Breaking Wind

Now I’m getting a little older, I have taken to walking each day. Severe walking. This means, according to those health experts that infest the Internet, that I must haul in my stomach, straighten my back, and walk, purposely, at least six or eight or ten thousand steps a day, according to whichever adviser catches me first.

I used to take the dog with me for my peregrinations, but I’ve noticed that, unlike me, he reckons that age is an excuse to stay home and chew on a book.

To measure my steps, I have an application on my mobile phone. Six or seven thousand yesterday, including the steps I took when I stupidly left the phone on the bed.

Another health expert tells me that I must walk along my route – happily, I live between the countryside and the beach – with a sense of awe as this will refresh my brain.

If you prefer to use a kayak for your exercise, then it would of course be a sense of oar.

And thus, I walk purposefully along the beach, winking gamely at the passersby, and sigh mightily each time I notice a seagull, a flowering sandwort or a naked woman going past on a pedalo.

The day before yesterday, I had to go to the townhall to get a paper. This means in our fragrant dorp, parking at the back then walking up to the village itself: through, up and over and down the narrow streets on the other side. And then back. Steps mostly, and no cheating. Then (fortifying myself en route with a cold glass of beer), I drove down to the urbanisation on the beach where there’s currently no parking because the city fathers are building a parking-lot (enjoy the irony) to see a lawyer, who promptly sent me back up to the village again for another bit of paper.  

And that day, wonder of wonders, I scored around 9,000 steps just chasing documents.

This made me think: what kind of numbers does a waiter do, or a barman – just with his daily toing and froing between the coffee machine and the icebox? Probably a hell of a lot more than nine thousand. Come to think of it, I once did 20,000 without leaving the stables. 

It’s been windy though. Wind is not kind to those who travel on their own energy. I used to particularly hate cycling into the wind. It’s worse than rain or probably (although I wouldn’t swear to it) snow. The wind makes forward motion very stressful, and the sense of awe can go and hang itself.

On this occasion – last weekend – the wind was blowing strongly. With gusts, says my phone knowledgeably, of up to 75kph carrying old bits of cardboard, leaves, some small branches and a surprised looking seagull apparently flying backwards. I started out on my enjoyable power-walk, tummy in and gamely taking notice of my surroundings (including a plastic wheelie-bin that suddenly overtook me on the straight), but decided, as the rain started, that I should probably turn around and head back to the car: leaning forward into the wind with tiny faltering steps.

Then, as I passed the supermarket, I had an idea: twice round and up and down the aisles would easily put me in the black for the day.

As for the awe, I bought a chocolate bar.  

... 

The figure struggling against the wind is our local totem: the Indalo.  

The Mojácar Library

I was sorting through some old books of mine found in a few boxes in the attic and came across a handful I just knew the local English Library would kill to get their hands on. Treasures like ‘Fodor’s Amsterdam 1957’, Maigret’s Second to Last Case’, and a virgin copy of ‘Teach Yourself Swahili’.

At the bottom, hidden under the ‘Collected Works of Alistair MacLean’s Greatest Poems’, I found a peculiar scientific magazine about pets, or rather: ‘Anthrozoös – A Multidisciplinary Journal of the Interactions of People, Animals and Nature’.

Where on earth did that come from?

The library was closed for the day, giving me a chance to dive into the mag, thirty years old this month. All a bit beyond me, although I found an article about cockfighting – a pastime apparently still legal in Jeréz de la Frontera.

Another book, and I’ll keep this one, has seventy-five front pages of Almería newspapers courtesy of the Almería Press Association.

One of the newspapers featured was mine: ‘The Entertainer’ (if you remember it).

I found another treasure: ‘Mi Mamá me Mima’ – a book about how Spanish women were treated during the Franco years (Spoiler: not good), with useful tips about cleaning the kitchen and so on.

In reality though, once I’ve dusted off all the classics, the dictionaries and the Latin primers, and put them lovingly either in the dustbin or aside for the Chief Librarian to worry about, I turn with more interest to the large remainder.

