All rights reserved. First published 2019.
All characters and places in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The main problem with writing about another country, is that the inhabitants invariably speak a different language. In my book, we encounter three different categories of Spaniard. Firstly, those with almost perfect English. Carlos the Spanish teacher, for example, and Rafi the estate agent. For them, I have reported their conversations verbatim.
Secondly, we meet those locals attempting to learn English. ‘Plees we go bar of old queens thees night, take beer!’ Once again, what appears in these pages, is how it came out. More or less!
Finally, we are introduced to the Village People. No, not six camp singers from the mid-seventies, waving their arms above their heads, to the tune of Y.M.C.A. Great song, danced to it many-a-time, at weddings. But sadly, native Americans, cops, bikers, builders, soldiers and cowboys do not feature in this volume. No, when I say Village People, I mean the people of the village, the neighbours, the older generation generally, who speak not a word of English. For them, I have attempted to translate, as best I can, which was not easy at times, especially at Andalucian pace, and volume!
Hopefully, all will become clear, as the book progresses. So read on, and enjoy! I hope you get as much pleasure from following our adventures, as we did ‘living the dream’!
John Austin Richards, Andalucia, Spain.
PROLOGUE. STORM CLOUDS APPROACHING…
A park bench, south Bristol, in the drizzle. The grey half-light of dawn, angry, stressed, sleep deprived, after driving through the night from the Calais ferry, permitted an hour’s rest only, in the various so-called ‘services’ on the M4 west of London, then chased out of the reserved parking area outside Chrissie’s mother’s flat by an over-zealous parking warden. Waterproof jackets on. Well this is August, after all. Chrissie smiles sweetly, remarkable self-control after the night we have had. ‘I wonder what is happening right now, back home?’ she ponders. ‘I bet Isabel will be out sweeping the street. Loli will be on her patio, clearing her throat. Fernando will be blowing his nose, like the Queen Mary leaving Southampton. The dustman will be towing his rubber bin up the hill. Cruzojo will be peeping through his blinds. Susanna will be polishing her windows with that white dog. Campo Pete will have his Elvis records on, Leopard-skin woman and auntie Vera will be gossiping, and sexy-eyes Jose the Pan will be missing me, I hope! And, of course, the sun will be out!’
Home? Did she say home? She did say home. Our Spanish home. But for how much longer, I wonder? I glance up at the sky, which is the colour of a tramp’s underwear, although not as dark as the stormy black clouds surely looming just over the horizon. Metaphorical clouds, for now, but they are there.
Brexit.
We followed the referendum campaign in our online newspaper and on the internet, of course, and I did actually predict, to our incredulous Spanish friends, that Britain would vote to leave the European Union. And now it has happened. So what will it mean for us? Will we need visas to visit Spain, or permission to stay, or be forced to return to Britain for a part of each year? What about healthcare, driving licences, our personal pensions, our state pensions in future? Will we face hostility, over Gibraltar, from the locals? Already, sterling has devalued by around ten per-cent, making everything correspondingly more expensive for us over there. And although the UK will not actually leave for another couple of years, a considerable number of expats with ongoing health problems are openly talking about getting out while the going is good, before house prices devalue, and to re-establish their NHS entitlements.
No idea, of course. Might be a storm in a teacup, a fuss about nothing. But what will become of our hopes and dreams, in the land of sunsets, and olives?
CHAPTER 1. A (SAD) LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVES.
No, I was not woken by the hairy Ukrainian lorry driver snoring away in the next seat, in the somewhat optimistically titled ‘Executive Sleeping Lounge’, even though this fellow could snort for his country, like a field of pigs who have decided to get together for a grunting contest, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Nor was my beauty-sleep disturbed by the three female Romanian asbestos miners coughing and hacking away at the back of the room, in the manner of a pack of asthmatic Labradors, every now and again sending an eddy of stale cigarette smoke wafting down in my direction. And on the rare occasions when my new Eastern European friends fell silent, a baby started grizzling. I don’t suppose the infant cared either way, but seriously? A trip like this? Why didn’t the parents go to Center Parks, or Butlin’s?
