Personal Blogs

Normally, I ignore Lent. This year is different.

It is very easy to be a drunkard here in Spain. No one needs to try very hard but we don’t usually see many drunks. All sorts of alcoholic drinks are readily and cheaply available. Being an alcoholic doesn’t cost much. There is more alcohol in my house than I have ever had before. Wine in abundance. Beer in the fridge - mostly for visitors. It is rare that I drink beer. Not an acquired taste. However, I do enjoy cider, especially on a hot day. That doesn’t last long in the fridge. 

When I first came to Spain, my habitual nightcap was a small glass of Famous Grouse Whiskey. It was possible to buy three one litre bottles at Carrefour for about £30, a fraction of the cost in the UK. Some of those three one litre bottles remain in the drinks cupboard. I have discovered Soberano, a local brandy, sweeter and below the usual proof standard of proper French cognacs. Soberano is now my usual nightcap.

One of the problems here in Spain is that restaurants often provide a free half bottle of wine or a small carafe with a meal. It is very easy to get carried overboard with this. Our nearest cheap and cheerful Chinese restaurants does just that: half a bottle of wine or a beer with any meal, a small glass of (rather weak) Sangria to start with and once the bill is paid, the offer of a shot glass of schnapps. And then, it is difficult to resist a cana, a small glass of beer, to quench the thirst. Out here, thirst needs to be quenched.

Well! That’s it. Done and dusted. Boris Johnson, the right wing of British politics, the cheats, rumour mongers and liars have their way. Resident in the E.U. I am no longer a citizen of that organisation. 

I wish it were otherwise. I had thought that jingoism died during the First World War with Wilfred Owen. As a child of the years of the Second World War, I hated and feared anything German. My childish nightmares were about Adolf Hitler.

Two salutary lessons were learned post-war. First, my parents invited Walther Rehm to our home during Christmas 1945. Father had recently been released from his service in the Royal Air Force, ironically enough Bomber Command. Walther was a ‘no threat’ prisoner of war, of low rank. As such, privileges were granted: he was able to visit our church, occasionally he could spend a night away from his prison camp. He was a joy. Hitler would have loved him. Tall. Blond. Blue eyed. But a gentle man. Kind. Thoughtful. Anxious to look and learn. He and father got on well together. Mother, a teacher, gave him English lessons.

And he taught, too. He taught me my first few stammering words of German. Without formal skills in German, I can still count up to ten. In his Bavarian accent. We sang together, ‘Silent Night’, in its original language. When he returned to Germany, I was no longer having nightmares about Hitler and Germans.

Some years later, I was part of an exchange trip to German from school. Father had warned me of the devastating damage he had seen flying over Cologne. I knew we were going to a broken and run down country. I was prepared to be humble and condescendingly kind to the nation Britain had defeated. 

How wrong I was. How my eyes were opened. How humiliated I became.

Cologne was still in ruins. Little rebuilding had taken place. The Dom tower still stood aloof from the rubble.

But my broken hosts had.a car. A shining, gleaming, brand new Mercedes Benz. We had no car. My hosts had a wonderful house with private bathrooms. The pit village house I had lived in had an outside toilet. They had servants. My family, butchers by trade, had employed domestic servants until the 1920s. Never in my time. Then, the business - its three shops, its abattoir, its one or two fields raising its own livestock for slaughter - was lost to the industrial strife of that period of British history. Collateral damage. 

My nascent social and political outlook began to formulate the belief that it was better for humankind if we became joiners together rather than separators and dividers. I felt this confirmed what I was being taught in church, through the faith I was acquiring. And the gutter press, the biased and privileged owned spreader of falsehoods, today plasters front pages with Union Jacks and exultant banner headlines ranting ‘freedom’. This does not feel like freedom.

I now feel separated and divided. And wronged. 

Much is being said about ‘heal the nation’. Yet, the rowdy yobs on television last night seem intent only on glorifying their ‘victory’. In so many cases the TV interviews appeared to be an excuse for further self indulgence. Rubbing the noses of those who want to be E.U. citizens in the dirt of the lies and prejudice that has been spread.

I regret yesterday more than anything else that I have regretted in my 82 years as a British citizen. It seems we have learned nothing from history.

I am angry again.

     It is Saturday - outside the supermarket

      Jeanie is inside, shopping for the weekend.

      The dog and I are waiting in the car. Tilly still needs company and we have only brought her out for a walk after the shopping.

      James is at the car park gate.

      He is begging.

     James is tall, strong, good-looking, ambitious, healthy - and black.

     He has a family - a stable relationship - a wife and first child, a son, Happiness. James wants to work. He is desperate to work.

     The question to be asked is, ‘Why doesn’t he work. Why beg when fit enough and strong enough to work.’

      The answer, ‘He entered this country of Spain illegally, undocumented. By law, he cannot own or rent a property, he is not allowed to work and earn money for his family. ’

      His ambition is to live a settled life. Not to beg. A life caring for his family. A life enabling him to hold up his head. To be proud. He is a refugee but doesn’t want to be a refugee. He has no status. No identification. No National Insurance number. He cannot apply for status. He cannot apply for a driving licence or take driving lessons. He wants what we have, a life free from persecution, from strife. A life where his family can grow up in an atmosphere of calm. He is from Nigeria where Christians and Muslims are in constant friction, one against the other. His wife is a victim of family persecution,

     He came to Spain illegally to try to achieve his ambition. Here, he has no health care. He has no passport. His wife has a passport and his child was born in Spain. They are able to receive health care.

      Now, in Spain, the situation is that any government sponsored charity, any government aided organisation, wants nothing to do with him and his family. If an illegal is helped or supported in any way, potential grants, subsidies, charitable support can be at risk. So Caritas, so Reach Out, so social services cannot or will not help. There is no organisation that can allow him to be put to work. This is why many of his fellow countrymen, and other illegal immigrants from the African continent, can be seen hawking illegal, contraband items on sea front promenades, watching carefully for the local police and doing everything possible to avoid them. Rather than run from the police, James has chosen to beg at the supermarket gate.

