... the map is not the territory ...

... a favourite metaphor, it seems obvious, yet we clever humans so often forget ... and in the case of the walking routes hereabouts yesterday's wander eastwards, up the hill beside Miguel's brothel, promising a swift loop to San Enrique, soon finds fences east and south and a delightful lane north ... a couple of posh Fincas (and one derelict), one with signs of an imminent party with a massive marquee and sound systems set up ... heard nothing last night ... maybe tonight, we'll see ... anyway the range is expanding and that route gains height to give good aspects all round ... off road and inland, so excellent for coastal respite...and signs that the money penetrates inland...

After siesta, a wander into Guadiaro for a little shopping ... little and often in local shops enables language learning ... and not wishing to return the same way or via Sotogrande, go for the dual carriageway bridge, another amusingly designed walking route ... this time the hard shoulder, wide enough for comfort until the bridge itself, at which point it narrows alarmingly, with large lorries rather close for comfort ... never mind, there is a footpath and it is reached by climbing the double height crash barrier ... which reverts to single height at the slip road and back to the familiar roundabout route from Torreguadiaro ...

Realising the Costa is the main topic, the weekend walk is east along the beach, swimming shorts packed ... after a while the beach disappears, so it's up to the road ... this stretch is classic E.U. over-investment and a key driver of the great property boom/bust in these parts ... this road is single carriageway to Estepona, right along the coast ... parallel is the dual carriageway to Malaga and parallel again the toll road ... this theme is repeated along the Algarve ... where the toll road is mostly deserted in favour of the "Road of Death", which served your writer well last winter on the way to Cape Saint Vincent and the wonderful Rota Vicentina ....

Shortly after Torreguadiaro, a motor-home camping beach and a bar for coffee ... Andrea ("like Botticelli) is the co-owner, with his Spanish wife ... living the dream and inventing a name for the bar reflecting their shared language "Il Sono" ... looking like a good haunt for a pretentious writer and happy to pay 2 euros for the location (in the coffee economy that's double the price of cafe con leche compared to San Enrique).

Round the headland another pleasant surprise - a footpath to Manilva, around two hours off-road and one for further exploration ... on a slightly less pleasant note it became apparent that the sewage outflow at this point had underestimated currents, demand, or had just been bodged ... a shit slick ten metres out and maybe a hundred metres long decorated the otherwise undeveloped beach ...

... and so, avoiding this spot, at Torreguadiaro an overheated blogger strips off for the first sea swim of the year and very refreshing it was ... before heading back home via his favourite fruit and veg stall and a late lunch of pasta with red pepper, tomato and black olive sauce, in honour of the new Italian connection ... plus Placido Domingo on the hi-fi ...

In Britain meanwhile, another Bank Holiday ... good luck folks!

A short walk around hell ...

An early start enables reading and room clearing before setting off at 10.30, aiming to loop round Guardiaro, under the dual carriageway into Sotogrande and back through San Enrique ... short enough on the map and short enough in retrospect in linear time ... wandering in the hell realms, as is well known, stretches time out in order to prolong the agony ...

Development hereabouts has concentrated on the car-borne (leaving aside the yachties and helicopteristas for now) ... as roads were improved and pavements between settlements neglected, roadside properties were fenced, forcing pedestrians to risk life and limb ... occasional refuge may be found in the storm drains, which, due to the dry climate with occasional inundations, are mostly dry ... hardly encouraging ... this intrepid wanderer has persevered with the routes south and west, but desisted with the northern route to Secadero and Tessorrillo, which is a pity, because these respites from the coastal ghettos are required ... never mind, the Land Rover awaits! Off-road tracks await future exploration ... certainly look viable uphill eastwards then round into San Enrique.

Guadiaro is gained in twenty minutes ... across the bridge and a view of orange groves to the left and polo fields to the right ... up to the new town and the brief blessing of an unexpected pavement along the road under the dual carriageway linking the supermarket ... and the gated community of Sotogrande ... brief because it is a concrete cover over the storm drain and they abandon it round the corner and leave the hapless pedestrian in the ditch with a crash barrier to climb ... ohmming gently in order to acquire the invisibility cloak necessary for protection in the hell realms, your writer slips past the barrier along the cruelly ironically named Avenida Pan y Agua, with its lampost mounted sign imploring the citizenry to feed a child each day ... surreality surrounds and entertains for a while ... there is even a pavement as far as the church and shopping centre ... after that it disappears ... almost as if the architects and planners have studied these features and start to draw them, then lose interest when their clients roll their eyes at the naivete ...

