At the end of Windmill Street

"positively precipitating down"

I woke this morning to the unmistakable sound of water in the street, pouring down off the roof, hitting the little balcony outside the bedroom, and falling down to the cobbles. On and off since I arrived, and I think B and N hold me personally responsible for this, it has decided to rain. And rain. And, err, rain. I trust I do not need to draw a picture. You get the idea.

Now true, the rain in Spain is not the dismal, dreary, grey sogginess of Chippy's North East corner of Lincolnshire, but it is none the less capable of putting a bit of a well, a dampener on procedings. 

Anyway, watery matters. I do remember that when I left UK I also left my tumble drier there. A gift to a neighour. "I won't be needing that!" I chuckled to them, as they gratefully (and almost indecently rapidly) transported it across the street to their garage cum storeroom. 

Now it seems I may have bungled. I have a roof full of washing, "well rinsed", and am thinking that if this goes on I shall have to resort to indoor drying.  Spanish houses are not equipped for this, except they often will have a covered area on the roof or a "top room" with clothes lines.

A covered area of the sort that in this house has been "reformed" into my studio.

I may have to go and buy a bloody tumble drier.

Lunch on the Costa del Sol can be a chancy affair, partly I fear because the huge number of Brits there can lower the standards of even the most determined restaurateur.  But I’d had to take the Wee Ka for a new windscreen in Fuengirola, so had phoned up Luisa to try and arrange a nosh at short notice, and bless her, she’s put aside her complex plans for the week and made a window in her diary, and arrived by taxicab just as I was telling the glass man (No, don’t be silly, I KNOW that…..) that four O’clock would do nicely for collection, so we whisked ourselves, or rather were whisked, off to the middle of Fuengirola (“GHI-rola george, GHi-rola!”) where we did partake of a limited quantity of beverage before meeting Chris, who makes a living copywriting on the Costa and taking the occasional photograph,  at a restaurant of her choice and election, which proved to be, (and this is where I get back to the topic sentence at the head of this paragraph),  proved to be a damn good place to eat.

Here’s a picture of the Ka before the windscreen bust....

(I know. Shown you that before, haven’t I? *Sighs*)

Anyway, lunch being pleasant and reasonably long (by Brit standards, not to mention Chinese ones) we parted on the Calle, which my sat nav always pronouces "Carl",  and Luisa and I grabbed a cab (false-friend warning, the Spanish “Grabar” is not “to Grab”) and hied us back to Carglass, noting that the cops were out in force breathalysing motorists, but I realised that being of somewhat well-built  – Stop that tittering at the back! - and having had about one pint of beer in very small glasses over four hours, I’d be OK anyway, but – and I realise I’m making a habit of these sentences, I did have a bloody education you know, it’s a STYLE or DEVICE, right – anyway, it meant that I elected to sneak out of the Miramar shopping centre along the northern slip road, but I felt a bit like Jerry sneaking the cheese back to his hole before Tom notices.

It was a lovely drive home, I missed the well known traffic jam on the Malaga bypass, and arrived at home swiftly and a bit windswept. Where I started to build that pine chest of drawers I bought in Lidl in Goole and have never got round to assembling, which is another story, and for another day, but anyway, I was just  ………..

This village is not exactly full of good restaurants. In fact, there are very few. Omit that "very". And "good" is subjective, isn't it? In fact, I don't think there is a "restaurant" in the village, or if there is I haven't found it yet. It's not a restaurant place. There's one "almost-a-restaurant "on the top road, but it's not really, how shall we put it, a RESTaurant. More of an eatery.

There are a few bars that do "Tapas", and bear in mind that a tapa in a small Spanish village is not like the Tapas of the Cities. Or the versions you get in "Tapas bars" overseas. A tapa more likely to be a dubious potato salad and some dodgy looking stewed meat. Or even just a few olivees and a bowl of nuts.

But we'd heard that the Sports Bar at the top of the village was under new ownership ("Sports Bar" is - to me - a grotty place with lots of fat blokes drinking beer, smoking like woodfires, watching TV, and maybe taking a little gentle exercise on the football table or the video game).

So we went to try the Sports bar..

The menu written on the blackboard was promising, with such delights as Shrimp Brocehette, Roast Chorizo, Swordfish, Kidneys and a couple of items that (inevitably) none of us recognised. We ordered Brochettes de Gambas. They were off. Or actually, not on until the evening. So we fell back on roast Chorizo.

When it came it was just a tapa. That is to say, a two inch long sausage with a piece of bread and a slice of tomato. we ate it, and looked again at the menu. Surely, we thought, "Pez Espada" has to be a full serving?

We ordered.

It wasn't. If that was a swordfish, it was a damn small swordfish. served on a small piece of bread. With a slice of tomato.

We also tried the liver. It was 4 small pieces. (Served on a small piece of bread. With a slice of tomato.)

And the Pancetta (bacon) which was not bacon, but a minute slice of belly pork, (served on a small piece of bread. With a slice of tomato)

 By then it was several small beers and two fantas later, so we gave up, and paid up. This was the interesting bit.For the three of us, it was Euro 7.20. You see, the tapas were only 20 cents each.

In the past tapas were often free with your drinks. Indeed, the very word refers to the toasted piece of bread that was provided, usually with a toothsome treat on top, to cover your drink and keep the flies out. A sort of "Toasted Topper."  But now times are hard and even in villages they are forced to make a charge. 20 cents seems OK to me. But it was a quite LIGHT lunch, so...

.... tonight I cooked a steak.

Bloody hell. I dread local taxes. 

But dammit, I just got my council tax notification for the house here!

Outrageous.

Apparently my next years Council tax will be SIXTY  EIGHT EUROS.

A YEAR!

And it STAY that high for TEN YEARS. WITH inflation only rises added each year!

Bloody outrageous.

I bet they don't pay that much in Britain............

Although this was pretty much how I felt about the 4.5 hour wait at Madrid Barajas Airport.

And this morning at some silly hour I had a three hour Skype conference call with two partners, which I simply wasn't up to. However, after a decent lunch (mmm, cauliflower cheese. You have no idea how hard it is to get any vegetables in the USA) I felt better, and after I finish dinner tonight, ‘think I'm going down to the well tonight, and I'm gonna drink till I get my fill, (I hope when I get older I don't sit around thinking about it, but I probably will.)

And then a good night sleep will see me up and fit and doing stuff. I hope. So it's back to here for a couple of weeks, before a trip back to Beachhutman in Beijing in early December.

I'm home.Glory days.