     Spain has many economic migrants. Those with a Hispanic heritage - particularly from Latin America - have citizenship rights. Those who come illegally from the African continent generally have no rights.

      James is a church going Christian here in Spain, respected well enough within his congregation. Yet it is other hard nosed Western Christians, not from his congregation, who have tried to separate him from his wife. They are devoted to each other, loyal to each other but have not gone through a conventional Western marriage. It has been said,

     ‘You are not married. You must live apart. Your child is illegitimate. Living in sin, you cannot be baptised in the Faith.’

      This is the church at large which was given the the instruction,

      ‘Go forth and speak to the nations in my name, the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth.’

      He who taught love and self sacrifice, He who healed, who asked for little children to come to Him, who welcomed the outcast and the vulnerable.

      James and Patience and their son attend our church, have been baptised and are welcomed and loved. Our church, mainly comprised of senior citizens, old age pensioners, does what it can to support and help. Illegally. Despite this, because of circumstances that beset him, James still needs to beg outside the supermarket this morning.

      I am angry at this uncaring world.

I’ve just been reading and re-reading the reviews of my story ‘Still Waters’ by other students. Interesting reading. I’m more comfortable with the second read, than I was with the first reading of what they have said. I’m terrible with criticism, even with constructive criticism. What surprises me, is what others see in my writing that I don’t think I’ve put there. ‘Still Waters’ is intended as a short story, complete in itself, with no further to go. In fact, it is a re-hash of something written about a year ago for the local Writer’s Circle. It got a lot of appreciation there. Fellow students who have subsequently read it, are quite complementary but want to put their own construction on the story: to miss bits out that I feel are essential to the story; to add bits to it, that in my view would change its nature and my style. That’s probably just arrogant on my part. In my reviews of the writing of others, I’ve tried to comment on what they have written, rather than what I think they should have written. My difficulty was that two of my fellow students appear to have English as a second language and that has complicated things.

So, today, heart in mouth, I have re-edited my TMA02, its commentary and my EMA proposal. I think it is as refined as it is going to get. I’ve found the editing difficult. I enjoyed writing the original story and was relatively comfortable with it. Two people made really helpful comments when I posted it on the draft TMA forum. Subsequently, I’ve edited and re-edited it about four times: that is five different versions of the original story. Then I got muddled up about what went where. Then I tried to put into practice what others had said. Then I tried to include aspects of the teaching on the course. Consequently, I became very confused and then ratty with myself and with my wife. But not with the dog. I think it is now as final as it is going to get. But, when I re-read it before posting tomorrow, you can bet there are alterations to make. It just never seems to be finished. Then when it does get posted, I will be seeing all sorts of flaws and necessary corrections and amendments. Hey, ho! Just get on with it. The EMA proposal started out at 600 words and needs to be about 300. I’ve done that but only by missing out lots of connectives and sentence subjects. More note form than prose. Hope that’s OK.

The ‘Gota Fria’ is still doing its thing outside. I shivered and shook all through Spanish today - because I got soaked walking the few yards to the hotel where the lesson takes place. I chill so easily these days. The dog has been reluctant to go out and get wet. And we have had no water. I had assumed that it was because of the storm. No. A stop valve has not stopped in the technical hut, resulting in a four foot flood of water swamping some electrics. Tony called later this afternoon to say that he and Glen have sorted it for the time being and we can make a cup of tea and flush the toilets. Until the plumber comes. The airport is still closed. 40 kilometers away. It must be really bad up there. And Jeanie is showing me ‘Facebook’ photos of snow nearby. Hopefully not coming down to us.

The New Year has been pretty adventurous. Having a well settled but lively dog can be fun. Tilly brings a lot of pleasure into our lives. However, she has a mind of her own and has had two escapologist adventures. She has a relatively lightweight harness that she wears during the day. It clips onto her lead when out walking and into the car seat belt when driving. She has suddenly discovered that when her lead is taut, she can slip the harness and escape. She created chaos when Jeanie and I were doing minor errands in the village. I had charge of the dog while waiting for Jeanie to finish what she was doing. I took Tilly to sit at the outside tables of ‘La Mesa’, the small cafe near the village square. Suddenly she was gone. I had the lead tight to stop her tangling herself around the tables and chairs. Suddenly there was an empty harness and she was off, up the road, over the square and onto the Calle Mayor, technically the main road but never very busy. Not only had she escaped from the harness but also at the same time - beyond reach, beyond the ability to do anything about it - she had left a doggy deposit in the middle of the pavement outside the tobacconist’s shop. It is no fun at the age of 82 trying to run uphill to catch a dog while worrying about what to do about the dog mess glaring at me from the pavement. The dog was caught. Fortunately Jeanie turned up soon afterwards and while I was holding the dog in solitary confinement, Jeanie removed the dog mess before anyone stepped in it.

You would think that a lesson had been learned. Not a bit of it. Yesterday when Jeanie was out at the ladies fellowship meeting, it was my delegated duty to take the dog for a walk. We walked in relatively orderly fashion to the hotel. Not a long walk but one with a well defined destination. Tilly has been to the hotel several times and has met all the people running the place. It was a lovely afternoon and time for a drink. As food is served in the main room where the bar is, Tilly and I would have to stay outside, on the veranda overlooking the Vega Baja. I hooked Tilly’s lead over the top of the fence and went inside to order a drink. Pleasantries were being exchanged with Richard at the bar when screams from outside were heard.

‘The dog’s escaped. She’s on the road.’

