Sharam’s new home needed to be remote because of his continuing requirements for daily challenge and I knew that the small place down the track from us belonging to an English couple from Birmingham might well do the trick. They only frequented the place a once [...]]]> Diary of a Downshifter – Part 11 Downshifting to Spain

Sharam’s new home needed to be remote because of his continuing requirements for daily challenge and I knew that the small place down the track from us belonging to an English couple from Birmingham might well do the trick. They only frequented the place a once or twice a year and upon enquiry were delighted to have someone look after it in the meantime. It had electricity and more or less mains water and was perched on the side of a steep gorge. Having secured permission for Sharam’s move we negotiated a reasonable rent with a consideration for me, and Sharam happily moved in. Unfortunately, this coincided with one of those rare periods in Spanish country life when ‘the system’ decided to start being efficient and just after Sharam’s move, along came the authorities in the form of an electric meter reader, who noticed that the shack had no meter but it did have electricity because with Sharam in it, it had a light on. Rules and regulations in the countryside of Spain were often sidestepped and few people took much notice of them but every now and again failure to obey the rules did have consequences and the consequence of this particular sidestepping was the arrival of an electricity company inspector on my doorstep. He had with him proof that electricity was being siphoned off from a mains line and not being paid for and that as I was responsible for the building, I was responsible for the theft and fraud as well as Sharam and the owner of the property. He informed me that the electricity would be turned off in two days and that the owner, me and Sharam would all be prosecuted for fraud and other nameless charges which he would think about in the meantime. The fact that just about every other house in the area was doing the same and had been doing so ever since electricity reached the area was evidently of no importance. This was out first tricky time with the authorities since we arrived in Spain and it was case of learning fast how to deal with the bureaucracy. I immediately went up the track to the telephone man’s house where the local public phone was situated in the family sitting room and over the blast of the TV, I contacted the house owner. “Oh yes, David, we did fix up some electricity a few years back. Took it off the mains. Why, has the line broken?”  I explained the situation. “Oh well,” he exclaimed cheerfully, “I’m absolutely certain that a man of your calibre can sort it out. Keep in touch though; let us know what happens. Annabel can phone if you’re in prison.” When I had put the phone down, the telephone man’s daughter turned the TV down so that we could negotiate payment for the call and after paying and exchanging the usual niceties with the assembled family, I hurried off home.

Now that the house was literally out of the mud we were able to start turning it back into a small Andalucian country cottage. We wrecked and re-did the bathroom; we ripped out the false plasterboard arches which concealed beautiful wooden beams; we placed wood and [...]]]> Diary of a Downshifter – Part 9 Downshifting to Spain

Now that the house was literally out of the mud we were able to start turning it back into a small Andalucian country cottage. We wrecked and re-did the bathroom; we ripped out the false plasterboard arches which concealed beautiful wooden beams; we placed wood and glass doors between the sitting room and the stairs area and we built another toilet near the stairs. Old Antonio the retired goatherd from up the road came to visit frequently. He limped up the driveway with his black and white cat which had an identical limp from an identical injury and would talk for hours about the times when he lived in the place. The new glass and wooden doors between the stairs and the sitting room were one of our last luxury items. We had them made to fit by Ernesto Crespillo a small scale master carpenter from Velez Malaga. He used pine that he explained came from abroad by ship, plane and train and he assured us it wouldn’t swell or warp like local pine. His work was superb but expensive and a new local factory called ‘The Black Cow’ started to mass produce ready made pine doors of all shapes and sizes and very much cheaper prices. Sure enough, Ernesto went out of business and the area was flooded with Black Cow doors which either wouldn’t shut or if they did shut, wouldn’t open again unless it was hot and sunny in which case the pine shrank so much that gaps appeared between the frame and the door. Consumerism was rapidly advancing in Spain which one the one hand made life easier but on the other, products were dumbed down to a more trashy level which I guess most people now accept as the norm.

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.