At the end of Windmill Street

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The last day in Cuevas for some time, and the sun shone, and so I took myself off in the wee red Ka, with my camera and binoculars and scope, and had a frolic in the sunshine for a few hours. I went up among the olive tress on the backroads, and stopped to admire the mountains and the valley, and on the river I saw a cormorant, a bit far inland I think. For those of you now remembering, "The common cormorant or shag...." I would point out that the two are different birds, and it would not have been a shag so far inland.

I also did see a flock of azure winged magpies, feeding noisily on a kaki - persimmon - tree.

So farewwell then Beachhutman Towersw (west). I hope to return in Spring, when I shall attempt again to buy new windows, get my car onto Spanish plates, and break out of my appalling  tongue-tied Spanish problem.

I'll post a few latest pix here later, but for now, as regular readers will know, I am transfering postings to the Beachhutman in Beijing Blog.

My house here has three floors. The top one is up a very steep set of stairs. So steep I put extra hand rails on the sides. I mean, very steep indeed. Ok, be specific, I mean it rises just under 10 ft in just under 5 ft. That steep.

And at the top of the stairs is the studio, spare bedroom, my tools, my spare bedding, and the roof for drying. When it's not raining.

So it is now becoming more than a little irritating when I arrive at the top, sometimes from the ground floor (which of course is another staircase to climb), and I find myself saying, "Now why have I come up here?"

Even more irritating is when I go downstairs again, only to remember as I reach the bottom, why I went up, and what I meant to bring down.

It is however, good exercise. I've been getting a lot of it today.

You see, on Friday moring early I fly back to China, and so there is general packing and tidying to do. BUt the real spur has been the decison to hire Loli, a lady of the village, to give the house a once-over each time I leave, or anyone else uses the house.  On Thursday I have to brief her, and that will strain my Spanish, but worse, much worse, is that I need to clean the house for the cleaner.

YES, I KNOW! Utterly stupid. But I don't know her well enough yet to leave it "en su estado natural".

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I went to Cordoba yesterday. It was good. I'll blog it when I go o a better day. 

The Hoopoe is perhaps my favourite common bird. I first became aware of it on the island of Mallorca, when on a holiday in the early 00s, I spotted the flash of black white and brown as I motored down the island's west side, and intrigued, followed it into the woodlands,  catching several more sights of it. Later I encountered it on Rhodes and in Turkey and elsewhere, usually fluttering through sparse woodland in olive groves, valleys and on hillsides.

So today I caught a glimpse of a Hoopoe in the hillside olive groves above Cuevas, and stopped to explore. I'm pretty sure I also caught a sight of a Roller among the olives, which would be a first for me.

But sadness was to come. As I rolled on down the slope in the car, I spotted a little bundle of spotted feathers by the side of the road. I pulled up and lowered the window, but I already knew. It was a dead Hoopoe.  My immediate thoughts turned to hunters, for the hills around here are all plastered in signs proclaiming the owners' rights to hunt,  "Sport Hunting Zone" (zona deportiva di caza, and people with dogs and guns hunt down any flying and running creature they can shoot. But somehow, I felt it would have been (a) bloody and (b) messed up, and (c) taken away, so I guessed that sadly the Hoopoe had been hit by a car as it flutttered across the road. 

My sadness was lifted a little later when standing by a ruin near Villanueva de Algaida I spotted two more, and a whole flock of little yellow jobs, whose identity I am still trying to establish.

I also took several pictures of chimney pots. Yes. 

 Not, as you might think, a description of the Morriston Orpheus Choir , but a description of the type of culture that isn't governed by time, preferring to fit time into life, and the opposite of Monochronic, cultures that fit life into time. The Germans and Americans are very Monochronic. The Spanish, on the other hand.........

Yesterday I went to buy some windows. Or rather, I went up with N to the local window maker, and we explained my need for three new double-glazed units, to replace my current old-village-house wooden ones, which although picturesque, leak in the rain, and keep out too much light. So we agreed that the wood-grain brown UPVC would be suitable, and he said he'd be down at the end of the afternoon to measure up and give me a price. By later I suggested five p.m? He looked startled, and shook his head. No, he said, as N half hid a grin, not five, eight. Later N explained that the end of the afternoon here is eight o clock.

So at eight I was ready, my notebook of suitable Spanish words at hand, ready to show him the windows I need replaced. Only he didn't come. At 8.30 I had dinner, on the same principle as washing your car on a sunny day. But I was not interrupted, and at 11p.m. I had given up. (No he didn't come at 11.10. He didn't come at all)

Today we took the little Ka to the ITV station to be tested so I can transfer it to Spanish plates. We'd made the appointment - you can't just turn up - and were there at the appointed hour, complete with all the photocopies they wanted us to bring. At which time we were told to go away for an hour, as the man who does the tests was not in yet.

The time was 4.00 in the afternoon. We were told to return at 5.00, which we did.

And we were told to go away again, as they had to read the car papers first. They would, they said, call us when they were ready. Sometime. Soon......

We went home.

As B says, "When they say, "On Monday" you'll never know which Monday!"

I'm not a very Monochronic type, really. Which seems to be a good thing.