We had been in Spain for 18 months and for some reason we had itchy feet. The small house called Finca Granadero that we had bought was now a beautiful Andalucin cottage with beams and nooks and crannies that the previous owner had blocked up and [...]]]> Diary of a Downshifter – Part 13 Downshifting to Spain

We had been in Spain for 18 months and for some reason we had itchy feet. The small house called Finca Granadero that we had bought was now a beautiful Andalucin cottage with beams and nooks and crannies that the previous owner had blocked up and that we had opened up and revealed. The plumbing was good and worked (by this stage I was a master plumber) and even the electricity worked as well as could be expected. We installed a brilliant little wood burning stove and built a chimney, which kept us warm and generally we were becoming comfortable.  The authorities offered each house a radio phone and we quickly took advantage of this and so were finally contactable. This communications ‘improvement’ in our lives actually turned out to be one of those brilliant, modern ideas that can end up destroying the closely knit fabric of communities. Now we had our own phone we didn’t have to go to the ‘telephone man’s house anymore. Going there was like going to a form of social club. We met others waiting to make their calls and chatted and got to know them, and we caught a glimpse of real Spanish life as we became part of the telephone man’s family life. We were there for their meals, their rest periods, their arguments, their television (which was always on) and they would tell us of their triumphs and disasters. Because there was no instant communication we learned to wait; we learned patience and we learned about the rest of our community. They were all interested in us of late because Annabel had become pregnant and this news caused quite a stir. 

The bees were now established in two apiaries and having got over the problems of varroa – which was in Spain but not in the UK at that time and so caught me by surprise – we were able to plan our next business moves. We survived the swarming season – just. The first swarm hung up in a tree just below the house and I went up a ladder with my box to collect it. I banged the branch with my hand and the bees dropped into the box. Holding the branch with my right hand and the box in my left, I was about to descend when the ladder fell away and I was left hanging. I called Annabel who arrived centuries too late and by this stage I had hit the ground nd was covered in bees. Even swarm bees get angry if you mess around with them enough and these got angry. As usual I hadn’t put any protective clothing on so the pair of us fled. A small gang of them got up my trouser leg and were moving rapidly upwards In this circumstance it is important to stop them at the knee, and as I hopped around holding my trouser leg Annabel rushed inside the house and locked the door citing unborn child and so on. I’m still not sure how I survived.

But as I said, we were getting itchy feet (all our lives we had moved every year or so due to military backgrounds and in my case a military childhood as well) and so we decided to move and we began looking around at suitable sites and locations that would be good for us and good for the bees. Little did we know that we would end up in the centre of a bunch of hippies in a hovel half way down a cliff with no water, no electricity and no approach to the ‘dwelling’ other than scrambling across a near vertical rock face with foot holds carved into it – with a two month old baby!  But more of that later.

I’d never done any plumbing before but I did have that book – The Readers’ Digest Book of DIY and so armed with this I set about re-plumbing the entire house whilst Annabel knocked down false walls with hideous arches, revealing the beautiful and original eucalyptus beams [...]]]> Diary of a Downshifter – Part 8 Downshifting to Spain

I’d never done any plumbing before but I did have that book – The Readers’ Digest Book of DIY and so armed with this I set about re-plumbing the entire house whilst Annabel knocked down false walls with hideous arches, revealing the beautiful and original eucalyptus beams that held the house together. Within a week we were able to test the plumbing. I had sore, stained fingers from the flux, burnt clothes from the blow torch and I was totally fed up with the whole thing and vowed never to do this again. The test was an abject failure. Water shot out from every joint – some of them inside walls and the shower head shot off with such force that it cracked the porcelain and I knew that I had to start all over again – but first I needed a drink or two and headed for the bar on the road to Benamargosa.  I drew

