The passenger seat was removable; it merely hooked in at the front, so it offered a rather nasty surprise to anyone sat next to me when I stepped on the brake, but with the seat parked on the tarmac, I had room to stretch out full length on a thin mattress for a snooze. That’s right: my first vehicle was a camper.

I remember belting one day down the wiggly line on the map laughably called a road which connected Mojácar with Murcia and all points north. In those far-off times, roads went through towns, rather than round them, which meant you could stop for a libation every hour or two. Trucks would work their winkers to let you pass. There were no discernible speed-limit, and no one took any notice of the signs anyway. There were drain-channels across the road which, if hit with sufficient speed, would cause you to leave a dent in your roof as the car dipped and you didn’t. On this occasion I was approaching Murcia at somewhere over a hundred kph when I saw two cops on the side of the road, just at the point where the road itself dropped about six inches and turned into a rutted track. No warning signs, of course. Spoil the fun. There wasn’t time to slow down nor was I inclined to, as the two grinning policemen waved me past, like fans at the track. I think I broke a kind of automotive long-jump record that day.

The car took me to England in about 1974 on an early adventure in my life, the only time I have ever driven from here-to-there, all the way through to Calais and across the channel. Crossing into France caused me some embarrassment as I stopped at the frontier and whipped out my passport at the desk with a merry ‘Bong-jour’ only to see a small package arc across my line of vision. It was a single and rather elderly prophylactic that I had kept in an inner pocket ‘for emergencies’. To my horror, monsieur le flic saw it as well. ‘Is ze engleesh gentleman goin to defloweur one of our fine French beautees?’ he asked kindly, picking it up and returning it to me. Sadly not.

The front axle of my passion-wagon fell off in Norfolk and a mechanic friend of the family told me that it would cost 50 pounds to repair and that the car wasn’t worth it. Yea, right. So, once fixed, and driving back home, again through France and into Spain, the old Renault van proved him wrong. It lasted another couple of years before I sold it on to the Bédar town hall. 

A few years later, a Spanish friend with an odd sense of humour told our family of how he had just bought a strange foreign car: a brand he couldn’t remember (you could only buy Simcas, Renaults, Citroens and Seats in Spain in those days, peppered vaguely with a few enormous American Dodges and a strange kind of Austin making sure that the British car industry would remain a world power forever). He had left this car, he continued, in Almería, parked on some side-street and the problem was, as he explained to the police, he couldn’t remember where he had left it and, as they attempted to take down some details, he admitted that he had no idea what sort of car it was. Despite this unforgivable lack of crossing one’s tees and dotting one’s ayes, the car was eventually located and returned to its concerned owner… who promptly sold it to my father. It soon became mine. 

It was a two-tone Karmann Ghia 1500 Special and easily the worst car ever made. It had a rear engine hidden under a false boot and a large and empty space in the front, empty, that is, except for some rust and a sack of cement. Without this aid, the front wheels would lose all contact with the road once you got up to about sixty, which may have helped improve my reaction time and general driving skills but must nevertheless be seen as a major design flaw. Sometime along the way, a school-friend came to stay and asked to borrow the car. He seemed a decent sort, and he played a lot of polo. He wanted to go down to Marbella for some amorous reason. I gave him the keys. I have never heard from him or the car since. I hope he’s all right.

I met my fastest and most terrifying car for the first time when wandering around in Madrid and suddenly saw her sat in the window of a second-hand car studio. This was a red Italian super-car, a 1967 Iso Rivolta with a gigantic American Corvette V8 engine in it, making the car capable of breaking the sound barrier. I was about 30 and in the mood for some muscle and so I bought it from the suspiciously grateful dealer for a million pesetas. The car brought me down to Mojácar in a personal record time, helped by not having any brakes at all. It was quite splendid. It turned out that the car had belonged to a political nutter who had shot some left-wing lawyers dead in a famous attack in Madrid in 1977. He obviously wouldn’t be using it for a while. To give you some idea of how fast this luxury four-seater was, the speedo – while unfortunately broken – went up to 300kph.