See, I’m more of a thriller reader.

Spy stories are good, plus bug-eyed monster books and the better detective yarns. By now I’ve read over seven thousand of them I reckon (apart from War and Peace, which took over a month, I can usually get through two or three books a week).

When we first moved to Spain, before the Age of Television, my dad shipped half a ton of novels to keep us (and a number of English-speaking neighbours) amused. It was hard finding shops that catered for the English reader back then. There was one shop in Granada which had a shelf of very old paperbacks – probably printed in the fifties – and a couple of second-hand places in far off Torremolinos on one side, and Benidorm on the other. Not much to be going on with unless you brought your own with you (or fancied a merry weekend in T-Town).

I was an unwilling student in England in those tender days of the second half of the sixties and was a keen reader (there wasn’t much else to do at my school). So, with a suitcase full of books, records and teabags, I would be welcomed three times a year by my parents (or one of their friends if there was a party going on) at the Almería airport.

My bookcase, or rather, my several bookcases, are full of treasures and as I get older and more forgetful, I discover, ruefully, that I can read them all over again.

As for an electric book, a Kindle (with a thousand books stored therein), I think it would look a bit silly and self-conscious leaning against the wall all by itself on an otherwise naked bookshelf.

I still prefer books to the soulless TV, which now – for a small consideration – brings you shows in your own language (one might never know that the neighbours are Spanish).

These days, I can’t afford new books in English (where available: the nearest store in is Almería) and don’t approve of Amazon, so the second-hand or charity shops (we have at least eight within a ten-minute drive) keep me happy enough, four for a euro.

And then, there’s the library. They say they will accept books in good condition but are probably thinking of someone bringing in just two or three. They have a fine collection, it must be said, and I’m a keen member (also – it’s nice to talk with the volunteer librarians about books). I brought them four boxes-worth last week.

I was wondering though: the English Library still doesn’t have a computer, using instead a card-filing system; but one day, in the far future, I suppose one could just avoid a visit and download interesting reading matter via the Internet onto the trusty Kindle – leaving me and many like me with no one to talk to.

The Mojácar Old Days (were the best)

I’m not sure if they did table-service back then, I’ll have to ask Haro’s son Paco when I see him. ‘Let’s see, two gin and tonics, three wines, a beer and a Fanta Orange’ (the last one being for me). I’m pretty sure you had to walk up to the bar to place your order.

In those days, back in the late sixties, there wasn’t much else to do for my parents and their friends beyond gossip and drink while seated around the rickety tables of the Hotel Indalo in the square. There was no TV, no newspapers and few interruptions beyond…

‘Napia, gimme a duro’, said a dishevelled local fellow called Antonio: the price of a brandy.

My dad would hand over the five peseta coin and Antonio would totter into the bar for his reward.

Oddly, the word Napia (my family name is Napier) would raise chuckles among the local folk. Everybody had a nickname (important when there are seventeen people called Paco working in the town hall) and napia means in Spanish a beak, a hooter, a conk, a schnozz – in short, a large nose. This happened to be a feature of my father’s appearance, along with being very tall, red-headed, and covered with so many freckles that they always looked like they might one day decide to join together.

He was also known as El Langostino.

My parents had already decided to leave the UK and move to somewhere odd, when a family friend suggested Mojácar: a falling-down white village in the forgotten province of Almería with a view of the sea and just the one cheap hotel (60 pesetas a night). They arrived in the summer of 1966, just a few months after the bombs fell from the stricken USAF B-52 over the nearby village of Palomares.

I was at boarding school and didn’t make it over to Spain until the following year.

It's out of print, sadly.

A couple of the people regularly gathered around the tables on the terrace were something to do with the Americans – one of them was rumoured to be in the CIA and another had worked ‘for Uncle Sam’ installing a desalination plant over the site of one of the fallen bombs as a sop towards an outraged Franco (it was quickly dismantled after the Americans left and sold for scrap). The engineer deciding to stay and open the village’s first beach bar.

