The Reluctant Expat: Part Four - Settling Down

by Alan Laycock

  “It’s been a long day,” I said as I drove up the lane to the hamlet.

  “Too long. We should have left Alicante and Murcia for tomorrow, but I’m glad it’s done.”

  I yawned. “Me too.”

  “What did you think of the north?”

  “I like it.”

  “One needs more time to appreciate it.”

  “Yes, a lot more.”

  “There’s much to explore up there, though I’m not keen to repeat this trip too soon.”

  “Me neither, but Inma and I are definitely going north this summer.”

  “If you have time.”

  “I will have time. I’ll make time,” I said, more determined than ever not to get too tied up at the hotel.

  “Good trip?” Inma said when I staggered through the door.

  “The trip back was hell, but the north is great. We’ll have to go this summer.”

  “Yes. Shall I make you a quick omelette?” she said, perceiving my somnolent state.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Zefe’s still here,” she said while I ate. “You must take him home tomorrow or he’ll start to think that he lives here.”

  “I will.”

  9

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Alan. I’ll look after the place while you’re gone,” Zefe said, patting the Hymer’s rear-view mirror with his stick.

  “Don’t do that,” I yelped, eager to collect Cathy and Bernie and slip into a rear passenger seat, as he’d promised to drive the great long thing. “Enjoy yourself, but remember that Natalia’s coming for a week after we get back,” I said, which was a barefaced lie that Inma had insisted I tell him in order to re-establish his weekly two to three-night stays, rather than the five or even six-night residencies that he’d been wangling for a while.

  I drove through town at a snail’s pace and soon handed Bernie the keys with great relief, as he really is a pro driver and I felt the Hymer would be safer in his hands.

  “Where to then?” he said. “I fancy putting this beast through its paces on some mountain roads.”

  “No, Bernie,” Cathy and I said almost simultaneously.

  I looked at her.

  “I’ve checked the weather forecast and everywhere inland is almost as cold as here. I think we should go straight to the coast.”

  Bernie looked at me.

  “Yes, I’ve done a bit of research too and a lot of inland campsites are closed until Easter.”

  “Campsites? What do we need them for? We can stop wherever we want in this. Up a mountain track, on a street, next to a beach.”

  I looked pointedly at the gleaming, unblemished silver paintwork. “No, Bern, we can’t take any risks. If we scratch it, who knows how Malcolm might react?” I pictured Inma and a scaled down Natalia in a motorboat. “Accepting favours from a boss is a risky business, which is why I want us to drive straight to one of the campsites I’ve looked into. Once it’s parked up I’ll feel a lot more relaxed.”

  “Chicken. Fair enough though. Where to then?”

  “Down to Murcia, onto the motorway for a couple of hours, then off it just past Almuñécar. I’ve seen a campsite that should be all right,” I said, my casual tone belying the fact that I’d spent hours on the laptop, studying the safest routes and even – and I kid you not – the width of the campsite gates, as until the Hymer was safely parked and plugged into the mains, I wouldn’t begin to enjoy the holiday.

  “How far is it?” Bernie asked.

  “About four hundred kilometres, mostly motorway.”

  “Four hours then. Come on, we’ll be there for lunch.”

  “I don’t want you to hurry or strain the engine, Bern.”

  “Ha, this beast’s got 180 horsepower.” He grinned as he pulled on his tractor driving gloves. “Lock the gate behind us, there’s a good lad.”

  When we got off the track and onto the road I was soon able to relax, as in the passenger seats behind the two swivel chairs up front I felt like I was on a coach, and coach drivers hardly ever crash, unless they’re sleepy, and Bernie certainly wasn’t, as he prattled on about all the walking, sunbathing and swimming he was going to do.

  “It won’t be so warm,” said Inma. “Remember it is still March.”

  Cathy swiped her smartphone. “Eighteen degrees in Almuñécar today.”

  “Too cold to swim,” said Inma.

  “Ha, you’ll see, lass.”

  “What’s the name of the campsite, Alan?” Cathy asked.