 But that was then, before they invented air-bags, satellite navigation and eight-track. Today I drive an old Mercedes lovingly made in 1984 which, at a top speed of around 100, is a bit slower than I’ve been used to, but it does mean that the traffic cops and those ugly speed trap gizmos on the motorway will leave me alone as I chug effortlessly past.

These days, that’s enough for anyone.

 

(From Spanish Shilling, 2010) 

Sticky Cakes

 Do you remember ‘the Twinkie Defence’? This was the story of some lunatic who ran into the mayor of San Francisco’s office many years ago and shot several people to death, including Hizzonor. The Californian police, failing for once to shoot the ‘alleged perpetrator of this heinous and unprovoked attack', carted him off to clink instead.  

Well, the pesky defence lawyers got hold of him and discovered that he had munched on a couple of cup-cakes before bursting through the doors of City Hall. Their defence was based on this simple meal – the sugar in the cup cakes (or ‘Twinkies’ as the Americans call them) had gone to his head.

 Imagine what he might have done if he had eaten an entire box of them.

 Here in Spain, traditional cakes – found above all either at the village fiesta or behind glass at the back of a roadside restaurant – are to be seen and admired, but, at least until recently, never eaten. They would vary from the ones created from sugar, flour, lard and some confectioner’s kreme, drizzled with cheap honey, while the better ones might have had a glass of sticky rum splashed over them to make them even more scrumptious…

No, I’m kidding. They were (and are) horrible. 

We had to buy one in the pueblo the other day for a child’s birthday. ‘Hapy Birhtday to Jhonahton’ was lovingly picked out in vermillion paste across the top of this monster. Luckily Jonathan isn’t much of a reader and failed to notice the errata. He nevertheless picked up a valuable lesson after finishing his second piece of the confection: 

 Always sit near the door.

 At home, we disagree about cakes. I like a fruit cake prepared several months before, stuffed with cherries and whatever else it is they put in those things and covered with marzipan and icing, while my wife prefers something chocolaty with nuts.

 But the Andalusians veer from this, preferring to use oils and lard (that’s to say, rendered animal fat) to butter. The best place to start with genuine local cakes is at the village fiesta where you can admire a range of er, sweet things usually covered in enthusiastic if incautious wasps. Ask for a media-luna – a marvel of the cakemakers' art which is usually designed more for show than for tell.

Other varieties might be tooth-breakingly hard and maybe stuffed with ‘angel hair’, also known as sugared pumpkin mush. The icing will be generous, but free from milk or butter. I think it’s fair to say that the entire cake, built to both look good and to last during the several days of the fiesta, should never be eaten on an empty stomach.  

There’s a notorious cake made in the south called Torta de Chicharrones. it’s made with pork-fat, flour, yeast, an egg and small chewy bits which turn out to be chicharrón – pig’s crackling.

The best time for cakes (apart from during the village fiesta), is the Christmas Season which brings polverones, which are cookies made of crushed almond-dust. The also popular roscones are round cakes made with cream, milk, sponge, with bits of angelica root and other dried fruit and they will follow the erstwhile British custom of the sixpence in the mix by putting a small metal virgin or the representation of one of the three kings, a collectable, somewhere in the confection.

A fashion no doubt introduced by dentists. 

In all, Andalucía, under the control of the Moors for many centuries, enjoys something a bit heavier than a sponge cake covered with icing. The usual fillings (which in Morocco or the Middle East can be quite delicious) include dates, nuts, dried fruit and lashings of honey.

But the most likely place to find a cake is with one’s breakfast. We have ‘Napolitanas’ which are buns filled with cream or chocolate. They vary from warm and good to dry and old. You can dip them in your coffee – sometimes, indeed, you are obliged to.