Before this I had gone to the restaurant in search of sustenance, where the roast lamb looked good, which goes to prove that appearances can be deceptive. Mind you the surly Soviet-era server behind the counter didn’t help, ‘Would Sir like chips and tomato sauce with his lamb?’ No I bloody well wouldn’t, you have potatoes with lamb, roast and boiled, but being a foreigner he doesn’t grasp that concept, so there are chips, and they are not even proper chips, or rice. I opt for the latter, and anaemic looking veg, which I now know to have been the wrong choice, then ask him what sauce he would recommend? ‘Gravy’ he replied, ladling it all over the plate. Actually, describing this as ‘lamb’ undoubtedly contravenes all sorts of Trading Standards legislation, more like ‘mutton done up as’, rather like the woman opposite me in the dining area who is surely twenty-five years too old for those tight white jeans and stilettos, hair in the classic ‘Croydon Facelift’ ponytail, and a cleavage which they could have used down on the car deck earlier, for parking the motorbikes. £9.75 they wanted for one gristly slice of old ram, (the meat, I mean, not the woman) which could probably have limped back to my table on its own. Doing my best to force it down, to mask the taste of the mutton, to take my mind off the glutinous gravy-encrusted rice, I was drinking mini-sized bottles of French red wine, ‘Old Farmyard’ it was called if my schoolboy French served me correctly, and boy was that an accurate description, essence of rooster with a hint of dung, and a smidgen of sweaty old Gallic farmer thrown in for good measure. Actually I doubt it was actually wine at all, more like a ‘wine-flavoured beverage’, bottom of the barrel stuff which the French thought they could foist on the Brits, at three times the price for this small measure, as what I pay for a whole bottle of good stuff in Spain, where strangely enough this boat is headed. Truly they should have paid me the £9.75. Plus danger-money.
Around this time I began to seriously regret reading the Sunday Times travel section, a few months ago. ‘New bargain-price ferry service to northern Spain’ the headline ran, although I am willing to bet the journalist was not bedding down on a seat, from a 1970’s Ford Zephyr, in a cloud of Benson & Hedges fumes, amid a symphony of lungs, windpipes and whining ankle-biters. No, he was without doubt ensconced in a cosy cabin on the top deck, room service, sheet turned down, mint on the pillow, first off the car deck tomorrow. Elderly sheep was not on his menu, that’s a sure fact. Or Bisto on his rice.
And no, I was not woken by the tunes playing in my head, an annoying selection by the Bee-Gees, thoughtfully provided by the tribute act in the bar earlier, three middle-aged blokes with high voices and sunglasses, ‘Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin' alive.’ Yeah thanks for that guys. Slumping dejectedly in a chair at the back of the bar, nursing a pint of overpriced, under-strength, lager-flavoured water, as far from the ‘entertainment’ as possible, but sadly still within earshot, I spotted a copy of The Sun, and in a moment of madness which I no
w bitterly regret, picked it up, for want of anything better to do, intending to wile away a few sad lonely minutes flicking through the pictures. ‘Oi, that’s mine!’ complained a voice behind me, ‘but you can read it if you like.’ Turning to face the objector, I was stunned to find myself gazing into the eyes of Elton John, circa 1986, complete with ginger hair and orange sunglasses. Who knew that Rocket Man travelled by car ferry, across the Bay of Biscay, and was a fan of Page Three?
For a couple of seconds I was rendered speechless. Uncanny, he even has Elton’s voice, what little I have heard, on TV. Surely, it cannot be him? Smiling, my new acquaintance slipped his hand into his pocket, and handed me a business card, bearing the legend ‘John Roberts, UK-Spain-UK Removals. No job too small’, which only served to add to my confusion. So why is a removals guy dressing up as Elton John? Is this some grotesque wind-up? Is this part of the entertainment? Are Ant and Dec, or heaven forbid, Noel Edmonds, about to spring out from behind a pillar? This nightmare on the high seas is rapidly going downhill, if that were possible. Not that there are hills out here, but you know what I mean.
Suddenly, Elton, aka John Roberts, snatched the card from my hand, turned it over, and quickly handed it back. ‘Bobby John’ the reverse side read, ‘Britain’s best Elton John tribute act.’ And he started to sing. ‘I remember when rock was young, me and Suzie had so much fun…’ And he was good, very good. So what the hell? We only pass this way once, hopefully. I decided to join in. I often get lairy, after a couple of water-flavoured lagers. Especially if they cost £6. ‘Holding hands and skimming stones, had an old gold Chevy and a place of my own!’