There were a couple of London wide-boys, a few artists, some gays, an Olympic skier gone to seed, a dance instructress who had been in the French resistance, a Danish fellow with a handlebar moustache who spoke better English than Terry Thomas (who he strongly resembled), an air-vice marshal with a plummy accent, an American draft-dodger (Vietnam), two or three piednoirs (Franco didn’t allow work-permits, but French Algerians were excepted), and a revolving number of others who came and went as circumstances allowed.

If they all enjoyed a few jars, the odd libation, a nip or two, a gargle and a swally, the only sober one at these sessions would be me. I was thirteen when I first came to Mojácar, and I maybe smoked a bit – but I had no interest in booze, and the one time I tried I was sick all over my father.

Smoking though. Everybody smoked. It was so cheap back then – a packet cost between five and twelve pesetas (three to seven cents of a euro) with the only problem being that this was black tobacco, grown I think in Extremadura. Far rougher than Virginia.

Not an issue of course – everyone in those times smoked Ducados or Celtas.

Even Antonio, the moocher.

The hotelier’s son, about my age, grew up as one does and wrote a book a few years ago. It was a homage to those early foreigners who had stayed either in the hotel or slept in the foyer. He kindly called his tome: ‘Mojaqueros de Hecho’ (Francisco Haro Pérez) - The Made Mojaqueros.  

Rain or Shine

It’s been raining a lot recently. I am sure that the ground could do with a good soaking, and the wild-flowers later this month and next will no doubt be spectacular. But for those of us who live under a flat roof (as most of us do in Almería) the first thing after the pitter-patter sound above our heads (unless it’s the cat) is to put out a few buckets in the living room, move the bed a bit to the right and tie a knot in our handkerchief to remember to see about fixing the leaks once the sun returns. 

Or, failing that, before next winter anyway.

We never think much about rain down here in the south, although flooding both on the Costa del Sol and the Costa Blanca can be mortal (229 people died in the Dana in October 2024 in Valencia). Sometimes houses near where I live get inundated, especially in those areas which are listed both as flood-planes and urbanisable by whoever makes these calls. 

My friend Chicho would tell a story of how he was sitting under an umbrella in his lounge watching water dribble through a crack in the window one wet afternoon when the local lagoon breached and a tide of water smashed through the glass and drenched the poor guy.

In most of Spain, a river is a river, or at least a stream. It will fill up when the rains come, maybe overflow and cause damage to the roads and nearby houses; but here in the dry south we don’t have rivers – we have ramblas, which are in effect, huge drains waiting for their moment of glory.

Along comes Storm Francis: Frank to his friends. The various costas are duly flooded and the journalists are to be found, standing in their wellies and speaking into the cameras. It’s the usual television cliché, like when they show snowballers after a good arctic storm.

Right now, I’m home safe, dry and warm. I have a couple of large tins of pork in a German sauce, courtesy of Aldi and my own planning ahead, a bottle of gin and some tea. I’ll be fine. I’m also isolated, surrounded by a lake as our dry river has filled and overflowed into my grateful orchard. The thing about the river-beds is that they can suddenly fill with water as a wave comes from up-stream. It’s not here that the rain needs to be watched, so much us up there. A decent wadi can fill in no time at all.

It will be a couple of days before I can get out and go shopping.

Actually, having written that, I see that I panicked needlessly, and the road is still there.

So: lessons. First of all, build your dream home on a small hill. It’s good for your tubes.

Second, if you are going to have a flat roof (and our local ordinance insists that you must), then make sure it’s leakproof.

Thirdly, buy a couple of those German emergency K-rations – mine are good until 2028.

 

This IA Stuff is Overrated

I didn't realise that I was so distinguished.

At least, according to Meta.

                                 ...

Lenox Napier is a British expat who has spent most of his life in Spain. Here's a brief overview of his background:

- *Early Life*: Born on June 28, 1928, in England, Lenox was raised by his bohemian parents in Norfolk. He attended Radley College and later graduated from the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst.