The most popular bun is the ‘Madalena’ which is a simple and rather tasteless sponge scone. Well, spongy anyway. It comes wrapped in plastic. The ‘Cruasán’ is the Spanish croissant, made with pork fat rather than butter. Not very good as a rule, especially when it’s been on the cake-shelf for a couple of days. There are a few brand-name cakes in their eye-catching packets, chocolate Swiss-roll types of things, including a frightening looking pink one called ‘Pantera Rosa’ which I both imagine and hope is banned in the Greater San Francisco area. 

Lastly, the ever popular and industrial doughnut, the ‘Donut’, which comes in assorted flavours and a truly alarming collection of chemicals, food additives, colourings, flavourings, preservatives and conservatives. Personally, I love ’em.

It's hard to escape the fact that the best places where lumps of sugared sponge-drops are served with your coffee are usually heavily patrolled by diabetic sparrows, destined to die at an early age in a blissful sugar-rush. 

As our area has enthusiastically grasped the nettle of the Twenty-first Century, where you can no longer find a simple salad on the menu, or pig n’ chips without an endless complication of sauce and adornment (I had slices of strawberry surrounding my lamb chops the other evening in a Mojácar hostelry), so, too, our coffee shops have improved in the cake department. We have Italian, French and British cakes, scones, pies and bonbons which are a far cry from an earlier age when the aerodynamic ones were prized by discerning customers above all others.

I think that the new trend started with the introduction to Spain of the Italian tiramisu (a soft and chocolaty little number).

The other day, I rounded off my dinner with a delicious ‘Grannie’s Cake’ (‘pastel de la abuela’) – very good it was, although packed with around 1,000 calories. 

Cakes, ice cream (delicious in Spain), chocolates and sticky things in plastic cups. I wonder if they have an effect. Perhaps they’re just there to make us fat.

That'll be an Eiffel.

 It's so magnificently 'orrible that it's worth a posting here.

 Europa Press tells of this idea to build a truly gigantic metal toro in some strategic location. ‘The Spanish Bullfighting Academy is seeking a municipality to erect a 300-metre bull as a major tourist icon’. Somebody says Guadalajara (since Madrid has already gone with niet). 

I wonder if we will all be asked to chip in. 

‘It’ll be like the Eiffel Tower of Spain’ say the promoters of the plan. 

We have black Soberano bulls dotted along the highways, and I think they are fun to see as I am driving hither and yon (especially yon). But a kind of Angel of the North or Eiffel Tower located - at least in the artist's rendition - on a giant roundabout may be a bit rich. 

An iron bull with easily the largest pair of cojones in the world.  

Spain is different.

The Thirst

 It’s so hot where I’m living, so very hot, that I’m thirsty all the time.

When I go shopping, I buy drinks. Water, horchata, beer, juice and Aquarius. If there’s room in the bag, and there won’t be, then maybe something to eat – cheese, bread and anything simple that my air-fryer can handle.

They’d run out of Aquarius yesterday, the drink that is an isotonic beverage made by the Coca Cola people. I’m told that it ‘helps with hydration and to replenish fluids and minerals lost during physical activity’, like tipping the shopping bag full of drinks straight into the fridge. Anyway, they had a special new version in the shop, red instead of grey, so I bought a bottle of that instead: Aquarius Melocotón Rojo: Red Peach! Google says they are far rarer than the ‘yellow-fleshed type’. Who would have guessed?

Anyway, cold, it slips down easily enough.

The beer too. 

I was wondering about ingredients. A water bottle will tell you it’s got all these interesting minerals and salts, but a beer will just say, Contents: agua, malts, hops and yeast, and then in smaller print, ‘Stop reading this stuff, I thought you were thirsty’. The vital ingredient which makes beer such a popular refreshment is mentioned elsewhere: Alcohol: 4.8% (I never saw the point of non-alcoholic beer, which anyway, says Google, is ‘high in calories, carbohydrates, and sugar’).