Hastily abandoning my drink, and leaving all my loose change on the bar, I scurried outside to see a brown flash pounding its way up the footpath towards home. Pursued by a woman and her daughter who had been sitting on the veranda enjoying the sun, then me, then by Richard’s girl friend who had been sitting at the bar, then by Richard who had abandoned the bar and taken the hotel mini bus to try to get ahead of Tilly. It was rather like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, with Tilly as the piper and the rest of us as the rats. There was no way that Tilly was going to come back, despite desperate entreaties. We got as far as the urbanisation car park. No sign of Tilly. Turning the corner ahead of us, she had found some escape route. The next problem was that the top end of the urbanisation where the car park is is gated. This prevents all and sundry taking a short cut through our properties and deters undesirables and summer holiday drunks coming back from the bars and restaurants. I had no keys. Coming out with Tilly for a walk, there had been no sign of the house keys which have the post box key, the swimming pool key and the car park gate key on the same ring for convenience and safe keeping. Or, in this case, for inconvenience. Having taken Tilly for an early morning walk, Jeanie hadn’t bothered to put the keys back where they are kept and walking to the hotel I wasn’t going to need them. Until Tilly escaped. And I now had no way of getting into the urbanisation to see if she had run home. Aware of the commotion in the car park, a couple sunbathing on their rooftop solarium called down to me to see what was the matter. Having explained, the husband kindly came down and allowed me through. Arriving at home, half expecting and desperately hoping that the dog was on the front patio, no sign. Convinced that we had lost the little rescue dog and that it would need to be rescued by someone again, called for her, not really expecting a response. Pause. silence. Then from around the hedge on our drive, the escapologist appeared, eagerly wagging her tail and looking pleased with herself.

She was shut up inside the house and I went back to the hotel where my drink and loose change were still on the bar.

Priority - new collar or harness that can’t be slipped.

Two disappointing discoveries this morning. I took a quite expensive, rather smart pair of trousers out of the wardrobe when getting dressed. I had an early morning appointment with the nurse. The trousers have clearly shrunk because they are about four inches too small. Unless I have put on weight recently. OK. I have put on weight. Insulin injections have improved my appetite and that is showing around the stomach. So I wore a rather more voluminous pair of trousers for my visit to the nurse. Blood tests again. She said that it might hurt but I felt nothing. Back home, having gone to the surgery fasting, as instructed, prepared for my insulin injection and breakfast by checking blood sugar readings. High. Rather surprised how high - 178, when these days it is more normally between 60 and 100. Chinese meal last night? Wine with the meal? Brandy at the hotel watching football? Four Roses chocolates before bed? Possibly a combination of them all. Despite all my physical activity chasing the dog. Need to watch that.

Well, that’s one more old age task dispensed with this evening. Because of my age, my Spanish driver’s licence needs to be renewed every three years. The three years is up in February 2020. I no longer have a UK licence as I have no UK address. The authorities like to get applications in early. They take a long time to issue in Spain.

The process is more or less routine but not as routine as in the UK. Here, a fitness to drive test has to take place. Not an ‘on the road’, or theory test. There is an aptitude braking and steering test on a device rather like a gaming machine with handles. The handles control two ‘cars’ on separate rolling roads that go both ways at once. I hate it. There is an eyesight test. Brief questions about medical condition, a stethoscope listen to heart and chest and finally blood pressure readings. If successful, and I’ve not heard of anyone failing, a photo is taken, a temporary licence is issue and 35€s is coughed up. A new full licence is sent out from ‘Traffico’ the licensing authority in due course.

I was able to tell the doctor that my cataracts have been removed and my driving vision is much improved. He wanted to know how my diabetes was and seemed happy with the much reduced blood sugar readings. My blood pressure was much better than before because of the blood pressure medication. So he was quick to sign me off. I now have a folded piece of paper in my wallet alongside the soon to expire long term one. Good. I’d hate to be put off the road living out here with no public transport.

So, down to considering things Christmassy and going to Albir. I have so many clothes, what to pack is a bewildering issue. We may be taking friends to Benidorm on our way. He is suffering and is unable to walk/drive and she doesn’t. It is only a small diversion. Jeanie’s pre Christmas events are almost finished: one singing engagement, one last church service.

We are hoping that Phyl has got off to Tenerife this morning. When we were with her for supper last night she was really low and still missing Ken her late husband a year after his death. I hope three days in a good hotel and a seven day cruise does her good. She didn’t want to go. Of course, our mutual friends, Rick and Jose are away on their holiday and she is missing the fuss and attention she gets from them.

Jeanie and I may be about to acquire a dog. We miss Sophie, regretting rehoming her before committing to Spain. J has been in contact with a dog adopting agency in Benidorm and we may meet this pooch while we are away. I love dogs but I’m not sure I want to be tied down again. On the other hand it might ensure that I get more exercise. We have been discussing it for some time and looking at adoptadog adverts. We will see.

Well, having dispatched TMA 01, and awaiting results with baited breath, I have entered a new forum, the fiction forum for the next batch of work. It would appear that I’ve entered that new forum with all my former creative non-fictionites and that it is a very noisy forum with lots of traffic, because there are so many more people in it. A bit confusing. But fortunately, there is no whole new IT system to learn. That really would be a nightmare. Some of our group have the results of their assessed pieces. I wish I didn’t know that, because it intensifies the anticipation/expectation of mine. Although tutors don’t have long to turn assignments around, each day seems like an eternity.

It has been a pretty busy time since my last blog entry. I’ve seen the ophthalmologist. It was Maria Isabel Madrid Saavedra again, and again, my heart warmed to her. She has a smile and a manner one could drown in. And she has confirmed that my damaged left eye is healing well and unless there are further problems, I don’t need to go back. I’m almost disappointed not to see her again. She had a student with her and it was clear that the student was in an early learning situation because she was unable to focus on the back of my eye as easily as Maria Isabel could. I’m sure she will learn. 