(My father would have been three years old when I was born. I went to Rugby school and disappeared to Spain with my parents as soon as I could.) 

- *Military Career*: Lenox had a distinguished military career, serving in the British Army from 1946 to 1983. He saw action in Malaya and was awarded the Military Cross in 1957. He rose through the ranks, becoming a Major-General and holding various commands, including the Berlin Infantry Brigade and General Officer Commanding Wales.

(Thanks, but no thanks.) 

- *Life in Spain*: In 1967, Lenox's parents moved to Mojácar, Almería, Spain, where they opened a bar called La Sartén. Lenox joined them and eventually made Spain his home. He attended an international school in Seville and later became a prominent figure in the expat community.

- *Career*: Lenox founded a newspaper called The Entertainer, which was widely read in the expat community. He also wrote for other publications, including El Indálico, and worked with Cope Mojácar radio.

(More or less.)

- *Activism*: Lenox is known for his advocacy work, particularly through AULAN, an organization that supports small property owners in Spain and fights against corruption and injustice. He has been involved in various campaigns, including protests against the demolition of homes and advocating for the rights of European citizens living in Spain.

(AULAN lasted about five minutes.)

- *Personal Life*: Today, Lenox is a well-known figure in Almería, recognized for his writing, his love of history, gastronomy, and culture, and his commitment to his community. He has been married to Jennifer Dawn Wilson since 1959 and has three children.

(Gastronomy? I'll eat anything. As for Jennifer Dawn Wilson, I wish her and her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren well.) 

Shopping for Food: The Early Days

I’m writing this while sipping on a Marzipan brandy, a slightly peculiar cordial that comes in a tall and skinny bottle from the local Aldi supermarket.

It makes me think of the old days, when one’s Christmas preference was a bottle of El Gaitero, a sweet cider which is sold in a champagne bottle – because the *pop* as the cork is released is an important part of the seasonal celebration.

Also, it was cheap – indeed, it still is.

Good too, even when you’re drinking alone.

Long before they built an Aldi on the other side of the hill from where I’m living, my parents would have to take the cuatro latas (as the Renault 4 was known) along the coast to our market town – Vera – which in the early seventies had opened the area’s first supermarket: Emilio’s – which I was glad to see is still going fifty-three years later. You could wander around and push stuff into your basket: ‘impulse shopping’ had arrived (‘What on earth is this?’, my mother might ask as she eyed something new).

Locally, we had a few groceries. The best known was in the village square: Juana’s place. She ran the shop – you would point at the shelves and say in your best Spanish ‘uno por favor’, continuing until you (and Juana) were content. Later, and Juana would catch on fast to her new market, she nailed a sign outside the store which read ‘Foodings’.

There was a fellow known as Tea-cosy Roger who lived in the back of the village, and one could drop by to ask him to pick up this or that in Almería (an hour and a half away) where he would go on the bus once a week. He always wore a colourful woolly cap obviously knitted by his adoring mum. His front room had a single tin of mock-turtle soup on a shelf to underline his commercial spirit.

Later, a local eccentric called Ian would offer an even more interesting service – driving up now and then to a suburb of Benidorm in his BMW and trailer to pick up British sausages and other goodies, to be mobbed on his triumphant return.

Supplies also arrived by air, as friends flying out from the UK remembered to bring bacon and teabags in their luggage.

A shop in the local port of Garrucha would regularly be talked into ordering strange products by a salesman than only a foreigner could possibly like. Diego would mournfully say as I enthusiastically picked up his final carton of johannisbeersaft, ‘Well, thank God that’s gone, I’m never buying that again’. Next week, he’d have a special on Irish butter biscuits.

For proper meat, my parents would drive down to the nearest decent butcher, a German in Torremolinos. This would take several days for one reason and another.