So, what sort of agua do they put in the beer? Where’s the list of minerals and salts for this leading ingredient that makes up 95% of my tinned cerveza? Is it maybe distilled water we’ve got here?

Back to the helpful IA that attends my every doubt. No, they use mineral water or even tap water. The water gives it taste, apparently. Works for me.

Water features as the first ingredient in any liquid in my fridge – even the horchata or the apple juice. Let’s see… what else did I pick up at the supermarket?

One of the juices I bought home – I’m a sap for anything new – comes from those good folk at Granini. It’s called Exotic Break (hard for a Spaniard to say) and it tastes like a banana and cherry combo I tried in Germany the other day. Better with a dollop of ice cream.

This juice, and I’ve drained the bottle already, says ‘Pitaya y Guayaba’ on the label, but (once again with my nose in the small print), the guayaba (guava in English) is third in the ingredients (behind apple) and the pitaya lies in fifth place, just behind sugar and in front of beetroot. Who makes these things up? It’s got to cost the manufacturer a fortune to push a new taste, and how on earth did they come up with the cunning addition of beetroot juice?

Pitaya, by the way, turns out to be dragon fruit (one of those fruit that turns up in the markets after a successful crop, like chirimoyas and membrillos – custard apples and quinces). Like I say, as long as it’s wet.

For those who think I should eat more, let me say here that I get my daily vits and roughage from the little gazpacho and salmorejo bottles available at Mercadona.

It’s odd though. None of those drinks, not even the beer, fail to refresh me as much as a nice cup of tea. Served hot with a squirt of milk and a spoon of sugar. Sometimes, my Englishness still peeps through.

Could You Speak a Little Louder Por Favor

Languages – especially those that one doesn’t speak – are an eternal problem for us all. It’s really quite tiresome to have to listen to someone yattering away in a foreign tongue, and even worse when they decide that speaking louder might help.

And thus, the dismay from many of the Spanish, faced with a foreign tourist (or sometimes even a resident) as everyone finally must resort to pantomime.

Pity the poor woman who bought an apartment in Tenerife and finds she must bring along a translator for the regular community meetings. For some reason or other, this local woman doesn’t speak German – which is the majority language spoken in that particular block of flats located in Santa Úrsula.

There are a lot of foreigners living in Spain – something like 19% of the population. Most of them speak perfect Spanish (think: 4.2 million Latin Americans plus many others). Most of the rest of us can get by (short of sudden visits to the hospital or the lawyer, when one finds one’s vocabulary begin to fail).

Then there are all those tourists flopping around – most of whom simply know nothing much beyond una cerveza and (usually spelt wrong while pronounced perfectly), ¡hola! 

Maybe if I speak louder. Anyway, I ordered a sandwich, what on earth is this?

In winter, it’s easy for us guiris to distance ourselves from the trippers. We wear long trousers and a sweater while they are in t-shirt and shorts.

They’ll be pinker too – we know all about the power of the sun.

Summer’s a problem though – perhaps we’ll flex our linguistic muscle and order un tinto de Verano. That’ll show ’em.

Some of our leaders here in Spain are also challenged by ‘foreign’ languages. Isabel Díaz Ayuso walked out of a meeting of Spain’s regional presidents the other day when one of them spoke in Catalán (How Dare He?), and then there's Feijóo’s lack of languages and Abascal’s comic recent attempt at speaking French.

A waiter needs to speak English to get a decent tip; but a politician can – as Feijóo says – always finds an interpreter.

Water-Pistols at Dawn

The gangs of roving tourists are a problem in the cities, as anyone who lives and works in Madrid, Barcelona, Granada or Seville must know, as the local folk on their way to and from work or to the supermarket must zigzag around unconscious groups of culture-vultures.