John/Bobby/Elton clapped me on the back, grinning widely. ‘Hey, nice voice!’ he exaggerated. ‘So, do you know Gea, John ?’ he enquired. John? He knows my name? This MUST be a wind-up, right? Am I being stalked? Is my wife having me followed? How is this possible? I mean, it’s been a tough day already, the ride down to Portsmouth in the pouring rain, wringing about a gallon of greasy gutter-water from my leathers in the ferry terminal and trying, and spectacularly failing, to dry them under a pathetic fifty-watt hand-dryer, changing into some dry-ish clothes on the car-deck in front of assorted caravanners, Romanian truckers and a bunch of Saaf-London mods on ancient Lambrettas, complete with parkas and tiger-tails, searching optimistically for the ‘Executive Sleeping Lounge’, the old ram, the essence of farmer, the Bee-Gees, and finally Elton John. All I need now, to complete the perfect day, is for Noel Edmonds to appear.
My new friend sensed my confusion. ‘You know, where this boat is going. Gea-John. Ever been there, have you?’
Ah yes. The famous Gijon. A ferry-port in northern Spain, apparently. Although it is clear that, of the two of us, only I know the Spanish pronunciation to be ‘Hee-HHON’ , with the throaty, phlegm-encrusted second syllable. HHON. And the only reason I am aware of this, is because I caused a massive hullabaloo at the conversation group, at Santa Marta library, when I announced I had booked a ferry from England to Gea-John. Gijon. I mean, any English-speaker would, wouldn’t they? Tears were rolling down faces, tissues produced, thighs slapped, noses blown, and a visit from Marie the librarian, to threaten us with expulsion. Although when appraised of the reason for the merriment, she too dissolved into paroxysms of laughter. Come on. Hee-HHON? Who knew?
‘No, this is my first, and last, voyage on this route!’ I confirmed. ‘I mean, I’ve gone Dover to Calais before, and I wish I’d done that this trip. Taken a couple of days in France, wild camping, eating in little bistros, MacDonald’s even would have been preferable to this rip-off, along the back roads, instead of feeling like I am imprisoned in this hell-hole. Seriously, I sailed from Weymouth to the Channel Islands on the Sealink in about 1976, and that ferry was more modern than this one.’
‘So what sort of bike are you riding?’ Elton giggled. Bike? BIKE? How on earth does he know I’m riding a bike? This guy is seriously spooking me out. First it was John, now it’s a bike. This HAS to be a wind-up, right? Ant and Dec are behind the next pillar, for sure.
Nevertheless, I smiled sweetly, in case there was a camera trained on me from around the corner. ‘How do you know I am riding a bike?’
Elton sniggered again. ‘Er, it’s on your tee-shirt. Live to ride, ride to live. UNLESS YOU’RE A SEX MANIAC!’
At that precise split second, the ‘Bee-Gees’ were winding up their act, and ‘Barry Gibb’, the lead singer, was asking the audience for any suggestions for the big encore. Cue complete silence. Until Elton’s voice came booming out across the dance-floor. ‘UNLESS YOU ARE A SEX MANIAC!’
To be fair, ‘Barry’ dealt with what he must have regarded as drunken barracking, with true professionalism. ‘That’s not one of our songs!’ he laughed. ‘Sounds like a Tom Jones number! So we’re gonna do ‘How Deep is Your Love.’ Thank you for being a great audience. Good night, and God Bless.’
Meanwhile Elton and I were creased up with laughter. ‘Christ! I forget how loud my voice is! It’s cos I’m a professional entertainer, see? So what’s your name? You can call me Bobby.’
‘Sorry’ I sniffed, wiping tears from my eyes. ‘It’s been a hell of a day, all told. I’m John, I ride a Harley, an old one, a twelve-hundred.’
‘So, on your own, are you John?’ he observed. Yeah, yeah, so I am a complete ‘Johnny No-Mates’. But then, so is he, although I guess he actually is on a delivery job, or a gig in Spain, or both. A conjurer is coming on-stage now , penguin suit, comb-over, although mercifully there is no Debbie McGee lookalike, complete with a flock of doves, and a white rabbit. I was wrong earlier. Life has just got a whole lot worse. ‘Paul Daniels’ has just turned up.