 in and bumped straight into the car in front of me smashing his bumper. After announcing this in the bar, a worried Spaniard rushed out to see the damage but was back in minutes wholly unconcerned. ‘You hit the bumper seňor, that’s what they’re for,’ and he returned to his drink. I grabbed my beer and wondered for the millionth time about the mind of the Spanish. If I had even slightly scratched his car door there would have been hell to pay, but smashing a bumper? He was right. That is what they’re for! Soon the barman had found out that I was the English beekeeper up at la Peňa and announced that he too was a beekeeper, but he pitied me. His bees were near orange groves where nectar abounded whereas mine only had scraggy little wild flowers to forage off. His only trouble was he claimed ‘the disease’. His bees died from it every year and other beekeepers suffered from it in the area. Did my bees get the disease he asked? I told him that my bees didn’t suffer from this particular problem because they weren’t near crops such as oranges which were sprayed with insecticide each year. No one bothered to spray ‘scraggy little wild flowers.’ He hit his forehead and exclaimed,’ the spray! You think it’s the spray. The one that kills insects? You’re right, you’re right, bees are insects. It must be the spray. You seňor must be a professor; you must come and look at my bees immediately– but no. First you must have a drink to fortify your brain. He poured a generous measure of the local mosto and handed it to me. Mosto* is a deadly brew and within minutes the whole bar was engaged in a discussion about the effects of sprays on bees and as is usual in Spain, everyone had something to say about the subject. Very much later and with some difficulty I made my way home. I never did look at his bees but I did eventually finish the plumbing, Annabel mended the large hole in the wall in the bathroom with mud and stones and we set to building up our bee stocks.

*There are two types of ‘mosto’ in Andalucia. The first is the local ‘homemade’ wine, deadly and wholesome, but there is also the grape juice variety which is sweet and free of alcohol! Be careful which you choose.

In common with many old Spanish houses in the countryside, ours was dug into the bank. This meant that when it rained, the back wall of the house would become damp. When it really rained, the wall would start oozing water and when the rain increased, a [...]]]> Diary of a Downshifter – Part 7 Downshifting to Spain

In common with many old Spanish houses in the countryside, ours was dug into the bank. This meant that when it rained, the back wall of the house would become damp. When it really rained, the wall would start oozing water and when the rain increased, a steady flow of water would flow through the wall, across the kitchen floor, through the dining and sitting rooms and finally exit in orderly fashion out of the front door. As the plumbing hadn’t yet been sorted out I suppose that it was a source of water but you don’t imagine this when you first view the house on a nice summers day. Anyway, we realised soon that the house needed digging out. Spain is full of JCB diggers rumbling around everywhere but of course when you need one… 

Over a week later we awoke to find a large yellow JCB parked on our land and about an hour later the owner arrived in his small white van to explain that he a just off to the bar for breakfast. Another hour elapsed and he re-appeared reeking of anise and we explained the task required but after less than 10 second he waived us away, mounted his steed and rumbled forward to the back of the house where his front tyre was immediately punctured by the spike of an agave plant. Off again in the van with the tyre in the back to get a repair and have his morning break from which he appeared an hour later reeking this time of brandy. During his next break, I determined to go with him. This time though, he actually managed to start digging into the ground and as the rain started again in earnest we hoped that he would get the job completed swiftly, but it appeared that that very thought prompted an avalanche of tomatoes to fall off a truck and block the track a few kilometres away, shortly after which the Civil Guard arrived and ordered him to go immediately and sort the situation out. It was several days later that he reappeared and for over an hour he regaled us with tales of the great tomato saga, and the water continued to flow from our front door. However, eventually, all ended well and within four or five days, we had a large gap between our house and the bank and the house began to dry out. Now we were able to really get to grips with the plumbing and continue with the bees. 

 so does everyone else. We were advised to leave a message at the bar Ortega in a nearby hamlet and wait.

Everything started out as it should have done. Antonio and Carlos picked me up an hour late and we went immediately to a bar for some fortification. Had I known how the rest of the night was going to pan out, I’d have had ten more and [...]]]> Diary of a Downshifter – Part 6 Downshifting to Spain

Everything started out as it should have done. Antonio and Carlos picked me up an hour late and we went immediately to a bar for some fortification. Had I known how the rest of the night was going to pan out, I’d have had ten more and stayed there.