Some of our younger and more impressionable neighbours with itchy trigger-fingers have taken to arming themselves with water pistols and anyone pink over five foot eight (173cms) and wearing flip-flops might receive an unwanted squirt. Indeed, some Spaniards are so angry, they’ve been using ‘super-soakers’ (the assault-weapon of water-pistols. I believe Amazon sells them).

The answer is to choose a holiday in those resorts that are geared to tourism. A jolly time to relax rather than a hurried visit to some city crammed with camera-shots, selfies and a guide yapping on about squeezing in just one more palace before lunchtime.

There are no water-pistol shops to be found in Benidorm or Marbella and everyone there speaks English.

You know something?

Business is good.

Mojácar's Moors and Christians Festival

 It’s the time of the year when some of the pueblos in my small corner of Spain celebrate their various Moors and Christians festivals. How close to marking a factual date, or just because it was otherwise going to be a quiet weekend, is unclear. But apparently in 1488, Mojácar fell to the Christian forces. Next-door Vera on the one side of us and Carboneras just over the mountain on the other side also fell this (or maybe next) weekend some 537 years ago. As I write this, all three towns have been enjoying their processions, fabulous costumes, bands playing waily-waily music and lots of thunder-flashes going off – loud enough to wake the dead. Indeed, to add to the fun, Vera town hall has thrown in a bullfight as well.

And don’t forget, Carboneras has a castle for that extra bit of verisimilitude. 

The whole idea began down our way in around 1988 (appropriately, the fifth centenary of the final push towards Granada, a ‘reconquista’ which swept through our area in that year). The costumes and celebrations come (usually rented in our case) from the Alicante town of Alcoy, which has apparently been honing its medieval armour since King Jaume of Valencia passed through there with his forces in 1276.

 

Mojácar’s festival is different, according to our recently-invented tradition, in that the Christian captain and the Moorish mayor are said to have sunk their differences over a glass of dandelion tonic down at the Fuente, and agreed that we – or rather they – were all Spaniards together and, by the way and in case you wondered, the road to Granada is over there, just past that algarrobo. As the Town Hall’s blurb puts it ‘…when we tell them of the story of that peaceful surrender of the city, they are surprised. It's a festival without victors or vanquished’.

 

This year, the fiesta had been extended an extra day and now runs Thursday through Sunday. When pueblos find that they are on to a good thing, visitor-wise, they often add an extra day or two. The Almería City’s saint’s day in August, for example, runs for nine days straight.

 

Peculiar that, considering that very few visitors make their way to the Big Al. Their surrender to the Christians, meanwhile, falls rather unfortunately on December 26th – where other, jollier celebrations are already going on.

 

We went up to the village on Thursday evening, to find that things hadn’t really got going. The different hard-board castles or kabilas, or whathaveyous were there, pressed back to back in the reduced area of the pueblo (Mojácar: a small and ancient town perched on a hill), all equipped with the 21st century equivalent of record players. Eight different venues for the seven groups loosely divided into Moors or Christians (generally speaking, the Moors are the PSOE and the Christians are the PP because, even in a small village, one must divide into still smaller peñas to belong).

 

The foreigners? Well some of them have joined in, above all, those who can afford to rent a costume. 

 

I’ve been to a few Moors and Christians festivals over the years. The tinier villages in the mountains may be a bit quieter – with a costumed fellow on horseback declaiming a major chunk of poetry to his be-turbaned antagonist before the hired band lets go with a selection of modern pop songs and we all, locals and those who moved years ago to Almería City but still have a house here, move en masse to the tin chiringuito for a beer and something chewy on the hot-plate. One village popular with the foreigners, Bédar, used to feature a chap on a donkey wrapped in a table-cloth, another wearing the uniform of a military service private soldier seated on a Mobylette, plus someone from the Town Hall to help with the ancient poetry. ‘Avast, thou Moor, for this is a Godly Kingdom…’

 

Gouts of this stuff. Think ‘The Merchant of Venice’. And then cue the fireworks, and down to the bar. 

