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.)