 Posted by: Guest
Filled in: Guest
The Easy Life?
(By Mandy Vellacott in Malaga)
Did you do the sensible thing? You know – the research stuff? Did you? Well that is very commendable – we didn’t!!
You know how something just builds in your mind. Make the mistake of watching “A Place in the Sun” too many times and all of a sudden you want to move. (Actually I had wanted to move long before that – but now my other half did too. This is good – both having the same goals.) It was at this point that good sense deserted us and we just decided we would go for it – go and live in Spain. I know, what’s wrong with that? Nothing except that we had both been to Spain precisely once, not together and not to the part we were looking at.
Never let it be said that we allowed good sense to get in the way. PAH!!! We decided first to look at the Costa de la Luz – beautiful, very Spanish, quiet, stunning beaches – nice Atlantic sea! Anyway we were sold – on the Mediterranean coast – flights to Malaga from home town Exeter (for visitors you understand) hospitals (just in case) people, businesses and therefore hopefully jobs.
That was November – basic area chosen. Back we came in February. Now the weather in November 2003, was absolutely perfect; just what we were coming to Spain for. The weather in February 2004 was just about as bad as it could get. Still the trusty hire car took us from Calahonda as far as Nerja and Antequera and many parts in between. We finally returned in July of that year having sold our house in Devon and found a house that we liked and the rest as they say is history.
You can see from the above that logic and good sense never reared their ugly heads at all. Exactly one year after we said – “why not” – we were here. Us,  Shammal and Rocky (our two Spaniels) and a lorry load of personal possessions most of which we could probably have lived without.
Now – I am not really advocating that “devil may care” attitude particularly if you have kids (which we don’t) or health issues or if you need to make a living.
Naively I thought – learn the language, have a few months off and then go and find a job. You remember the PAH! above? Well double PAH!! now. Suffice to say I eventually retrained as a Holistic Therapist which I wanted to do anyway and I make a living between doing that, helping out a friend in her dog grooming salon, hand-painting t shirts (don’t ask where that idea came from because I haven’t a clue but it’s quite successful) and I have just started an Internet Marketing business which is proving successful. Much juggling of time but hey… never a dull moment!
So if you ask did we come for the easy life – I would say “yes of course” and if you ask did we get it “of course not!! But it’s fun”!
Welcome Mandy – we look forward to reading more of your adventures in Malaga. Rob (Editor)
 Mandy lives in Malaga Province with her husband Derek and assorted dogs and cats. She likes to dabble in many artistic pursuits including writing. Loves her life! For more see Mandy’s blog
Live Life NOW!
Posted by: Guest
Filled in: Guest
The French meet their match in Vigo
By Leanne Hunnings in Galicia
“Fuera, fuera!” screeched the sun-worn face next to mine, yellow-white hair falling into her fierce eyes. I side-stepped to avoid collision with her scrawny liver-spotted arm as it pumped its message into the air. A small doe-eyed boy pivoted on his electricity-box podium as he attempted to film the spectacle with his cardboard box with toilet-roll video camera.
 A jeer was sent up to greet the newcomers on the scene. The atmosphere of vitriol startled a cream horse which began to trot skittishly, its eyes flashing their whites and small bubbling foam collecting around its black lips. Its rider, crisply dressed in navy blue with a stark white cross over the front with golden epaulets and a jerking red feather in her hat tried to calm the animal.
A booming voice decried the visitors in unintelligible Galician Spanish. The vast hordes peppered the sentences with their insults, their jeers, and their laughter.
In 1809 Napoleonic forces invaded Vigo, a north-Spanish coastal town close to the border of Portugal, a city now home to around 300,000 with an international port famous for its mariscos and vino. 58 days later the town witnessed a popular uprising which saw over 1400 French troops captured and Vigo resist the shackles of French imperialism in an unprecedented move. This was the first time that Napoleonic troops had to retreat from a conquered city, a move echoed throughout Galicia, the triumph of the ordinary peasant over the efficient Napoleonic military machine.
201 years later the people of Vigo held their annual Reconquistador festival on 26-28th March. Inhabitants regale themselves in peasant costumes, pipes and drums sound out relentlessly, straining across the city, sporadic traditional dancing breaks out in small pockets throughout Porta do Sol and the old city. The smell of grilled sausages, and smoked cheeses mingle with the sea air. Fizzy homemade wine is lavishly splashed around in small earthenware bowls, leather works are purchased, gooey yellow cake sampled, lazy dogs wisely setting up camp near stalls for forgotten tidbits.