 

Mojácar on Thursday evening was fairy crowded but the various kabilas hadn’t got going, so we sat in the main square at a table with someone we knew, together with a man from Tipperary, whose accent, alas, was too impenetrable for my poor German companion, plus a very nice lady dressed in a disturbing Goth outfit. To make up the party, there was a large and unchained parrot, who was nodding appreciably in time to the distant drums.

 

After a couple of schooners of gin and a Donner Kebab – Mojácar suddenly has a number of these establishments – we went home (there’s a secret route that the traffic police for some reason haven’t found).

 

For these affairs, I used to wear my old djellaba (a sort of gentleman’s nighty with a hood), a souvenir of a long-ago trip to Morocco. But I can’t find it now, I think it must have gotten thrown out.

 

On the second evening, Friday, we decided to take the bus up to the village – a performance which proved to be painless. We could see cars parked all the way up and all the way down again. Our bus-driver let us off just below the square.

 

By now, the party was well and truly underway. Many townsfolk were in their costumes and several carried with them a type of arquebus (or maybe a hand-cannon) called un trabuco, which, as far as I can see, they will fire off whenever they see a defenceless earhole. The different barracks were doing trade, one with a magnificent group of brass musicians from Alicante wearing fezzes. The wine was flowing and luckily the busses were still running when we finally made our adieus.

 

Saturday was a quiet day for us, with the windows firmly closed – and the air-conditioner on full – to help keep the explosions, bangs, drum-rolls, trumpets and shrieks away.

The last day of the festival was Sunday.

 

We took the bus once again, this time so overcrowded, the driver could barely close the door. We then lounged about for a couple of hours, with a few drinks to refresh ourselves, in keen anticipation of the oncoming parade.

 

Which was fantastic.

 

I think they must rent the costumes from some crafty fellow in Alicante who is making himself a small fortune. They were both beautiful and dramatic. More and more warriors (and princesses and some heavily armed children) passed slowly and regally by, with musicians accompanying each of the seven kábilas.  The whole parade took over ninety minutes and probably had anything up to a thousand participants.

 

Following this stupendous experience, everyone else went home, while we settled on another glass of wine and a bowl of patatas bravas.

 

The Mojácar mayor had this to say:  

 

‘In many other cities, the confrontation is recreated. In Mojácar, we celebrate mutual respect. And that, in these times, is more valuable than ever’.

Pink Wine on the Nekkar

 I was in Baden-Württemberg (south-west Germany) for the past couple of weeks, enjoying excellent weather, good beer and food, while visiting churches, various Schlösser (including a gigantic one in Schwetzingen) and cake-shops. 

I took a boat down the River Neckar in Heidelberg (an astonishingly beautiful city), cycled a hundred kilometres down back-lanes and through small villages (with a luxurious e-bike: it’s like you are always going down-hill) and visited a local zoo (with another cake-shop) and later went to a huge old car, motorbike, plane and tank museum in Sinsheim. 

The Sinsheim museum really is quite a thing. There's a Concorde one can climb inside and also a WW2 U-boat (which must have been quite a bother to obtain since the town is almost 600kms from the sea).

With a couple of obligatory stops in some Biergärten, the occasional schnapps and then another cake or two for good luck (Do watch out for the apfelstrudel!), I had a great trip and now weigh rather a lot. 

My thanks to my kind hostess.

I didn’t (and don’t) think much of Barajas airport. I had to wait there for several hours queuing to get another ticket after my flight from Germany had been delayed by two idiots flying drones over the runways there. Barajas, which has several hundred squatters living in this decidedly uncomfortable airport, was spraying against a plague of bedbugs while I was visiting.

In Spain, we seem to be enjoying some outside weather as well, notably while protesting for this or that. The Good Folk from Madrid for example were spoilt for choice over this past weekend with a pro-Palestine demo, an anti-Sánchez rally and a pro-European march.

Frankly, I would have gone for an ice-cream instead.