And thus, we survived. The local milk came in a tall returnable bottle fitted with a metal bottle top (like a beer). It was slightly blue in colour thanks to the added formaldehyde. On the bright side, it never 'went off'. Butter came in a tin from Belgium. Pork, goat, chicken and eggs were easy to find in the local markets. When the fridges began to appear in the shops, we found Spain’s excellent yoghurts and ice-creams – although the milk would take a little longer to arrive, waiting for the twin inventions of UHT and Swedish tetra-brik packaging.

Simple times. One paid in pesetas and got one’s change either in small coins or sweets.

But these days, as our area shyly joins the 21^st Century, we can now lay claim to several small supermarkets and four large ones, including the recently opened Aldi.

They are all playing Christmas music in their stores right now, which sort of explains how I ended up with a bottle of Marzipan brandy.   

Franco Gone These Fifty Years

There’s a Spanish word which has a very special meaning – or had at least, half a century ago – and it sounds odd to British ears: El Generalísimo, which might mean something like ‘the generaliest of all the generals’ practically a (what comes next – a field marshal?).

Anyway, I’m talking about El Caudillo, the Spanish dictator Francisco Franco, who after forty days and nights in the comfort of the intensive care unit at the Hospital de la Paz in Madrid, finally succumbed to his woes on November 20th these fifty years ago.

Not that you’d think it with all these fascist idiots still running around the city squares half a century on and giving what used to be called a Hitler salute.

There’s a story I like: Franco is in his hospital bed and there’s a crowd outside shouting. Franco – who is losing his facilities by this time – asks the doctor, ‘What are they saying?’ The doctor goes: ‘They’re saying adiós, adiós’.

‘Really?’ says Franco, ‘Where are they all going?’

In those times, Mojácar where I lived with my parents (when I wasn’t travelling somewhere) was a quiet and forgotten village with just a sprinkle of eccentric foreigners.

We never thought about Franco, and the Guardia Civil were chummy enough.

My father used to drop off a case of wine in the police barracks in next-door Turre every Christmas. It never hurts to have friends with silly hats and a pistol.

One day a few years before, back in 1971, the cops had come by on their mopeds and sorrowfully told my father and me that we would have to report to the local lock-up in Vera – a cavernous room under the ayuntamiento – as punishment for sawing down Mojácar’s first billboard, which had been erected by a Corsican fellow who had just opened the pueblo’s first souvenir shop.

He could obviously see which way things were going.

All we had with us was a bottle of Spanish lemonade (filled with vodka), a change of underwear, a couple of Ian Fleming novels and my dad’s radio. He liked to listen to the BBC’s World Service and appeared to be very disappointed when they failed to mention our incarceration.

We spent three days in the clink (I was just seventeen) and were due to face further punishment, but the British ambassador saved the day, and we were forgiven and our names removed from the records.

In Franco’s time, it helped to have un enchufe – a ‘good friend’ – and the ambassador had been to school with my dad. A few words in the right ear…

By 1975, Franco was on his last legs, and word reached us from the far-away outpost of Jávea in Alicante that the Swedes (I may be wrong about this) had decided to have a demonstration of their love and respect for Spain and so held a celebration with the famous, albeit fascist slogan Arriba España, which they had unfortunately translated on a large banner as ‘Up Spain’.

At last, El Caudillo finally died, and Spain entered into strict mourning. The bars were closed for three days, and solemn music was played on the radio and the one TV channel.

My father and some other foreign residents, being appraised of this tender moment in Spain’s history (as above, they found the pueblo’s only bar was unexpectedly shut), decided the thing to do would be to go to mass in our local iglesia and show our respects.

The priest was surprised to see us, as there was (as usual) no one else in Mojácar’s house of worship except a few old girls in black.

As we left, pulling off our neckties (those that still owned one) we found the mayor and a collection of irate locals waiting for us. Y’see, Mojácar had been a communist holdout during the civil war, and consequently, no one was sorry to see the old gangster go to his reward, such as it no doubt was.

‘Oops’, said my dad.

The tension grew until the Mayor Jacinto saved the day. ‘Antonio, go and unlock the bar. The foreigners are thirsty’.

I’m not sure, after all it was exactly fifty years ago, but I think we all drank champagne.