I took a sip of my beery water, and grimaced. ‘My wife and I moved to Andalucia last year. Bought a house, settled in. Then we took our English right-hand-drive car back to the UK last month, left it in our daughter’s barn. My bike has been in storage at my mate’s bike shop for a year, he did a service and MOT for me and now I am riding it down to Spain. My wife is flying back this week.’
‘I ship bikes’ he cheerily confirmed. ‘£245, or £275 for bigger ones. Door to door. So how much did you pay for this trip?’
I hate a wise-ass. Especially wise-asses who tell you stuff when it is too late. Mind you, he does have a point. Right now, I would happily have paid twice that to have avoided watching a magician produce a five-pound note from his ear. ‘Oh, about the same’ I lied.
‘Yeah, plus petrol, food on the boat, somewhere to stay tomorrow night on your way down’ he kindly reminded me.
‘Well, you’ve got me there, Bobby’ I smiled, through gritted teeth. ‘Wish I’d known about you earlier.’
‘And I charge £100 a cubic metre, for ordinary stuff, furniture, boxes, anything really’ he continued. ‘Do you know how big a cubic metre is, John?’
What is this, ‘Mastermind’? Or ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’? Can I phone a friend? ‘Well, when I was at school, a cubic metre was a metre, cubed. So a metre wide, a metre deep, and a metre high.’ I resisted adding a sarcastic comment, just in case Magnus What's-his-name was lurking somewhere.
‘Correct. So do you know how big two cubic metres is?’
I narrowed my eyes and gave him a stare. ‘Are you sure you are not a Chris Tarrant tribute act, as well as Elton John? Can I ask the audience? Or go fifty-fifty? No, actually I know this one, Chris. Two cubic metres is two of what I described in my last answer. So two metres wide, by one metre deep, and one high. Have I won a million? Gimme the money!’
Bobby was laughing. ‘Not a million, but I’m gonna buy you a pint! Do you like Guinness? That stuff you are drinking is watered down, but the Guinness is pukka.’
Do I like Guinness? Been my drink since about 1968, Bobby. Or any real ale. Taunton cider. Not in the same glass obviously. Sadly, there is no real ale on this old tug, and Taunton cider is now brewed in somewhere like Beijing, so go on, twist my arm. Anything to take my attention away from Paul Daniels, who has now invited an hysterica
lly giggling woman onto the stage, although whether he is about to saw her in half, or make her disappear, is not clear. Either would be good, Paul, if you can manage it.
Bobby came staggering back clutching two glasses of the black stuff, although whether it was the effect of the rolling waves, or because he was rolling drunk, was impossible to say. ‘Sorry to wind you up about cubic metres, mate, especially on your holiday’ he giggled, slopping Guinness over the table, ‘but you wouldn’t believe the arguments I have had, with people who think that two cubic metres is two by two by two. They are expecting to pay £200, and when I tell them that they have eight metres, and that it’s gonna be eight hundred quid, they blow a fuse!’
Holiday? Well it was a holiday, with my wife Chrissie, camping in Spain and France on the way over, staying a few days with her mother, touring Devon and Cornwall, visiting our daughters for some quality time, meeting our former colleagues. Until I picked up the bike, since when my backside has been more or less permanently damp. A fortnight in Siberia would have been preferable to the M27 in August. And what can I say about his customers being unable to multiply two by two by two? Surely banging out ‘Candle in the Wind’ is easier?
‘Anyway, what is your favourite Elton John song?’ he enquired, whipping out a smart-phone. ‘We can have a look at my website, watch me singing it!’
There’s a a way to pass an hour, on a ferry. I’d rather swim back to Spain, quite honestly. Two middle-aged blokes staring at a smart-phone, watching someone pretending to be Elton John. Right, payback time! I’ll give him cubic metres. My turn, now! ‘Tiny Dancer’ I replied, without hesitation.
He grimaced. ‘Don’t do that one. Choose another.’
Aha, got you, sunshine! ‘OK, Blues for Baby and Me’, from Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only the Piano Player.’ And I started to sing. ‘The Greyhound is swaying, the radio playing, some blues for baby and me!’
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 1