 Yet it is the representacion, the re-enactment of the ousting of the Napoleonic forces, which is the pinnacle of the festivities, seeing the usually docile inhabitants come out in swathes. The French cavalry and foot soldiers enter the city, the mayor is captured and the French flag hoisted over the city. The French take over the marketplace, fornicating with the peasant girls, drinking the wine, singing discordantly. The hordes of residents respond in mock anger, their eyes sparkling with merriment whilst they shout their abuses at the soldiers.
Suddenly the soldiers are overcome by stick-wielding peasants; one brandishes a chair which he breaks over the head of an unsuspecting soldier. The mayor is released, the French flag carefully removed (well, it’s going to be used next year so no point in overdramatic incineration or anything so wasteful). The crowd’s jubilation creates a frisson of excitement in the air. Finally the Portuguese representative addresses the crowd in heavily accented Spanish, culminating in “Viva Vigo!” a popular entreaty echoed throughout the crowd.
Successfully ousted from the city, the French are chased away to the port onto their boat where gaudy blue, yellow and red day fireworks, dancing and exuberant musicians announce the liberation of Vigo once more.
 Leanne is an EFL (English as a Foreign Language) teacher working in Galicia, Northern Spain and loves writing. She has had some success with academic publications but is now focusing her energies on fiction, and particularly short stories and travel writing.
Welcome Leanne, thanks for this blogpost and good luck with your writing in chilly Galicia. (Rob)
Posted by: Guest
Filled in: Guest
Isn’t life mad? (4)
By Mavis Cruet
Every silver lining has a cloud. (Synopsis of story to date: I became the reluctant owner of 3 stray dogs, Boris, Carl and Lucy, but really grew to love them. Boris comes and goes as he pleases to two other houses nearby. Carl and Lucy stay close to home. When I am in Ireland, our good friend and neighbour looks after the dogs, keeping them fed and watered. )
 Here I am, in the nearest thing to Paradise, when suddenly the clouds began to gather on the horizon. I returned from Ireland on a Friday in April and was met at the gate by a very happy little dog. Carl was wagging what was left of his tail so hard he nearly fell over. There was no sign of Boris or Lucy. I knew Boris did not stay at the house when I was not there, so I wasn’t worried. But Lucy had been there in the morning, so I was worried about her.
She came back next morning in a terrible state, she looked as if she was at death’s door. John and I took her to the vet who examined and x-rayed her. He thought she may have been hit by a car. She had a broken hip and gave us three options for dealing with it. The first was an operation, which would be horrendously expensive and sadly, with the best will in the world, beyond our means. Secondly, bring her to a rescue centre and leave her there. Thirdly, take her home, with pain killers and hope for the best. She is a very young dog and they have marvellous powers of recovery.
We took her home. We were dreadfully upset but as we both believe in miracles (our whole life together has been on miracle after another) we asked God and His angels to look after poor Lucy and to allow what is best for her to happen. We laid her down and wondered if she would still be alive in the morning.
Next morning, and Lucy is bouncing around on three legs like a spring chicken. She was bright and happy and apart from limping, was running and playing again. Every day she gets stronger, and now almost a week later, she is even putting her injured leg down now and then. She really is a total miracle.
However, Monday came and went. The rest of the week flew by and it is Friday again. Boris has still not come home. I did the usual tour of the neighbourhood but no one has seen him. One of my neighbours said her dog disappeared last week also, and he never goes far from home. So I think I will not see Boris again. Poor Boris, he was a totally unique animal, very special and his loss is my dark cloud today. And Lucy, miracle girl Lucy, is the silver lining.
Posted by: Guest
Filled in: Guest
Isn’t life mad? Part 3
By Mavis Cruet
Well, if you have been following the saga of how a non dog-lover ended up with two dogs (to be found in my earlier Isn’t life mad? Blog) then I have to say that was not the end of the story.
 I had finally reconciled myself that Boris and I had another addition to the clan and that Karl was here to stay. Boris and Karl were two really lovely little dogs and really no trouble at all. They walked to hell on their leads and came when called and never seemed to get dirty.
Some months passed and I was out in the garden one day when a beautiful silky black dog came running up to me and started to jump up all over me. My sister who was staying with me at the time said, ‘Looks like you got another one!’
