The Reluctant Expat: Part Four - Settling Down

by Alan Laycock

  “No,” said Inma. “They looked serious and some shook their heads.”

  “They probably are Germans then,” I said.

  “Racist,” said Cathy.

  “Or Dutch. Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

  After a light lunch we headed back and reached the Hymer somewhat tired but happy to have completed the slightly strenuous walk.

  “While we have a rest, you can go for your daily swim, boys,” said Cathy.

  “No, I’m not doing any more dares,” said Bernie.

  “I’ll go for a shower instead,” I said.

  “But we’ll swim again before we leave.”

  “Definitely.”

  10

  The following day we caught the bus into Almuñécar, a sizeable town about five miles along the coast to the east. Being March it wasn’t too busy and we strolled around the pleasant streets before taking a look at the Castillo de San Miguel, which is said to have existed in one form or another since the first century BC. It looked pretty new to me – even Cristóbal would have been impressed by the pointing and rendering – but we found it quite atmospheric and the little museum was interesting.

  “This is a nice town,” Bernie said during lunch at a seafront restaurant. “But I can’t help feeling that we ought to move on soon.”

  “Why?” said Cathy.

  “Because… oh, I guess it’s just wanderlust.”

  “Since when did that condition afflict you? Back home you can scarcely be bothered to go into town,” she said.

  “It’s different at home. There I’m tied to the soil, or soon will be. Now that I’m on the road I feel different.”

  “Do you not go to the Brit bar anymore?” I asked, wishing to avoid the subject of onward travel.

  “Not often. I don’t feel like I’m part of that scene now. I prefer going to your bar, Inma, to chew the fat with the locals.”

  “Thanks, and now I know that you don’t mean the food.”

  “Denise keeps me up to date with the expat news,” said Cathy.

  “And you tell me,” said Bernie.

  “Hmm, I suppose we aren’t doing much to find new house buyers though, are we?” I said.

  “I thought you’d given that up,” he said.

  I pictured the depleted cornflakes box. I was due another good payday when the hotel was completed, but after that, what?

  “Oh, I’m not averse to helping folk to find a nice home. It’s better they come to us than go to unscrupulous people.”

  “Like Juanca,” said Inma.

  “He’s no worse than others,” I said.

  Bernie asked me if I’d heard from the tireless property trafficker.

  “No, not a word since that day at the notary’s. He’s miffed about being cut out of the hotel building business, but if I go along with a new buyer he’ll greet me like a long-lost brother, no doubt. Someone will appear one of these days, I’m sure,” I said, reminding myself that I was set to earn some sort of salary at the hotel.

  “Yes, they will,” said Bernie, before clapping, just the once. “So, are we off somewhere else tomorrow then?”

  I groaned silently.

  “We’re going to Lentegí,” said Cathy.

  “Where’s that?” he asked.

  “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “And how will we get there?” I said.

  “Don’t worry. The Hymer will be staying put.”

  When a white taxi rolled into the campsite the next morning at ten it turned out to be for us. Cathy ushered us in and we were soon speeding along the sinuous main road towards Almuñécar, where the bearded young driver headed inland and we began to climb past verdant orchards, before dipping under the motorway – impressively raised on huge concrete pillars at this point – and onwards and upwards.

  “Are we going far, Cathy?” I asked.

  “No, not far. Don’t worry, this is on me.”

  “Not so expensive,” said the driver, tapping the taximeter which was clicking merrily away.

  On spotting a village up ahead I grasped my knapsack, but we drove straight through it.

  “I can feel the air getting thinner,” said Bernie, grasping his throat.

  On seeing another village up ahead, I tightened my laces, but we drove through and then turned sharp right.

  “Look, there’s a sign to Lentegí,” Inma cried, grasping my hand in anticipation of the delights in store for us in such a far-flung, or high-flung, place.

  After several sharp hairpin bends we reached the white village perched on the mountainside and the taxi pulled up beside the remarkably pretty little village hall.