Because this is the build up to Christmas, and because Christmas comes early here, things are very busy - especially with meals out for the different groups we belong to. On Friday, after the hospital visit, we had the ‘do it yourself’ concert that Jeanie organised at church. It went off successfully which I was thankful about for J’s sake, although the audience was relatively thin. Everyone who had volunteered to perform did well. I was particularly impressed with Jackie Garrett’s liveliness, with Doug Brown’s unexpected sense of humour and with Colin Anderson’s powerful delivery of the Betcheman Advent poem. I was disappointed in my own singing. The bloom appears to have gone off my voice with old age and I didn’t get my usual resonance off the back wall of the church. Afterwards, sixteen of us went to the Gran China Asiatic for an evening meal and had great social fun. 

It is the time of meals out. Phyl invited us to Portico Mar and Saturday for her birthday. Portico Mar is not cheap, but it was a good meal and the fifteen there had a good time.The house red wine was particularly good. Because there was no one else to do it, I played the organ at church on Sunday morning. One of the hymns was in A flat and I hate four flats as a key to play in. However, it went off fine. There were only six of us for lunch, Keith, Kathie, Peter, Kate, Jeanie and me at the Herradura. For once, I enjoyed the ‘special bread’. I’m not sure why it is special bread but this time it was soft and chewy not hard and coarse. With alioli and tomato, of course. I loved my smoked salmon starter and the chicken main course wasn’t bad, either. Monday was eating out again. Jeanie is a member of the ladies friendship group and lunch time was their Christmas celebration. To a place I’d never previously been to. Laurels, upstairs in Quesada.  And that was good, too.

So, when the Christmas period is over, I must slim. I must be putting pounds on.

We've had the beginning of another ‘Gota Fria’. It is forecast for three days but not as intensive as the one a couple of months ago. There was intense thunder and lighting last night and it has rain most of the day today. There is apparently more bad flooding down at Alcathares. People who have previously lost their homes are flooded out again. Quiz night tonight. Too much soaps (Coronation Street characters: I knew none) and too much pop music (I recognised some music but knew no answers).Despite that, a good social time. I’m told that we re going Christmas shopping tomorrow to la Zenia Boulevard and that at some time I must make myself scarce. There are plenty of good coffee shops to make myself scarce in.

Its been a funny old weekend. With Jeanie away, I’ve ben left to my own devices. Or should that be vices. I’ve done a lot of things that I should have done. And a great many that could have been left undone. Even things left undone.

On Friday, there was the surprise email from my Open University tutor saying that all posts now needed to be posted to the tutor forum to be read by her for assessment. I’ve counted up the number of posts I’ve made, of my own work, of my response to the work of others and the posts on my blog. There are more than eighty in total, most of which can be classified as creative non fiction, my area of study. I had intended to go to Alicante on Friday morning to ride on the tram system to Benidorm. I delayed, trying to respond to my tutor and trying to begin to transfer files from one place to another but finally went off about noon.

It had been my plan to leave early, drive to Alicante airport, leave the car there and take the airport bus to the city. Then get the tram at Luceros to Benidorm. In the end, having sent an email to the tutor asking for clarification, I did that journey. I made copious study notes on the outward journey. It was very interesting and picturesque, all along the coast. My arrangements, including a light lunch in a cafe at Luceros, went well. I had not intended to stop long in Benidorm. Its a place usually full of stags and hens and frequently over-inebriated Englishmen. Checking on the timetable, I had time for coffee before taking the tram back to Alicante city. It was as I was checking the timetable, that a very large man walked two paces backwards and accidentally gave me a hefty shoulder charge on the left hand side. My head jerked violently and I had to hold on to the wall to prevent myself from falling. At 81, I am not wonderfully steady on my feet at the best of times. Very shaken, the man and his wife comforted me, checked that I was not particularly damaged and I went for a recuperative cup of coffee just around the corner. The tram left about 15 minutes later.

It was only on the tram back to the city, looking into the setting sun, that I was aware of lots of spots on my spectacles. So I removed them and found the spots were still there. Some time passed before I realised that the spots were not on my spectacles but in my eye. Later still, I was aware that it was only my left eye that was affected, the side where I had been bumped. Then I became aware of a transparent shadow moving in the eye as I looked from side to side. Other than that, apart from being shaken by the impact, there were no other side effects. The spots and the shadow are still there. I believe that I now have a detached retina. I’ve checked on the National Health Service website on the internet, and on an American Mayo Clinic site. The symptoms of detached retina appear to be what I am experiencing. My eyes are still in focus. There is no pain. With Jeanie away and as it is the weekend, I’ve done nothing about this. My daughters, one in York and one in California tell me I should be checking into emergency at the local hospital. I’ve ignored their advice, probably wrongly, but Jeanie is away, I don’t want to be admitted to hospital, I have many other things to do before she returns and she needs to be picked up at the airport on Monday evening. If I’m told not to drive (and at present I can see normally to drive), that will be a great inconvenience. So I’ve delayed any action.

I got home very late after my ‘adventure’ and went straight to bed, promising myself a visit to the market Saturday morning. When I got up, I felt extremely lazy and spent most of the day, doing this and that but not going to the market. I had an evening date for a meal out with friends. I kept that date and enjoyed the occasion. A visit to a previously unvisited restaurant in Quesada, a Thai restaurant. The food was good, spicy, different and the company was good. Returning I checked my email and there was a similar query to mine about the forum work but no tutor response. Indulgently, I ate sour gummy sweets which should be an absolute ‘no, no’ for a diabetic. During the eating of sweets, rather absentmindedly, I began copying the link references for al my posts. Getting confused after a while and finding myself missing some posts and duplicating others, I went to bed early, knowing that I had to be up early in the morning for church. This was a service at 9.30 a.m. some distance drive away. I set my alarm for the appropriate time. I did sleep, intermittently, but wide awake at 5 a.m. I got up and made tea. As the alarm was set for 8.15 a.m. going to bed at 6 a.m. for a couple more hours of sleep seemed to be a good idea. 