  I told her.

  “Hmm… let’s have a look at the reviews.”

  We soon learnt that the campsite, as well as being one of the best that folk had ever visited, was also one of the worst in Europe.

  “Why do people write such different things?” Inma asked.

  “Because some people are pillocks,” said Bernie. “They find a dirty loo and they can’t wait to vent their spleen by writing a bad review. It’s a sign of the times. The power that folk feel in their fingertips when they get on the computer these days is pathetic. Bloody nobodies who can ruin a business, just like that. It’s a good job there weren’t computer reviews in my day or I’d have been out on my arse.”

  I chuckled. “Did you get that, Inma?”

  “I think so. What is spleen?”

  “El bazo,” Cathy said, quick as a flash.

  “Yes,” I said, though I hadn’t known it. “But what is to vent one’s spleen, Cathy?” I said, as I did know that.

  “Er… desahogarse, isn’t it?”

  “Muy bien, Cathy,” I said.

  “I understand now,” said Inma.

  “So what do you all think about these dastardly reviewers, eh?” said Bernie.

  “What is dastardly?” Inma asked.

  “Bad,” said Cathy.

  “Yes, or ruin, or vil, like vile,” I said.

  “Or pésimo,” said Inma. “What did you say, Bernie?”

  “Nowt, I’m just the chauffeur.”

  “What is nowt?” said Inma, and so we went on talking about linguistic matters for the first hour of the journey. I felt bad that Bernie was being left out, but it wouldn’t do him any harm to see how far behind he was falling, as Inma’s English was also progressing well.

  By then, you see – and I feel a lecture coming on, so skip this paragraph if you like – I was more convinced than ever that age isn’t the barrier to language learning that many people claim. Although it’s certainly easier for young people to learn, there was my sister at the ripe old age of fifty-nine – and without as strong a background in French as I’d had – improving week by week. The hours she spent with her oldies, plus her constant though not excessive studies, had turned her from a non-believer into a person already able to understand most conversations and say what she needed to say. Most middle-aged expats don’t learn the language because they think themselves incapable, can’t be bothered, or both. If only they set aside an hour a day for study, they’d soon find that it paid off and they’d be able to communicate with the folk in whose country they’d chosen to spend the rest of their lives. Even those who have little time for books, like Bernie, can make great strides if only they try, and personally I believe that those who remain monolingual outsiders in the country of their choice are only living half a life. An hour a day is all it takes. Who can’t spare that? Lecture over, sorry.

  “There is the road to Águilas,” Inma said just after we’d passed Lorca and its towering castle. “You must all come there this summer, to my parents’ apartment.”

  I pictured her father and heard wedding bells.

  “Do they not mind that you’re living in sin?” said the devilish little mind-reader in the driving seat. I’d told him about her father’s hints and he might have been getting his own back after being ignored for so long.

  “Living in sin? Ah, yes, I understand. Not really, but they are quite traditional, so I think they will like it if we get married one day.”

  “Why wait?” said the bald-headed blig
hter. “We could have a big wedding party to celebrate.”

  “Shut up, Bernie,” said my sis.

  “After the divorce we will see,” Inma said, squeezing my hand. “But it isn’t so important to me.”

  Not so important, I thought, and that little word was enough to trigger off one of my not infrequent periods of perturbation, but not for long, as by the time we’d driven into Andalucía I’d made up my mind to ask her to marry me as soon as the divorce papers had been signed. I was almost certain she’d accept and would agree to a nice quiet registry office affair, followed by a party at the cave, paid for by us, as I didn’t want Inma’s father to think that the offer of the proceeds of his delightful doubloon had influenced our decision, and nor did I want him to part with a family heirloom.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Alan,” said the lucky lady.

  “Oh, just thinking about coins. Are we going to stop for a break soon, Bern?”

  “No need.”

  “I need a pee,” I said.

  “There’s a bog in the bus. I won’t swerve, I promise.”

  “Stop at the next services,” Cathy ordered.

  “Aye aye, ma’am.”