  “Gracias,” said Cathy, before paying the man.

  “You want me to wait?”

  “No, gracias.”

  “No more bus today.”

  “I know,” she said in Spanish. “Adiós.”

  After he’d turned around and whizzed off, Cathy led us purposefully up the deserted street.

  “I bet this place didn’t even have a proper road before the advent of tourism,” I said.

  “Probably not,” said Inma. “It’s very isolated.”

  “Why have we come?” Bernie asked.

  “Because it’s the most remote village I could find, without going too far. To be honest I expected it to be more traditional,” she said, pointing at a plush house with a BMW on the drive. “But I guess us foreigners get everywhere these days. Never mind, let’s find somewhere to have a coffee.”

  When we wandered up a street too narrow for cars to park, I began to get a feel for the place as it once must have been and I was glad we’d come, but after strolling around for twenty minutes we still hadn’t found a bar or any other signs of commerce. Though the views of the valley below and the mountains further inland were spectacular, I think the three of us were wondering why Cathy hadn’t done her homework.

  “I just assumed there’d be at least a bar or a shop,” she said when we found ourselves outside the village hall again. “It’s got three hundred and odd inhabitants, after all.”

  “Maybe it’s like a lot of small villages in England, where everybody has cars,” I ventured, as of the three people we’d seen, two had looked foreign and one old man had puttered past in an old Renault 5.

  “Ah, a sign of the times,” said Bernie, glancing warily at his wife. “What shall we do now?”

  “I’d planned to spend some time here, then walk down to the next village, so I guess we might as well set off now,” she said, annoyed that her mystery destination had been a slight disappointment.

  She’d warned us to wear stout footwear, however, so it was no great effort to cover the three miles down the deserted road, feeling the benign sun, breathing in the cool air, and marvelling at the views. By the time we reached the larger village of Otivar we all felt invigorated by the walk and ready for a drink. After a brief exploration of its quaint narrow streets, we found a little bar.

  “Ah, I’ve been looking forward to for this,” Bernie said when his tankard of beer arrived.

  The rest of us had ordered red wine and casera, or lemonade. I’d just added a dash of wine when my phone rang.

  “Probably Cristóbal,” I said, sitting up straighter in my chair. “Ooh, no, it’s Beth.”

  “Probably got a buyer for you,” said Bernie, rubbing his hands together.

  “For us. Hello, Beth. How are you?”

  “Hi, Alan, I’m fine. I’m just calling to tell you that Bill died yesterday. His daughter called me this morning.”

  “Oh, dear.” With all eyes upon me I stood up and went outside. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes, it’s sad, but she said he died peacefully and had been happy back home, so… well, I suppose he did have a good innings.”

  “Yes, I’m… will you go to the funeral?”

  “Yes, my husband’s away working, so I’ll go. I knew his daughter quite well, so I ought to.”

  “Yes. I’m on holiday in the south now,” I said, won
dering if I ought to go too.

  “That’s nice. I guess you won’t be going, seeing as you only knew him,” she said, and I was grateful for her bluntness, as I really didn’t fancy a trip to England just to stand among strangers, apart from Beth, of course.

  “No, if I were at home… but no. He was a nice man, wasn’t he?”

  “A lovely chap, but lonely here in Spain. Folk can stay too long sometimes, and his heart never really left England. I’m glad he went back really.”

  “Yes. How sad though.”

  “Yes, it is. Anyway, enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “I’m still on the lookout for buyers, by the way.”

  “Oh, yes, good, thanks.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks for calling, Beth.”

  “See you later.”

  “Bye, Beth.”

  The news saddened our little party.

  “He was a nice old man,” said Cathy after a moment’s silence.

  “A noble man,” said Inma.

  “Yes, a sound bloke, despite being so posh,” said Bernie. “Did Beth mention… er, buyers at all?”

  “Bernie! Have some respect,” Cathy hissed.

  He shrugged. “Life goes on, love.”