At 7.15 a.m. the alarm went. I had neglected to reset the clock in the alarm to wintertime. I turned the alarm off, knowing that I would now be able to get up and go through the process of preparing for church in a leisurely manner. I next awoke at 8.50 a.m. with very little time to get ready and get to church on time. I did get there on time but it was a rather harum scarum process. I was glad I got there on time. The preacher, a friend who had been at the Thai restaurant, had even been very apprehensive the night before. He was good. Following church, it was our usual coffee time in a local cafe, always a pleasant occurrence. 

Spanish lesson is on Monday morning and I had not done my homework. After Sunday morning coffee, I came straight home with an hour or so to spare to do the homework. I hope I’ve got it right. I’ve checked it against Jeanie’s homework and some of mine is quite different. Then to Baybrooks just across the road for Sunday lunch, again with friends. Another very sociable and enjoyable event. With coffee and no pudding. That brought me to siesta time which I’d planned for by getting the Spanish homework out of the way. I did sleep for a while but woke up with intense cramp, a frequent occurrence these days. I wasted a good bit more valuable time, not doing the tasks I should have done, like tidying up, putting away the washed dishes (I have done that chore). But the food waste and the waste paper basket will need to be emptied before Jeanie gets back tomorrow. This waste of time brought me, inevitably, to Sunday evening sports time, with both an England soccer match and the Brazilian Grand Prix happening side by side. 

What to watch was solved by walking down to the hotel to watch the soccer, while taking my iPad to keep a close check on the Grand Prix. England won comfortably and Lewis Hamilton came third, rather than his usual first. I enjoyed my two gin and tonics and some mild flirting with Kata, the proprietors daughter. Once home, wrongly, I ate a few more sour gummy drops and felt quite ill as a result. Probably on the edge of a diabetic hyper so I did my evening insulin injection rather earlier than usual. Normally, Jeanie prepares the insulin pen for me and disposes of the used needle. I can manage by myself but find myself rather more clumsy when she is not there to help me. I have felt better and did a little bit on the Open University course. Not reading or writing, but responding to other students. Then watching ‘His Dark Materials’ next episode. I read the trilogy some time ago and was fascinated at Phillip Pullman’s inventiveness and imagination. Oh! to have similar powers. 

Tomorrow, Spanish lesson is only one hour long because there will only be two of us. After that, I must try to see the local doctor to see what he thinks about my eye. I don’t want to go to hospital immediately, if that is what he recommends, as I must be available to pick Jeanie up at the airport at 9.30 p.m. Hospital, if it is necessary, can wait until Tuesday, although there is a complication there, as Tuesday morning is Jeanie’s Bible study session and we can’t do any hospital arrangements before that. 

So now, another indulgence: my evening brandy before bed. Just as I am reminding myself that in my morning haste, my bed is not made. Too many indulgences and not enough seeing to responsibilities. 

It was my first wife’s idea to keep bees. Friends were emigrating to Canada. They kept bees in their line side garden beside the main King’s Cross to Edinburgh railway. They gave us the bees - two hives - and we bought the equipment

     It should have been my then wife who kept bees. I had an intense dislike of the nasty, buzzy, stingy little things. And they knew it. She should have been the beekeeper, but she was allergic, had a severe reaction to any sting. Needed to go to hospital.

     So, she being her, I kept bees. The honey would be good for the children, she said.

     Most of their necessary equipment came with the bees, but not all. I bought beekeeper’s hat and veil, gauntlets and a smoker to go with an old white painter’s overall I already had. And a book: ‘Beekeeping for Beginners’. It should have been Beekeeping for Dummies.

     Beekeeping is a fascinating, complex, compelling, intriguing hobby, with much to learn. I enlisted the help of Joe, an elderly friend, fellow cardholder in the political party I espoused, a retired college lecturer and longtime beekeeper, to be my guide and mentor.

     To move bees, it is necessary to shut up the hive, find some way of securing it and get the hive into van, truck, wagon or car. At that time, I drove estate cars. Helpful with a growing family. With seats turned down, Joe and I manipulated the two hives into my car to transport them to my garden. Up the drive. Through the garage. Past the kitchen door. Up the steps through the lower garden. Through the rustic arch. A bit of a struggle there. Up the steps to the upper lawn. Across it and then finally, onto the flat concrete platform I’d prepared and which Joe had checked with his spirit level. I found out then that not only was he meticulous, he was impossibly careful and meticulous. We did all this twice.

     The bees were mine. I could hear them inside the hives, humming in sinister fashion. It sounded like, ‘We’ll soon get him. Be ready.’ But, of course, to ensure that bees didn’t beetle back off to my friend’s garden seven miles away, they still needed to be shut up in their hives. Anyway, my friend had already gone to Canada with his wife and children to start a new life in Newfoundland. The day came, soon enough, when Joe said to me, 

‘I’ll come across after you come back from school tonight.’ 

     My house was just across the school field, handy for late mornings and occasional coffee breaks in free periods. 

‘It’s time to let the little people free.’

     So, in the cool of the evening, the bees were released. There was some activity, some movement at the entrance to the hive - but at that stage, very little. 

‘Too cool for much activity,’ Joe said. ‘Wait until tomorrow. Have a look during your lunch break.’

      At lunch break, the hive was a hive of intense activity. Bees came. Bees went. Bees were everywhere,. I kept my distance and reported in to Joe.

‘Fine’, he said. ‘Just as it should be. I’ll come round on Saturday morning when you are free and we’ll inspect the brood chamber.’

     Oh! Inspect! Brood chamber! I knew from my reading research that this was a seething mass of insectivity. Did I really need to be a bee inspector?