Not at all, I replied, look at this dog. It’s beautifully groomed and minded and has on a little blue collar with a bow. This dog is no stray. It will go home in a minute or two. Wrong! Again! The dog was here to stay.
I searched in vain for the owners, posted pictures and adverts, walked the neighbourhood, let the dog loose and followed it to see if would lead me to its home. Nothing.  The dog acted as if it had lived at my house for ever.
Is there, I asked my sister, a notice on my gate in dog language that says, ‘Strays Welcome Here’?
My sister said, “Dogs know these things. Word is out!!”
Naming the dog was a problem. None of the names we tried seemed to suit her. She really didn’t like them. Finally, I called her Lucy. She came instantly and jumped all over me. She likes it, I said.
Alicante has never seen such rain. Muck and Clabber to the knee everywhere. Boris stays clean. Karl stays clean. And it is hard to believe that Lucy was ever a silky shiny dog. She is always covered in mud. She is untrainable! She still jumps all over me and the furniture. But guess what…. I love her.
Posted by: Guest
Filled in: Guest
Isn’t life Mad 2!
By Mavis Cruet
Bazil and I settled into a pretty good routine. I came and went as I pleased and so did he. When the beloved came to stay (he was mostly in Ireland, working hard to keep me in the style to which I longed to become accustomed) he was very surprised to find a dog in situ. I must have forgotten to mention it! (Well, no one likes to eat crow)
 He thought that the dog was really a Boris. He called to him using the new name. He won’t like it, I said. His name is Bazil. The traitor ran up and jumped all over him. So Boris he became!
The years passed in a haze of sunshine, (lots of) visitors, (lots and lots of) and renovations, (Lots and Lots and Lots of…)
In spring of last year, just as the almond blossoms blew from the orchard like soft pink confetti, I saw Boris shepherding a little teddy bear of a dog up the driveway. When he saw me, he turned and growled at the little dog and made to chase him away. Watch dog. Right.!! Later when I looked out they were tumbling around on the ground having a ball.
This was such a pretty little dog that I had no doubt that someone owned and loved him and by evening he would be gone. Wrong! I was very busy that week and it was the following week before I got to do the rounds with the little dog.
 My second call struck gold or should have. Yes! Said the farmer’s son. That is my dog. I paid x hundred euro for him. Well, said I, you were done! I handed him the dog. You can keep the collar and lead and he has been wormed and fleaded, Ok, maybe it’s not a real word, but I am actually translating back from the Spanish I used so …..And ok maybe I was no too busy to bath the dog but he was ‘walking’ as they say in Ireland.
He thrust the dog back at me and said, ‘Keep him!’ He obviously prefers your house.’
‘No. no, it’s just that he wanted to play with Boris. Please, take him back.’
‘There are enough dogs here for him to play with. No, if he would rather be with you than me, then I don’t want him. He replied huffily.
He walked off and I gave the dog to the farmer’s wife. She was laughing her head off. ‘I’m sure he will change his mind later.’ I said. ‘Have some cake’ said the farmers wife.
 I loaded photos of the renovations to Facebook for him to see where his hard earned money was going. He phoned later. ‘Who owns the little terrier, he’s cute? ‘
‘Er, er, em, ah we do, apparently. I can’t get rid of him. I have given up trying.’
I eventually hung up. You can’t have a conversion with a man who can’t speak for laughing.
And no. That is not the end of the saga. See you soon. I have dogs to take care of..
Posted by: Guest
Filled in: Guest
ISN’T LIFE MAD?
By Mavis Cruet
My parents had eight children. My father referred to us by number, ‘This is daughter no.1 etc. I sometimes wonder if he ever really knew our names. My mother tended to introduce us with a sort of mini bio. ‘This is Mavis and she likes children and animals’. In a strange sort of way this shaped my life, as I grew up believing that I was the person she described.
It was actually many years later that I realised that I liked neither animals nor children. The guilt I felt was comparable to finding out I was Gengussa Khan. I wasn’t natural. I was a freak. Everyone likes animals and children except Psychopaths and Librarians.
Now, you are probably wondering (if you are still with me, that is) what has this got to do with life in Spain? Well, when my toy boy and I moved to Spain, he wanted to get a dog. I had a million reasons why it would be a bad idea to get a pet of any kind, mainly because we intended to travel a lot and who’d look after it? He saw my point of course and that was that.