To cut a long and painful story short, it soon became obvious that my colleagues were both theoretical beekeepers and knew nothing about any of the practical issues. They loaded the hives up without strapping them so that bees leaked in all directions; they didn’t do their protective clothing up and so were stung constantly; they used their smokers so frantically that blasts of flame were coming out of them which set fire to one of the hives and finally, the site which Antonio had chosen was on a near vertical slope down which we slipped, beehives and all. Finally Antonio decided on a new site which he reckoned would be perfect. It involved a stiff climb up rocks carrying the by now really angry bees in their leaky hives and finally, as dawn broke, we placed the hives on a rocky ledge sticking out from the side of a cliff. We sat down exhausted and looked at the sun rising over the sea in the distance. I said to Antonio that this was probably the worst site ever known for bees and his reply was, “yes David but just think of how much they will enjoy the view”! He had a point.

Life settled down after that into more of a routine and we began our dip into the world of DIY which lasted non stop for the next 13 years – and in fact still hasn’t stopped. The small house we lived in was very old and was once a typical Andalucian peasant’s cottage with all of the features that made them so pretty such as beams and alcoves. Ours however had been turned into a Costa del Sol villa with false arches and all of the nice beams and features covered with plaster board. The existing fireplace had been stripped out so there was no heating and the part of the roof that was flat had battlements put on it making it resemble  miniature castle. The drains from the bath required water to flow uphill and the septic arrangements were very septic. All had to change but firstly we had to find out how. The answer came in the form of ‘The Readers Digest Book of DIY’ which had been given to me by my father. It saved us and putting all our doubts aside, we started off wrecking the house. Annabel started it off. I was away beekeeping for the day and when I returned, it was to see the bath tub lying outside on the ground with a hole in the wall of the house where it had come out! No bath tonight I thought and I knew from then on that things would only become more painful. Our main requirement actually wasn’t the bath, but was to have the house dug out of the bank that it was set into so that water didn’t flow through the house when it rained. For this we needed the help of a digger and this in itself in that part of Spain where there were so many JCB diggers rumbling around is a story in itself.

It was now time to acquire some bees. After all, that was why we were there. We heard from a friend that an old boy was downsizing his bee stocks and contacted him in Velez Malaga. He turned up about an hour and a half late for [...]]]> Diary of a Downshifter – Part 5 Downshifting to Spain

It was now time to acquire some bees. After all, that was why we were there. We heard from a friend that an old boy was downsizing his bee stocks and contacted him in Velez Malaga. He turned up about an hour and a half late for our appointment and immediately took us off to one of his favourite bars for a pre-work brandy and a gossip about bees and how there was so much future in it and wasn’t I lucky to be able to buy at very reasonable cost his bee hives full of specially trained, hard working, completely tranquil bees. As usual, reality was different. We approached his apiary along a horrendous series of narrow tracks with million foot drops on either side and on arrival were nearly pasted into oblivion by the bees which attacked on sight. I’d heard about the Iberica bee and so wasn’t unduly surprised at their ferocity, but it was explained to me that it was all due to a series of low pressure systems crossing this part of Spain that had upset them. The television had said so. Usually you could stroke them as though they were flies! What ever that meant! I was never able to stroke an Iberica without having to run for it!
I purchased 40 stock to start off with and we were then rushed to the old boy’s house in town to celebrate with several or more glasses of the local filth drawn up from a deep amphora set into the ground. I took more than I should have (I needed it) and was eventually forced back home, mumbling and scratching my many stings, by my wife.
Now all we had to do was move the hives to some new sites. Three of the locals offered to help me and from the way they spoke I thought they were experts on the subject (another thing I found common in Spain). Bees are moved at night and so one late evening off we set and very soon reality again hit me in the face when I found out that none of them had ever had anything to do with bees before and so another adventure of the Keystone Cops look-alikes began. Only this time the horror lasted all night!