  After stretching our legs and breathing in the balmy southern air, we pressed on past the city of Almería and reached the campsite in the coastal village of La Herradura before three o’clock.

  “This is all right,” said Bernie after he’d parked with precision and jumped out.

  “It’s a little oasis,” said Cathy. “What are these tropical-looking trees?”

  “Hay chirimoyas, nísperos y aguacates,” said Inma.

  Cathy looked at me.

  “Er, aguacate is avocado, but I don’t know the others in English.”

  Out came her phone. “Níspero is loquat, whatever that is, and chirimoya is the same, so that’s an easy one.”

  “There’s no fruit now, but the trees look nice,” I said. “It’s a bit of a scruffy place, but it’s all right, isn’t it?”

  Cathy and Inma agreed that it was.

  Meanwhile Bernie was back in the van and soon appeared dressed only in swim shorts.

  “I’m going for my daily swim now.”

  “It will be too cold,” said Inma.

  “We’re going to have lunch,” said Cathy.

  “I won’t be long. Are you man enough to come, Alan?”

  I looked up at the sun and said that I was. “It’ll cool down soon, so we’d better make the most of it.”

  So it was that after making some sandwiches we all headed out of the site and down the short street to the rather stony beach, where a few people were sitting in various stages of undress. One woman was paddling, but none were swimming, so it was with some trepidation that I followed Bernie into the sea. Bernie marched straight in and let out a whoop, presumably of joy, after launching himself into the gentle waves. I entered more gingerly and would probably have chickened out at thigh height had he not been treading water and grinning fiendishly at me, so I plunged in and boy was it cold, but I swam grimly out until I was by his side.

  “You get used to it after a while,” he said, panting like an ageing bulldog.

  “Yes, it’s not so bad once you’re in,” I lied.

  “Might as well swim for a bit while we’re at it,” he stammered.

  “Yes, work up an appetite,” I gasped, before commencing a frantic breaststroke parallel to the beach. Bernie doggie paddled doggedly by my side and after about thirty yards he said that we oughtn’t to overdo it on the first day and I promptly agreed, despite having swum many lengths in the municipal pool that winter.

  “I enjoyed that,” Bernie said when we’d floundered out.

  “Yes, a bit bracing, but very pleasant.”

  “We could jog for a bit now.”

  “Yes, let’s,” I said, and although Bernie probably hadn’t jogged since leaving school, and I hadn’t for a while, we found it to be just the thing for restoring the blood flow to our benumbed limbs, so when we returned to the girls a few minutes later we were both winded but a little warmer.

  “That was nice,” said Bernie.

  “You’re both mad,” said Cathy, who had rolled up her sleeves.

  “Dry yourselves,” said Inma, who hadn’t even bothered to do that, as a keen breeze was making things none too warm.

  “This beach isn’t very comfortable,” Cathy said as we ate our butties.

  “We’ll buy some mats,” said Bernie, still shivering sporadically.

  “I think it isn’t warm enough for a beach holiday,” said Inma, who later told me that she couldn’t remember ever sitting on a beach before June.

  “We’ll have to find other things to do,” said Cathy, reaching for her phone.

  “We can drive the Hymer up into the hills,” said Bernie, and on seeing my downcast expression, “Or hire a car.”

  “We can catch a bus to Almuñécar,” I said.

  “And other places from there,” said Cathy, swiping away.

  “We can go for walks,” said Inma.

  “Yes, up that headland, or the one over there,” Cathy said, as La Herradura is situated in a wide bay.

  “There are lots of things to do,” I said as I watched a little dog enter the sea up to its knees and come scurrying out.

  “As long as I have time for a quick swim every day,” said Bernie, the third of a bottle of wine he’d just knocked back giving him Dutch courage, no doubt.

  Later on, well wrapped up, we strolled along the seafront and had dinner at one of the many restaurants in the resort whose development had been modest due to the mediocre beach, I believe, but this suited us just fine. We spoke English most of the time, but occasionally switched to Spanish to give Inma’s brain a rest, and we all looked forward to the coming days.