One day I went outside and there was a beautiful little red puppy lying under a tree. Yes, I can admire them…. I petted him and went out for the day, when I came back he was gone. Things continued in this vein for a long time. Sometimes the dog was there and sometimes he was not. One day he came and stayed. This was not a good idea. I took the dog to the farm nearby. They had millions of dogs so it must be one of theirs looking for a bit of individual attention.
They said the dog was not theirs but tended to come to the farm every Monday morning and stay till Friday except for the times he was presumably at my house. They thought the dog belonged to Perla, a woman who lived a mile or so further along the road. They called the dog Balzar, I had been calling him Basil! I thought he must have been trying to tell me his name.
Off we go to Perla’s house. No, she said, the dog was not hers. It only came to her on Friday evening and stayed until Sunday night. She thought the dog was mine because she saw him at my house several times as she was passing on her way to the village. She wanted to keep the dog, she really loved him. I said if I did not find the owner I would bring him back to her but she would need to keep him in a secure run or pen.
For the next several houses no one recognised the dog at all, so I returned him to Perla. Delighted to have sorted the problem of the dog, I wondered why I felt so sad all of a sudden. When I reached my home Basil/ Balzar was already there and came rushing down the path. We fell on each other like long parted lovers.
Tune in next week, same time, same place for another gripping installment of the Story of Balzar/Boris. (This is not the end by a long shot!)
Mavis was born in Co Donegal Ireland. Starting writing at 10 years of age.  Got writers block at 11. Began writing again in her teens and has been writing on and off since then. She was the co-founder of the very successful Killybegs Writers Group and was involved in running many literary events. She is an Angel and Fairy Card Reader and in the process of getting her Writers and Artist Retreat up and running here in Alicante. She is currently owned by 3 dogs. and getting married to her darling John, her childhood sweetheart, in May. In other words, she is living the dream.    
Posted by: Guest
Filled in: Guest
There´s No Such Thing as a Free Lunch.
By Christine Johansson
This week I had a letter from a company offering me a gold plated cross from Caravaca and a Nordic duvet. I would get these stupendous gifts simply by attending a talk at a local hotel on a subject of great interest about health. I thought an extra duvet could be quite useful but to get it I had to be accompanied by my other half. So he was duly roped in.
We set off at 9.45 one Saturday morning and arrived to find a throng of other pensioners, perhaps 80 all-told, the majority Spanish, waiting in the lobby. A rep from the company took us up to the fifth floor and presented the speaker, a smart woman who I estimated to be in her mid 40s. She wore a white lab coat and seemed very professional.
The talk introduced a product based on using magnetic fields to get rid of the body’s accumulation of oxidisation and allowing it to regenerate new cells. Several people in the audience testified to the efficacy of the product, having bought at earlier meetings, and she herself revealed that she was in her early 50s, claiming to looking much fresher and feeling much healthier since she started using the machine in question.
Now, I don’t know one way or the other whether the product really does what was claimed (though Rafa Nadal had testified in a sports paper she  showed to us that the magnetic treatment had cured a shoulder problem). But when it came to the nitty gritty, I just don’t have 1500 spare euros to risk on trying it out to see. Neither did most of the people there. We’d come for the duvets.
The lady talked non-stop, sketched on a whiteboard and fielded questions from 10.30 until 12.50! By 12.00, people were fidgeting, getting up, and going to the loo; yawning and one or two seemed to be nodding off. She kept on relentlessly, underlining repeatedly the wonders wrought by the magnificent machine until, at last, she said she would now be prepared to answer individual queries and take orders. I didn’t see anyone crushed in the rush to the order forms.
We had to hang on for another 25 minutes before we were let out and handed our “free” gifts, which we felt we really deserved after going through what amounted to severe brainwashing. The talk was, of course, in Spanish so I suppose it was good practice but more than 2 hours rapid-fire hard sell in a foreign language is a touch wearing, to say the least. I can now see why people buy time-shares, just to be able to leave!
Armed with our Caravaca Cross and Nordic Duvet, we legged it to the nearest bar for wine and tapas (coffee by that time just wouldn’t have done it!) Husband declares he will never set foot in another demo talk. I hope the duvet is OK!
Guest Blogger:
Christine Johansson is a British Expat now living in Spain after spending 30 years in Sweden where she met her Swedish husband.
|
Shammal and Rocky (our two Spaniels) and a lorry load of personal possessions most of which we could probably have lived without.