  “She said she was still looking out for them,” I mumbled. “I don’t know if I ought to go to the funeral.”

  “Go if you like,” said Inma.

  “Though you didn’t know him that well,” said Cathy, her practical side reasserting itself.

  “And we are on holiday,” said Bernie.

  “I told Beth that. No, I don’t think I’ll go. I prefer to remember him as we last saw him, cheerful and looking forward to going home.”

  “He enjoyed a few months there,” said Cathy. “Shame he didn’t see one more English spring.”

  “There’s not much point us going to England this summer then. Visiting Bill was the main reason for going, wasn’t it?” Bernie said hopefully.

  “Hmm,” said Cathy, and Bernie was wise enough not to press her on the subject, as I think she knew that visiting his sister and our old Auntie Maud again wasn’t a great incentive to repeat last summer’s trip when there was so much of Spain still to explore.

  She took out her phone and perused it for a while. “Who’s up for walking down to the next village for lunch? It’s only about two miles.”

  “I am,” said Inma.

  “Great,” said I.

  “We’re not going to end up walking all the way back, are we?” Bernie moaned.

  “No, dear, we’ll get the bus from there.”

  Although there was a bit more traffic on the second leg of our downhill hike, it was pleasant all the same, and between us we identified mango, avocado, pear and loquat trees. The area is known as the Costa Tropical, due to its subtropical microclimate, and I asked Bernie if he wouldn’t rather live and farm somewhere like it.

  “No, all these trees are foreign imports, except maybe the pear trees. I’ll stick to my olive trees, like we’ve done since Roman times.”

  “It would be nice to live nearer to the sea, I sometimes think,” said Inma.

  “Would it?” I said, surprised.

  “When we retire, I mean. Here, for example, you can be at the beach in a short time.”

  “Too many foreigners around for my liking. Give me the peace and quiet of the countryside anytime,” said Bernie. “Though I’m glad I’m here now,” he added after a pause.

  “It’s very windswept where we live, and much colder in winter than I expected,” said Cathy as we reached the first houses of the village of Jete. “Never say never is what I say.”

  “I’m not going to plant millennial olive trees and then abandon them,” Bernie whined.

  “They won’t be millennial for a while,” I said, amused by his attitude, which had changed a heck of a lot in the year since we’d arrived in Spain.

  Jete was pretty too, if a little more bustling, and after lunch we boarded the first of two buses back to the campsite.

  “You know, if you’d told me we’d be bussing it on this holiday I’d have said, pull the other one, but I’m quite enjoying it,” Bernie said after bagging the back seats for us.

  “How long is it since you were on a bus?” I said.

  “A day.”

  “No, I mean before that.”

  “Oof, thirty or forty years, I suppose. I like it though. It’s good to watch the locals going about their business.”

  “Half of them are foreigners,” I murmured.

  “Yes, well, they are here, but I wouldn’t rule out bussing it around other parts of Spain one day.”

  “I’m glad you like it, because we’re bussing it tomorrow as well,” said Cathy. “If we all agree, of course.”

  For the next two days buses became our principal form of transport. The temperature had fallen well below twenty degrees and it was quite cloudy most of the time, so we were happy to travel west to Nerja one day and east to Salobreña the next, but I won’t bore you with the details of those busy towns, save to say that Nerja is much more touristy and has lovely beaches and promenades, while Salobreña is more down to earth and set back from the sea, while its beaches are as dark and rough as that of La Herradura.

  “I’ve enjoyed it so far,” Bernie said that evening as we ate dinner in the Hymer, having decided to use the cooker at least once.

  We concurred that despite the middling to poor weather, we were making the most of our time in the south.

  He raised his fork and waved it about.

  “Eat that mushroom first,” said Cathy.

  He cleared the fork and waved it again. “But I do think, if you’re all agreeable, that we ought to go somewhere else on our way home.”

  “Why?” said Cathy.

