Coping In The Campo

          Ten days in the campo (as they call the countryside here in north-east Spain) have done nothing to persuade me to adopt the rural lifestyle. Not that it’s been uninteresting or in any way unpleasant; just so unrelentingly, well, rural. There has been many an occasion when, outnumbered in company by agriculturalists, I’ve had nothing to contribute to the conversation; though, on reflection, I have now, through osmosis, acquired sufficient knowledge of olive harvesting and pressing to hold my own in a lightweight exchange on those subjects.

          True, most things you can do in a city, you can also do here: it’s just more convoluted and involves driving. For example, I went to a yoga class one day (I know, one scratches around for something to do) though it was only with the aid of Google maps that we were able to locate it, set as it was in a yurt, on yet another finca amid acres of identical-looking olive trees.

           Actually, I have had yoga lessons a couple of times before, once in the 1980s, then again, a decade later. On the first occasion the classes, funded by the local council, were abruptly discontinued after a budget review. And in the second instance, I found the teacher so disagreeably arrogant and impatient I could not bear to go back for more. This last experience, however, has revived my interest. The yurt was comfortable and the fee reasonable. More importantly, the teacher was charmingly considerate of my age-related inflexibility. I couldn’t bring myself to join in the “ommmm” but otherwise followed instruction as best I could.

          The campo is between the mountains and the Mediterranean, so, since the weather was conducive, we went one day for a swim down at Miami Beach (the original, I assume), at a cove designated for nudists. Not that we had intentions to skinny dip, it just happens to be the best place for swimming. Fortunately, it is out of season and the few diehards there made no objection to our clinging to our modesty. Then, on another, fresher, day, we took a hike in the mountains and got a panoramic view of the region, including the river Ebro and its delta.

          But, for everyday exercise, I’ve been stretching my legs for an hour or so along the access road that serves the tracks leading off to the individual fincas. It is here that I noticed a striking resemblance to the UK, not in the flora but in the amount of litter scattered amongst it. Yes, even on this land dedicated to agriculture, the drive-by tossing of beer cans and fag packets is commonplace and a walk along the lanes without a collection bag is a wasted opportunity to clean up and feel indignant.

          Otherwise, I have taken every opportunity of a lift into town, most frequently to Tortosa (population 33,000), where there is a museum of local history housed in a surprisingly handsome and ornate collection of buildings that once had been the region’s main slaughterhouse. There I discovered more about this seemingly sleepy region, particularly what happened during the civil war. In 1938 the German Luftwaffe did General Franco the favour of dropping 54 tons of bombs on Tortosa, intending to destroy its three bridges over the Ebro and thwart the Republican forces. The fascists prevailed and subsequently erected a monstrous victory-commemorating structure on a pier in the river. It looms over the city even now, a subject of controversy.

          The next day, in our local village, we bumped into the yoga teacher. I immediately straightened my posture and tried to look loose-limbed. She probably was not fooled, but she smiled and greeted us warmly. We’ll be leaving for home soon, but we have an opportunity to go to one more yoga lesson. I’ve put my name down. This time, I might even brave a discreet “ommmm”.

On The Move Again

          I will admit to being a bit of a grump about Halloween. The way I see it, what started as an ancient Celtic festival marking the end of harvest season was subsequently hijacked by the Christian church, then popularised and commercialised in the USA, before being exported back to Europe as a mock horror tableau. It serves no useful purpose in my universe. Still, having spent the night of 31^st October in the centre of Santander, Spain, I can see it’s a lot of fun for a lot of people. The local populace dressed up and stayed up, partying in the streets for most of the night – and so they might, as the following day is a holiday, designated by the Church as All Saints Day (which sounds like an all-purpose excuse for a party).

          We’re currently on a leisurely round-trip, staying for a week or so with a friend who now lives off-grid on a finca – or smallholding – that she acquired in NE Spain some five years ago. Although hers may sound like an isolated existence, she is in fact at the centre of a networked community whose social life would be the envy of many a city-dwelling nine-to-fiver. Get-togethers are frequent and laughter abounds, though underlying anxieties related to battery capacity and rainfall often dominate the conversation.

          In fact, just before we arrived, a storm had brought them much needed rain, though in such vast quantities that it ran down the rivers to Valencia and caused catastrophic flooding, leaving the country in mourning for the death of hundreds of its citizens. The event was covered by news media in the UK, but distant tragedies are usually only of passing interest to those who are not immediately affected. Such is the extent of human empathy. Being in Spain at this time makes it feel a little more personal, but only to the extent that my touristic pleasures are tinged with a vague feeling of guilt.

          If measured by the extent of human suffering, then every news bulletin contains greater tragedies than this, though that does not deter us tourists from carrying on regardless. Life goes on. It used to be easy to maintain a state of oblivion while on holiday, working abroad or travelling. I recall being overseas for months at a time and losing touch with current affairs for want of an English language news-source. It was as if geopolitics had been suspended, such was the degree of my ignorance.