‘Oh, yes!’ said Joe. ‘Learn just as Sylvia Plath did.’

     Now this was the first - but not the last - that I had heard of Sylvia Plath’s engagement with bees; Sylvia Plath the beekeeper. Like her, I had a lot to learn.

     The innocent reader, if there is one, needs to have innocence and ignorance dispelled about bees and bee facts. First, there are essentially three types of honey bee: the worker, who is by far the most numerous; the drone, who has only one real task, to mate with the queen; and the queen, herself, of whom in most circumstances, there is only one. The hive is a complex of activity and clearly defined tasks. Workers forage for nectar and pollen, bringing both back into the hive, they secrete wax, build cells, fill the cells with honey, feed and tend larvae, clean and defend the hive. Drones do little, until the time comes for a once in a lifetime opportunity to mate with a queen, then it is every drone for himself. All the queen has to do, after mating, is to be fed and to lay eggs, for she becomes the all-mother.

     At the heart of the hive, the queen will lay an egg in any empty cell she can find. The bee-keeper knows if her majesty is well and laying eggs by noting workers coming into the hive with yellow pollen sacs full. This is a sure sign of good hive health and a welcome sign after overwintering, which can be perilous for a weak hive. However, the queen and her children, (note children rather than subjects for this is the more realistic order of things in the hive) need access to the honey which the beekeeper also craves. So, human cunning being what it is, the beekeeper inserts between the brood chamber and an upper chamber, a thin sheet of perforated zinc, the perforations of which are of sufficient size for workers to pass through but not the queen. The queen is a much larger individual than a worker. Therefore, in the upper chamber no eggs are laid but workers do store honey there. It is this stored honey that the beekeeper will take.

      On an approximately weekly basis, the wise beekeeper will open up the hive, and inspect the brood chamber. He will be keeping a close eye on the upper chamber, too, hoping for a good harvest of honey for himself. In the brood chamber, he will look for cells with eggs, cells with larvae, possibly look for the queen herself, although she is not always noticeable, and for cells that are a different size and shape from the majority. In a healthy hive, from time to time the queen will lay a special egg, the grub of which, fed a more substantial diet, will develop into another queen. The laying to hatching period takes about ten days. There are times when the beekeeper will welcome another queen. Times also when a new queen may not be desirable. A hive can only tolerate one queen at a time. Should a new queen hatch, the old one will gather her retainers around her and depart, a phenomenon called swarming. 

     It was to teach me about this process that Joe and I were to inspect the brood chamber. Joe, as an old hand, never wore beekeeping gloves. It made him more nimble handling the intenseness of the inner secrets of the hive. I was glad of my clumsy leather gauntlets. A sting meant little to Joe but much to me. If his hand got stung, he apologised to the bee as he gently brushed it off. An apology was needed because the bee’s sting is its only defence and for the bee, it is a matter of life and death. 

     Should a wasp sting you, it can fly away and sting again. Its sting is sharp, knife-like, straight and can be inserted and withdrawn. The sting of a bee is barbed, and once used, it cannot be withdrawn but brings with it internal organs vital to the bee’s life. Once the sting is used, the bee dies. 

      We didn’t identify the queen on this inspection of the brood chamber. That didn’t matter Joe said, because there were plenty of new eggs being laid, meaning she was there somewhere. Neither did we see any sign of a new queen cell but Joe assured me that I needed to keep an eye out for one. It could happen in the next week or so, or not at all. So, with some personal relief, the brood chamber was closed up and the bees left to peacefully go about their business. 

      Being advised by Joe to be aware of what was going on in there, next Saturday, I set about my own, first independent inspection of the brood chamber. It was a hot, sultry June afternoon when I instructed my wife to keep well away from the garden as I was going into the hives. Sweating profusely inside overall, hat, mask, gauntlets, I proceeded to smoke the first hive. Smoking makes the bees believe there is a forest fire, they gorge themselves ready for flight and this is supposed to subdue them. My bees were not subdued. They sensed my nervousness. They were aware of the sweat on my spectacles obscuring my view. They were ready for action.

     Things went more or less smoothly at first. My gauntleted hands were more clumsy than Joe’s bare hands but I managed to get into the brood chamber. It was very busy in there and I could see lots of new eggs at the bottom of cells, white grubs ready to hatch into new workers, and then, something that didn’t quite fit. A different cell. A queen cell. I knew that if I left it, very shortly a new queen would emerge and the hive would swarm. I wasn’t ready for that so I did what I thought I had been advised. I cut the cell out, using my new hive tool. Inspection of the second hive revealed nothing out of order. Satisfied that I had learned a lesson, I reported to Joe.

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘We were waiting for that cell. I was going to show you how to manage a swarm and start a new hive.’

     As I have said, there was a lot to learn.

      My children did get honey. There never was a huge amount. Enough for breakfast, not enough to give away and never enough to sell. Joe showed me how to move hives around midsummer to the moor, permission of a friendly farmer, to get the benefit of nectar from the heather. Heather honey is especially runny and easy to extract, but it also full of health giving goodness cut straight from the comb, wax and all. Much of the honey gathered in my garden was spoiled. The farms all around grew massive fields of vivid yellow oil seed rape. The bees found plenty to forage on but honey made from oil seed rape crystallises easily, solidifies, and has a relatively bitter taste. Crystallised honey is virtually impossible to extract and is therefore difficult to use. 