Being a work-day, there is some activity from the servants ... it takes a lot of folks to look after the wealthy and their excessive lifestyles ... though strangely no dogs on guard ... perhaps the cameras and patrolling private army are enough ... it is warm and the roads are laid out like most such soullous suburbs, so rather confusing for vagrants ... and this one has no energy for photos ... barely caring to capture even the one at the marina ... and of course, all along the way, not a bench to be seen ... the odd passing jogger ignoring me, thanks either to the invisibility cloak or their noses being so far in the air that they saw only the sky ... finally an escape route ... a portal out of hell, albeit to the hellish time lock that is Torreguadiaro ... the twin towers subtly reminding inner city holidaymakers of home and the real and older Torre hardly meriting comment.

Sanity is restored at Anna's fruit and veg stall between the roundabouts on the road to San Enrique ... a proper Andalusian peasant, helping me learn Spanish and choose some red wine ... on to see Gato and Ruff on the bus ... collecting a copy of the book ... a fresh orange juice and home to take up caretaking responsibilities ... creative juices energised by the meander through hell.

Settling in ....

The week or so since leaving Stanhope has been eventful and stimulating …. the grand old house, full of marble, fifty years of furniture, fittings, ornaments, books, videos a stark contrast to the simple lifestyle of last year's wandering … and the Costa del Sol, just far enough away to avoid daily contact, contrasting with the village life of Stanhope and the Camino life of Northern Spain … yet the Costa, like Albox and the Algarve, providing rich material for writing …. investigating the lives of the North European immigrants and their impact on the lives of their indigenous hosts.

Juliet, her given name and the one she returned to more recently, was called Judy during her San Enrique days … her friends here call her that and the gate to the back garden does too … Il Giardino di Judy … they were the Italian family … though Juliet was English and the children European … as much Andalusian as anything perhaps ...

The friends I have been introduced to this week have been very kind and helpful, though reticent about the blog … for one reason or another … and of course permission has to be sought … can't go stealing people's

souls after all … and old friend of Antonello, Andreas, know as Gato, offers his picture when the Queen of England poses at the local polo club and he manages to get in the frame squeezing her bum … possible a hanging offence and anyway unlikely …. though assorted royals are know to hobnob hereabouts … the acme or maybe acne of the Costa, Sotogrande, being just down the road, pricy enough to keep out the riff-raff and protected by private security if any of us slip through … some years ago a young local was shot dead by the head guard, which caused an uproar …

Gato and Ruff, who has been in Spain many years, specialising in logistics between Morrocco and Northern Europe, have been at the Casa sorting the drains, an annual problem as palm trees grow in them and need clearing. Russ has been a great source of information, being fluent in English, Spanish and Andaluce and an astute commentator on the disaster which is the Costa … and not too keen on England either ...he resists his picture understandably since an altercation with some heavies from Malaga … his autobiography worth a read and downloadable via Amazon (sorry folks, couldn't find it on HIVE ….)

A courtesy call up the hill establishes a friendly English woman who teaches nearby, a less friendly German guy who leaves a quite fierce dog to guard the gate ... at the bottom of the hill on the roundabout by the bridge is Miguel and his two Venezuelan lady employees, which appears to be one of those bars where you have to knock on the door or maybe make an appointment ....

Some decluttering, mostly storing stuff in cupboards and sheds has lightened the space and cleared the mind a little for writing … and there is plenty of material already ….

Juliet

The current owner of Casa del Puente is Juliet … her Romeo was called Antonello … she an English rebel child of the swinging sixties, he a Neapolitan entrepreneur with an artistic soul … their role in the dawning of the Age of Aquarius … ran a club in Italy … wandered Greece, Portugal and Spain ... “motorised gypsies”… the post-war generation having fun in the sun …. dancing, drinking, exploring and expanding the outer and inner spaces with all sorts of herbal and chemical assistance … and three children joining the party along the way … all landing at San Enrique in 1978 ... the dream home … a villa with land on a hill overlooking the River Guardiaro and its iconic iron bridge …

It turns out the original building was built on shaky foundations, the extension with roof terrace stronger ones. Meanwhile, the foundations of the tempestuous love story shook too from time to time and eventually Juliet returned to England with the children … Antonello lived out his days in the dream home, which, like many dreams, turned into a sadder reality.

And so, four years ago, he died and the Casa de del Puente returned to Juliet and their children.