  “If Alan wasn’t so fussy about the van, I’d be tempted to move on to somewhere else soon, but I’m sure we’ll keep ourselves occupied,” said Bernie over coffee.

  “There’s plenty to do,” said Cathy, tapping her oracle.

  “You could always buy a camper van, Bern,” I said.

  “Don’t give him ideas, Alan.”

  “Hmm,” said Bernie, tracing something very much like a camper van on the paper tablecloth. “I suppose there are some nice old ones out there.”

  Cathy groaned and gave me an aggrieved glance.

  “Sorry.”

  “Wait to see if you enjoy this holiday first,” said Inma. “It isn’t good to buy things for no good reason.”

  Cathy gave her a grateful glance.

  “If I ever got one, it’d be one that I wasn’t too worried about scratching,” I said.

  Both ladies raised their brows.

  “But we ought to see how we enjoy this holiday first,” I added.

  The next day, after we’d all slept fairly well – Cathy and Bernie in the bed at the back, and Inma and I on the cleverly converted sofa bed up front – we had breakfast then headed off on our first exploratory walk to the west. After plodding up through a fairly tasteful housing estate, we emerged onto the scantily wooded headland with splendid panoramic views. After inspecting an old watchtower we followed a path from where we soon spied an isolated beach down below.

  “Shall we go there, or will it be too far for you?” I said.

  “Ha,” said Cathy, before leading the way to a lane which wound its way down to the pebbly beach, where Bernie was amused to see a mixed group of naked, middle-aged people, possibly Germans, by the look of their purple skin and light hair.

  “If I’d brought a towel, I’d get bollock naked like them and go for a swim,” he said.

  “You don’t need to swim, Bern. They aren’t swimming. Just strip off and let it all hang out.”

  “I’ll hold your clothes,” said Cathy.

  “Nah, I might get a… aroused.”

  “Unless Inma strips too, I don’t think there’s much to arouse you here,” she said, as the ladies in the group were pretty flaccid, I must say, without wishing it g
o into too much detail.

  Bernie turned to me. “I dare you.”

  “Not today, Bern.”

  Seizing his chance to outdo me, he tore off his t-shirt and shorts, then hesitated with his thumbs hooked under his blue y-fronts.

  Cathy hooted with laughter. “You can’t go back now. Pull ‘em down.”

  He turned away from us, pulled ‘em down, then set off jogging along the beach in his trainers, seeming keen to get away from us and the true nudists.

  “How white his bum looks,” said Cathy.

  “He’s going a long way,” Inma said as he approached the end of the otherwise deserted beach.

  “He’s realised the enormity of his act and is now embarrassed to turn back,” I said.

  “There’s no enormity there, worse luck,” said Cathy.

  “I will go to that restaurant, so he won’t be embarrassed,” said Inma.

  “No, stay here, unless you really can’t face it,” she said.

  “All right. Look, he’s coming back now and running in a strange way.”

  What Bernie was doing was so amusing that I grabbed Inma’s phone, determined to immortalise his curious running style, because rather than letting his willy joggle about, or firmly holding it in place and out of sight, he held his right hand about a foot from his body, trying and failing to obscure it from view. While Cathy held up his undies as an incitement to end his ordeal, I snapped merrily away, and it was only after long deliberation that I decided not to use the best of those shots as the cover photo for this book, instead choosing another seaside one to remind me of the trip.

  As he approached, walking now and trying to look nonchalant, Inma considerately kneeled down to adjust her shoelace, and Bernie was back in his y-fronts in three seconds flat.

  “Flipping heck, I never thought I’d feel so embarrassed,” he said, scratching his head. “But it just didn’t feel right.”

  “Nudism is all very well, but I guess there’s a reason why we’ve covered our privates ever since human communities were formed,” I said sagely.

  “Put on the rest of your clothes,” said Cathy.

  “I feel fine in my undies, so Alan’s probably right. Yes, it’s them who’re weird,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Did they laugh at me?”