  “Well, we’ve sort of done this area now, and as it’s not beach weather, even for a tough guy like me, I think we should make tracks and go home by a different route.”

  I moved my head from side to side in the noncommittal Spanish way.

  “If we just drive straight back on the motorway it won’t really have been a motorhome tour at all, will it?”

  Cathy consulted her phone. “Going inland via Granada is a recommended route too.”

  “No way are we taking the Hymer into a big city like that,” I said anxiously. “I’m sorry, but we can go there another time in the car.”

  “The route is nice though, and the roads are good,” said Inma. “We could go that way and stop somewhere quiet for a night or two.”

  “The campsites might still be closed,” I said feebly.

  Bernie slapped the table. “Oh, come on, Alan. This thing’s got everything we need. We can stop anywhere we like out in the wilds. This isn’t England, you know. There’s space here. I mean, we’ve hardly even used the loo yet.”

  “Not for number twos,” said Cathy.

  “And we’ll have to clean the thing from top to bottom anyway, so we might as well get some use out of it,” said the persuasive one, sensing that he was nearing a breakthrough.

  “And we’re supposed to check out tomorrow, though we can stay if we want,” said Cathy.

  I nibbled a bit of chicken and nodded slowly. “All right. We’ll go back via Granada, but we won’t stop for the night anywhere that’s not safe.”

  “Great,” said Bernie.

  “And we won’t enter any town centres. They might have narrow streets or unforeseen obstacles.”

  “I haven’t scratched a vehicle in my life, but all right.”

  “That’s settled then,” said Cathy. “All that remains is for you two to have that final swim that you promised yourselves.”

  Bernie and I agreed to forsake that pleasure in order to make an early start.

  “I’m not sure about this,” I said at half past seven the following evening as the sky reddened to the west.

  “We’ll be as safe as houses here,” Bernie said.

  “It will be dark
soon,” said Inma.

  “It’s big enough anyway,” said Cathy, scuffing her shoe on the dusty earth.

  “I suppose it’s better than going on in the dark,” I conceded, as the flat patch of land beside the road on the outskirts of Huéscar, in the far north of the province of Granada, was the best we’d seen for a while. After driving up from the coast and admiring Granada and its Alhambra Palace from the bypass, we’d climbed onto the plateau and stopped at the town of Guadix. There we’d visited the baroque cathedral, the lovingly restored alcazaba, or Arab fortress, and made a brief foray into the Barrio de Cuevas, where Inma and I were able to compare our cave house to a neighbourhood full of them, ranging from dwellings carved into the solid rock to a few extremely crumbly affairs where I’d have been even more nervous about spending the night than where we ended up.

  In the end it was a good experience, as few cars passed and no-one bothered us at all. It was a starry night and as we sat outside, well wrapped up against the cold at about a thousand metres above sea level, we marvelled at the vastness of it all.

  “This is the way to go in a motorhome,” said Bernie, mellowed by the wine he’d drunk. “Like hoboes, stopping wherever we want and without a care in the world.”

  I glanced at the Hymer. “Hardly hoboes, Bern.”

  “Who needs campsites when the whole of Spain is our oyster, eh?”

  “Not in this though. I don’t think I’m going to ask to borrow it again. I’m just too nervous about damaging it.”

  “We’ve noticed that,” said Cathy.

  “Hey, we could buy one for the four of us. You know, share it.”

  “One of these?” said Inma, looking startled.

  “No, nothing like this beast. Just a camper van.”

  “What, pre-war?” said Cathy.

  “No, we’d have to be practical. Even those old VW campers are too small for us really.”

  “First we should go away in the car and take tents,” said Inma.

  “Tents?” said Bernie, clearly unimpressed.

  Inma switched to slow Spanish. “Why not? It’s the same principle and if we enjoyed a camping trip, we could think about getting a camper van. One can stay in hotels too, of course. I don’t believe in buying expensive things on a whim. One should be sure that it’s the right thing to do before spending all that money.”