      There were times when my adventures with bees left me marked. Bees always seem to get more agitated when the atmosphere is heavy and sultry. There was the occasion that I went to school on Monday with a spreading black eye that began just where my spectacles sit on the bridge of the nose. It was rare that any bee got inside the mask to attack the sweaty area just there, but this one did. The final straw came when I was promoted to a big new job and began to find difficulty managing the, by then, three hives. It was a very hasty brood chamber inspection job that precipitated the decision to leave bee keeping. The inspection had gone satisfactorily but the bees appeared to be particularly agitated by my interference in their management of the hive. Closing up the hives, I went back inside, very hot and bothered and prepared to take a shower to cool down. I got down to my underpants and as I removed them, a dead bee fell out. I had felt no sting. Presumably it had been expended on some piece of clothing rather than me. However, as that one bee had managed to find its way into a rather sensitive part of the anatomy, I decided that the time had come to part with the little creatures. Other beekeepers were happy to take my burden from me.

Is it legitimate to exorcise nightmares by writing about them, in particular by writing poetry about them? My childish nightmares were often true, like this one about my grandmother.

IN 1947

In 1947

Granny came

To stay with us

To die.

My little old granny

Parchment grey skin,

All skin and bones

Who’d nursed me

Through measles, mumps and whooping cough 

And the chicken pox and ringworm.

But I missed scarlet fever

And the impetigo.

Dad was recently back

From the war.

Having gran in his ‘getting used to civvy life’ house

Must have been hard for him.

It was hard for me,

Getting used to having a dad

And getting used to a poorly gran.

She’d always

Fed me lunch

When mam was away at work.

And now

She was downstairs

In our house,

In our front room

In bed, all skin and bones

Come to die.

No, she didn’t want hospital,

Nor any operations,

And not that radium thingy,

Just the pills

That helped to make her

Feel better.

She knew what was wrong

And what was going to happen.

She was sick.

Always being sick.

Couldn’t keep anything down

And blamed mam’s cooking.

But a boiled egg would be nice.

It was sad and I was scared,

So I stole her an egg

That mam boiled.

I’d watched the captive hen

In its cage

Lay this egg

So I stole it for gran.

Felt it still warm from the hen

In my hand.

It was boiled.

Gran ate it

And was sick.

It was cancer,

But in those days

No one dared say the word

In case of bad luck.

We’ve been to the cheap and cheerful Chinese restaurant tonight about six kilometres away with Nick and Paula. They go back to UK on Thursday. The name cheap and cheerful Chinese is rather rude but accurate. Its proper name is the Pato Pekin. Order any meal on the set menu (there are about 40 choices) and it comes with a small glass of ‘sangria’, a starter (soup, salad, sesame toast etc) main course with chips, noodles or fried rice, sweet (except that I always have Chinese tea but could also have ice cream, banana fritter or crepe caramel or coffee) and half a bottle of local wine (a not bad at all white, rose or red). When the bill is paid a tot of liqueur, schnapps, or local brandy follows.  Some of the main meal choices have two small main courses. Tonight, I have had chicken balls and curried prawns as well as my noodles. Jeanie has had pork spare rib and prawns with fried rice. Always substantial and often too much so some is taken home for a meal next day. Four of us have eaten generously, and the total bill - with a reasonable tip - came to 40 euros. Chinese friends who visited some time ago questioned how this could be sustained. However, the restaurant was pretty full tonight. The cheapest all in meal is about  5 euros 70 cents. We are not complaining. Nor should we.

At the Gran’Italia

We’ve been out for a meal tonight, Jeanie and me. Think Italian, in Spain. Not Pizza Express not Pizza House, nor even Ask! and certainly not an ubiquitous American Diner with an Italian flavour. Very Italian. Grumpy Gustavo, mine host, is a Lazio supporting Roman. The cuisine at his restaurant is exquisite. However, the Gran’Italia is as much noted for its decor as its cuisine. Prego.

Think quirky. Very quirky. The floors of this place are uneven, sloping and stepped in places. The interior is built from temporary materials - screens and asbestos type roof. I’m willing to bet that what looks like asbestos is not asbestos but some material more acceptable than the carcinogen identified these days. The exterior is covered in bougainvillea of many different shades which hides the temporary nature of the building materials. Although the tablecloths are sparkling white, the tables and chairs, to match the condition of the floor, are all odd, uneven and some even fairly rickety. The kitchen, the bar, the toilets are the only places made of proper, substantial building materials - the original part of the establishment.

It is the walls that grab attention. And the surfaces. And the hanging lights. It looks a mess until you look beyond the chaos. The hanging lights all have home made fringed light shades in Italian themes. For example, one proclaims - and the proclamation is well illustrated - Amore Pizza. If eyes can be torn away from the ceiling and fall on the walls, there is no spare space to be found anywhere. Walls are draped with fishing net, fishing boat, trawler or drifter net. This is to provide easy hanging opportunities for the rest of the decor. It is a multitude, an impossibility, a cacophony of images. The walls reveal a lifetime of collecting. No one particular taste, that says ‘style’.  Just a hotch-potch of periods, modes, interpretations that in the end add up to this place’s individuality and cumulatively, its unique style. Starting with the paintings, most of them are modern interpretations of older times, with the odd still life thrust in. Always Mediterranean colourful fruit, of course. However, there are frequent references to fat ladies in their bathrooms, stout ladies wearing mantillas dancing, and even children dancing. Bucolic farm workers, taking a semi-naked siesta. One wonders what the generously proportioned lady, naked from the waist up, has been getting up to with her fellow male worker who is helpfully allowing her head rest on his knee as they sleep out, in the harvest field.

Where there are spaces on the walls, and there are not many of those, musical instruments hang, a mandolin instrument not the kitchen tool, Russian decorated spoons fill in, with an odd river fishing willow basket suspended, as though waiting for the next trout. And great serving plates, ‘assiettes’, now apparently redundant.There are even items hanging here whose purpose or origin are shrouded in mystery. And large puppet  Pinocchio with small Pinocchio hanging from his nose.