          But the internet has changed all that and not necessarily for the better. I have been able to continue following the US presidential election as reported by CNN, the Guardian, the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Financial Times and various free news sources. Where once there was famine, now there is feast, which is a marvellous thing but, in the current circumstances, does nothing to lift the spirits. The geopolitical storms don’t look like abating. Wars, the depletion of nature and climate change are driving the migration of millions from their homelands. It's not surprising that we humans take care of our own welfare before we give much consideration to the suffering of others: it might so easily be our turn next to fall victim to the cruelties inflicted by others acting in their own self-interest.

          Anyway, my leisurely trip can be likened to a circular hike: assuming all goes well, I will find myself back at home, safe, sound and satisfied. It’s quite unlike the linear, open-ended journey that I contemplated, just for the sake of adventure, at the age of eighteen. And it’s in a different league altogether from the desperate, dangerous setting forth of the migrants who seek sanctuary from the all too real horrors they face in their homelands.

Out Alone

          There’s a pub in Totnes that has the best food menu ever: bring your own! The concept makes a lot of sense, leaving the publican free to concentrate on curating the bar and the jolly pub vibe, while not having to take responsibility for a potentially cantankerous chef in the back. This formula for success may not be a novelty, I know, but it works especially well in this instance because it’s next door to a very fine takeaway joint that will bring your order, when it’s ready, to your table in the pub. That is, if you can get a table.

          I was there last week, on my own (by design), having arrived too early for a relatively obscure gig at a nearby venue. So, what better way to pass an hour than to eat and sup beforehand in a jovial, old-fashioned pub? Well, to have had company is one answer. A lively taproom can be a lonely place. And there is never a table for one. I was obliged to hang around until I got lucky and, when a couple vacated their table-for-four, I was quick to move in and claim it.

          Predictably, of course, I was soon approached and asked, politely, if I would mind sharing. Two blokes in their sixties, clutching full pints and wearing hopeful expressions stood before me. “Of course,” I said, “feel free.” But, in situations such as this, there is an assessment to be made about whether it is just the space you’re about to share or if conversation is included. I was engaged with my phone – the modern equivalent of reading the newspaper, a traditional way of being alone in a bar – but I paused to allow for any further verbal exchange.

          It became clear, however, that these two chaps had met up specifically to catch up. They had not seen each other for a while and they had no need to leaven their conversation with contributions from a third party. I reverted to my phone until, thankfully, the harried-looking girl from the takeaway appeared with my order, a family-sized chicken shwarma (without napkins), which I consumed, messily, as a captive audience to my table-fellows’ conversation. Although, ‘conversation’ is not really what I would call the lengthy and detailed account by one of the men of how he went about consolidating his various pension funds into a single, drawdown option. And that was before he started on his wife’s financial situation. Before long, I had the impression that his companion was beginning to regret not having invited me to join in, but it was too late to switch topics and, anyway, I was fully engaged in battle with a monster, dripping shwarma.

          But the monster had me beaten and I went in search of a bin for what remained of it. When I returned, the dynamic at the table changed. As the pension bore shifted his chair, it produced a loud cracking sound which alerted me (being an ex-furniture-maker) to looming catastrophe. I urged him to stand so that I could examine the structure which, sure enough, was on the verge of collapse. Manfully, I lifted it with the intention of effecting a temporary repair and, in the process, ripped open a fingertip on a protruding nail. The others gawped as I fished out a pocket-tissue to staunch the blood, then set off in search of first aid.

          The barman, mistaking the look of urgency on my face for thirst, launched himself towards the beer-pumps and enquired after my preference. “Actually, it’s a plaster I need”, I said, brandishing my finger. Although taken by surprise, he acted with alacrity and produced the necessary dressings. One of my table-fellows helped me apply the plaster (it’s difficult to do with one hand) and then it was time for me to leave.

          Going solo is a bit of a gamble, I reflected: one’s fantasies of exhilarating adventures don’t always materialise. Even the gig turned out to be a disappointment, though that’s another story...

Winter Blues?

          I did my bit to help out the NHS last week: I got vaccinated against ‘flu, covid and a new one called RSV, thereby hoping to ease the avalanche of winter infections that crashes into our creaking healthcare system every year. Let’s call it ‘preventive medicine’, which is not only easier to say than ‘preventative medicine’ but is also just as effective. Not that my motivation was entirely selfless, of course. I mean, who wants to be poorly? This is a question to ask anti-vaxxers, the most ardent of whom would not only be stumped by the logic but would also insist (without evidence) that I now have several of the nefarious Bill Gates’ micro-chips implanted in my body.