The house was raided on the day of Antonello's funeral … not a good omen for its next phase as holiday home and the property boom had peaked and crashed with no sign of recovery.

The luxury house, meanwhile, was showing signs of decay … going the way of all material things, entropy being an inescapable law of life …. restoration requiring significant sums to make the house viable, but no prospect of finding a buyer at the price desired.

Juliet, assisted by family and friends, took on the task of protecting the property while the thankfully united family processed the practical, financial and emotional implications for the future.

Which brings the story to its present stage …. decision made, estate agent engaged, price reduced, Juliet released … and caretaker enlisted to watch over the marble and other removables …

Who knows how much more the price must fall to find its new owner? The niche may be the local polo scene, where a second home is loose change for the wealthy …. the old world story in whch that plays out has a while to run and though there is potential for a new world story of self-sufficiency in the sun, with land for food growing and space for intentional community, the prices are radically reduced in the marginal lands in the hills … lets see …

Juliet meanwhile heads home on Friday, though where exactly home is has yet to be established ...

La Casa del Puente

 The first impression of the house is its stunning location, far enough from the sunny ghetto that is the coastal strip …. next, the faded grandeur … marble everywhere, spacious rooms, big roof terrace, grounds with potential for vegetables … some subsidence leading to lifting tiles and evidence of a lifetime of artefacts around the place … its Italian owner died four years ago, his long separated English wife now wanting to return to the dubious pleasures of the British weather, the presence of children and grandchildren more than compensating … anyway her home is there now, this place just wants a new owner with sufficient funds to buy it (around £400k) and renovate it (nearly as much again) … who knows when that will happen … maybe the estate agent arriving Tuesday?

In the meantime, this footloose pensioner has a luxury villa and ancient cat to take care of, a Land Rover to assist exploration locally, a language to learn, a blog and maybe a book to write … the nature of reality to explore … and sunshine …

San Enrique de Guadiaro

After a few weeks dealing with the details of relocating from Stanhope to San Enrique the day arrives. Last time emptying the rented cottage was eased when Rachel decided to take it on …. this time it was serious, though, being furnished, a few extra bits and pieces may be seen as a boon to the landlord and maybe not. In any case most of the important things (inasmuch as things can have any importance) have been shared out and the odd book (and there have been some very odd books over the past four and a half years) has rested on the single shelf remaining from the four shelf library … after all who knows when the landlord or prospective tenant might find the book for them? …. of course the magic of this library was that the right book often found the right person at the right time, many of them finding me and leading to the next one to buy at the ethical alternative to Amazon (this is called Hive, works well and makes a donation to the local bookshop of your choice – this ad is not sponsored in the traditional sense … the writer promotes enterprises which gladden his heart …)

Since the flight from Newcastle was very early, it seemed prudent to stay B&B last night near the airport . Although the flight was even too early for the B&B, which reduced it to “B” … still a tidy solution to enable a full day travelling and another money free ad, for Stonehaven Lodge, ten minutes stroll from the airport and just £25 for the bed.

Gillian offered to drive me across the hills …. fitting for me … such a soul connection and a great team for Wheels to Meals … two brains, one mind … if I had a conscience I would feel guilty deserting her to the many daily practical challenges of running this beautiful project with the elders of the Dale … I don't and she offers no reproach, recognising as I do that the new adventure is not to be denied.

Three hours from North East England to Southern Spain seems far to quick and the rest of the journey is slowed to enable adjustment ...the clear bright sunlit snow topped hills of take off give way to cloud and spots of rain on landing …. a beautiful irony, a blessing to assist the transition, still warm and confident that the Costa del Sol will live up to its name over the coming months … though a shame for those short break folks counting every day …. of which there are remarkably many considering all the talk and reality of austerity …

The couple in the adjacent flights avoid eye contact … possibly frequent flyers wary of being trapped by unwanted chatterers for the trip … ordering up wine at 8 am to pass the time … which leaves me, at the window seat, to enjoy the changing land, sea and cloudscape …

At Malaga a first attempt at speaking Spanish leads to a change of plan for the onward trip … skipping the city for an express bus to Marbella, where more Spanish establishes a two hour wait and al fresco lunch before the next bus to San Enrique …. more or less, because the bus actually stops at the petrol station at the motorway junction nearby …. leaving me with a perfect stroll up through San Enrique, to the old bridge over the Guadiaro and up the track to the Casa del Puente, my new home... for now...