Then, as if all this was not enough, every flat surface is covered, too. Here stands a Singer sewing machine similar to the one my mother occasionally used in my childhood. Here a trumpeted gramophone. My brother, who collects such things, was very interested in this until he took a closer look. ‘Reproduction’, he said, dismissively. Delicate miniature coffee cups in their scores cover one side table. On another, a collection of ships in bottles with one or two ships without bottles. Candles, table lamps with bulbs of different colours and intensities. A classic French table clock, black marble and telling no time, probably dating about 1750. Among this apparent clutter, plants intertwine, subtly joining all the objects together. Someone has a predilection for porcelain dolls, lots of them, standing together to attention as if on parade. 

Then, almost unseen, out of the corner of an eye, at the swinging gate into the kitchen, a copper bedpan. And a home made placard advertising Pesce Fresca. Among all this, complementing the busy-ness of the decor, the busy-ness of the restaurant. The owner’s pleasant daughter/wife busying herself with customers. I’ve seen her described as both daughter and wife in restaurant recommendations. It is difficult to tell, looking too young to be a wife but described so by a visiting son as ‘my father’s wife’ and not ‘my sister’ and not ‘my mother’. There is little need to order. An experienced hand, she quickly recalls favourite meals and favourite wines, offering them before much consultation of the menu. So many customers, coming and going. The smiling sous-chef, determined not to be left out of the show, elegant scarlet chef’s hat, flamboyantly delivering delicious dessert for those who have room. The best tiramisu outside Venice. Fitting into all this, the babel of voices. So many languages, so many explanations in different languages of menu items and even so many misunderstandings at times. The English persistently calling for butter with their bread, despite Gustavo’s own piquant olive oil and herb addition on the table. My, how his mixture tingles on the palate. Those of a more delicate stomach asking for his tender steaks to be well done. ‘Shall it be burned?’ And my favourite, costolette di agnello, lamb chops. Never thick juicy lamb chops like a Barnsley double chop. Small, scrawny, thin things, lots of them on my plate, done in olive oil and a wonderful concoction of herbs with true Rosemary the only one I can recognize. But so tasty. So delicious. Vegetables in Mediterranean variety al dente, never stewed and tasteless. And then, chops taken in the fingers. 

My mother taught me always to eat with knife and fork and occasionally spoon. What joy now, to disobey, to take a tiny lamb chop in the fingers and chew away at the wonderful taste. The meal cannot possibly be complete without wine here. The waitress knows: Frascati. A light, cool, perfumed white from a favourite part of Italy, the Veneto. Satisfaction. So much atmosphere. So much personality.

And a final word about Grumpy Gustavo. I think he is just being unsmilingly serious about his work, his business. Although I have seen him purple with rage on one occasion dealing with very awkward customers. Arriverderci. 

Wednesday is the busiest day of my ‘retirement’, and, in many ways, the most difficult. After the morning ritual of old age medication and additionally administering a carefully measured dose of insulin, I usually, but not always, make my way some 20 miles to a writer’s club. I stand in awe at some of the contributions read around the table; the people so clever with rhythm and rhyme, those who can tell a tale and have the gathering rocking with laughter. One or two contributions I don’t care for but this is always the case with  personal choice. Just occasionally I want to challenge a timeline, or keeping quiet, wonder if adequate research has taken place. The club is useful, because it is a sounding board, and although there is rarely a depth of criticism, useful tips come out of the commentary after each reading.

Following writer’s club, I drive home and snatch a very hasty light lunch before hurrying off to church choir. I used to be the choir master but surrendered the role about a year ago because it was getting to be too much for me. However, I still enjoy the singing. My big difficulty is that so much church music is jazzy and in unison these days and my great love is part singing. And even when we find an item with part singing, Bob, our choirmaster, will often ask me to sing the melody line because my strong tenor ‘puts off’ those in the choir who can’t read music, can’t hold a part or have little experience of rigorous choral singing.

After choir, it is a little more relaxing when a group of us go down to the Spanish bar called ‘Quick’. This place feels very down at heel. There is often some heavy drinking and almost always some heavy smoking. Usually we are able to sit outside enjoying the Spanish southern sun. At times we have to sit with the smokers. We never have more than coffees, wines, shandies or water of different sorts. Jeanie, my wife and I, share a small local brandy, a ‘chopitos’. She pours some in her coffee. I drink the residue. This is a relatively brief but precious interlude with people I like.

Because we are then in town, Wednesday is a good day for shopping. Tonight, expecting a visitor imminently, we have been to the shop ‘Iceland’ to get in supplies ready for her coming. Tonight, because it is now some time from my last meal, and because that meal was very small, I was on the verge of a diabetic hypo, feeling shaky, weak and wobbly, not willing to take my share of the tasks. Hasty purchase of some soft fruity sweets and a coke at the small restaurant got me over the hump. 

Following shopping, recovered from the lack of sugar in my bloodstream, we went to pick up a recently bereaved friend, Phyl, a choir member. The death of her husband has hit her hard. Most Wednesday’s involve going somewhere locally for an evening meal with her and frequently a few others.  

Tonight, the meal has been taken at the ‘Star of India’ restaurant where we can usually be guaranteed an excellent curry. No exception in this case.  We are replete. However, having ordered a ‘sizzling’ curry, Jeanie has been spat at when her sizzler appeared on the table. We weren’t prepared to make a fuss in a rapidly filling venue but Jeanie was splattered by some of her delicious, and very hot, orange sauce. As was Phyl to a lesser extent. Despite this, the meal was a convivial success and we were pleased for those running the restaurant; it was full to the brim by the time we were due to leave. Apart from that, only one jarring note, a literally jarring note; two not very good singers, outside, about 100 yards apart, amplifiers turned up full, competing for customers and for air time.

So, parting with Phyl, a reminder that we will pick her up again tomorrow. She is flying to England for a few days. We will take her to the airport. Her sons, ten grandchildren and twenty great grandchildren await her.

Therefore, in my busy day, I will now try to catch up with my studies.