          The ’flu and covid jabs were given at the same appointment, one in each arm. A friend of mine boasted that he’d had them both in one arm, so that he would be able to sleep on his other side pain-free. But when I asked for the same treatment, it was refused, so I had to sleep on my back, propped with extra pillows so that I didn’t snore. Two days later, I was on my way back up the hill to the clinic for the RSV, when I passed a neighbour who asked me what it was and, in so doing, revealed that, though he is of advanced years, he is not between the ages of 75 and 80, the range that qualifies you for protection against ‘Respiratory Syncytial Virus’. Then, at the top of the hill, I met another neighbour, whom I know to be older, resting on a bench. I asked if he had just had his RSV jab and he said, “No, I’m too old. Not worth saving, I suppose.” I patted him on the shoulder and left him sitting there, disconsolate.

          With both my arms being sore from the previous visit, I asked the nurse whether I should come back another day for this third jab. But she was unsympathetic and dissuaded me with a tale of how inconvenient it would be to make another appointment. Then, before I knew it, she stuck the needle in and dismissed me with a wry, “There now, that didn’t hurt, did it?”

          Other preparations for winter include an underwear upgrade. When there was a very brief cold snap, back in September, I made a beeline for M&S, where they stock some comfy-looking, long-sleeved, thermal vests. I splashed out on a couple in light blue (which, I fancy, rather suits me) but, by the time I had got them out of the packaging, the temperature had shot back up to 20 degrees, thereby rendering them temporarily redundant. I’m not one to complain about the weather – I like its variability – but I was sort of looking forward to the winter and the smug feeling of having planned to be snug when squaring up to its harsh embrace.

          Now I wait. In fact, the situation seems to have regressed. We spent the last couple of days at Treyarnon Bay, in Cornwall, where the sun shone down on us and the handful of off-season holidaymakers frolicked in the waves that rolled endlessly onto the sandy beach. It was like a ghostly iteration of summer, without the hordes of visitors and the ensuing vehicular chaos. Even the lady running the ice cream hut reopened for business after having shut up shop some weeks earlier. How fortunate we were to visit a picturesque Cornish resort under such ideal conditions. And yet…

          Now, back at home and with no sign of wintry conditions arriving, I console myself with the cost-saving of not having to heat the flat in these next few days, after which we will embark on the ferry to Spain for three weeks. Surely, there will be a winter to look forward to on our return.

 

Proactive Friendship Pays Off

         It is said that men are not very proactive when it comes to nurturing their male friendships. (Those who question this assertion might be interested to know that a recent scientific paper, in attempting to quantify the apparent differences between male and female friendship patterns, provides some evidence for the credibility of this assertion.) Perhaps that’s why women often step up to help their menfolk with their friendship management.

          For example, we spent a few days last week with old friends we had left behind when we moved from Manchester to Plymouth. As two (straight) couples, we rented a cottage on the coast of Cardigan Bay – a location equally inconvenient for both parties but well suited, nonetheless, to our tastes for gentle hiking and general poking around in historically interesting places. Our coming-together was, of course, initiated and arranged by the women.

          The cottage is in the village of St. Dogmaels, a short walk from the town of Cardigan. St Dogs, as the locals call it (or so I was informed), once had an abbey, the ruins of which are bang in the middle of the village and significant enough to sustain a visitor centre that doubles up as a community café. The morning after our arrival, it was buzzing with locals and visitors who had come for the weekly craft and produce market set up in the adjacent car park. Here, we stocked up on organic veg and a chicken that had previously ranged freely but was now destined for our supper. Across the way, at the old mill – still in operation – we bought a surfeit of bread from the artisan baker. For us townies, it was the ideal village experience.

          Nor did the walking disappoint. The forecasts threatened rain but it mostly held off. Being out of season, we had little or no company, except for the couple who caught up with us on a set route that we were following from a 1993 Ordnance Survey guidebook. My Other Half and I had made a note in our copy of the book that we had completed this circuit in 1996, though neither of us had any recollection of the route and its sometimes remarkable landmarks. The text gave directions that were not always obvious, especially when stone stiles had since been replaced by metal gates, so we took a few wrong turnings. But so did the other couple, who were following the same route but using an app and GPS for guidance. We challenged them to meet us in the pub at the end but, the last we saw of them, they were heading in what was definitely the wrong direction through a wooded valley.

          We also met a Land Rover on a narrow lane and, as it slowed to let us pass, the driver, an ageing crusty with dreadlocks and a smoking joint between his fingers, leaned from the window, grinned widely and muttered something friendly sounding. I took him to be a survivor of the drop-out culture, one of those who went to live the simple, organic life in remote parts of Wales years ago and were never seen again. Later, we walked past a ramshackle farmstead littered with old machinery, vehicles and other stuff that might one day be recycled but meanwhile lay rusting. But it was the political slogans painted on the barn that made me suspect this might be the home of our latterly encountered crusty.

          We dined each evening at the cottage, wilfully ignoring the list of recommended restaurants provided by our host, for we are comfortable with the intimacies of sharing space and the preparation of meals. Our jollity was fuelled by many a glass of wine, though, now I come to think of it, we men ought to have raised one of them as a toast to the women for bringing us together again.