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...

To Spain Again ...

Off we go again ... feet have been itching for a while, though life in Stanhope has been perfectly fine, still something wanted to happen ... considered rolling the dice to see what fell, then, in the end, the thing emerged ...

... A friend of a friend's mother has a house in Andalusia which is hard to sell and needs protecting from folks helping themselves to the contents and the rather nice marble ... A kind sun-lover is needed ... do I know anyone who might live there for a while, to take care of it?

... after a meeting over coffee in Ciao Ciao in Durham with the daughter and a Skype call with mother and daughter, it was agreed ... flight booked to Malaga on April 17th ... notice given on cottage, surplus stuff seeking new homes ... all unfolding simply as these things sometimes do ...

Meanwhile it is a gorgeous Good Friday in Stanhope ... weather forecast to revert to more typical British Bank Holiday from tomorrow ...

In a synchronicity, the new adventure begins almost a year to the day since returning from Spain ... a good time to get used to the rather hot weather in Andalusia. ...

So, the cottage wants a tenant or owner, the library wants some readers and this feckless, reckless wanderer is off for a walk ...

2016

The New Year has brought more dismal, drizzly weather to Stanhope, in the foothills of the North Pennines. The fells are clarty in places, though the peat bog ismuch drained, along with the grazing land. The river here rises very fast, even though it is close to the source(s) … the capacity of the high land to absorb water considered less important than the creation of habitat for rearing pheasants and grouse as sport for wealthy psychopaths … and employment for local folks as gamekeepers to protect the birds until their dying time and beaters to persuade the reluctant targets to fly high enough to give the killers a clear shot ….

In the future, these fells revert to forest and Nature re-establishes balance (with or without humans).

The weather is not unusual, being part of the grey climate of Britain, though locals recall long cold winters, with snow lying deep for months … the damp climate is, of course, linked to the “green and pleasant landscape” and probably to the phlegmatic character of the sterotypical Brit.

This Brit, having studied stereotypes, is thinking again about Spain and Portugal and recalling this time last year, walking along the Algarve from Ayamonte to Cape St Vincent … mostly in T-shirt and sun hat … increasingly aware at the ecological horror wrought by fellow Brits, cheerfully watering golf courses and filling swimming pools in a near desert …. mostly avoiding integration with local folks …

On social media, a random post arrives this morning, from a Portuguese led eco-village project near Braga, in the North …. interesting … let's see ….

This winter break is also interesting … two weeks rest and relaxation, with a Christian Festival superimposed on the pagan solstice celebration … though mammon has also jumped on the bandwagon and spending, eating, drinking frenzy takes hold … after a childhood of traditional Yuletide, an early sense that this charade was not resonating, experiments with the Therevadans and the solitude an opportunity for a novel Community Christmas Lunch, the suggestion of a local teenager, concerned about the sad and lonely …. and whilst not identifying entirely with that story, happy to help with transport and the day was heartwarming … possibly the first of many such events in Stanhope …

As for family, elder daughter, recently accepted with partner as the youngest foster carers in Northumberland, was asked to take in two brothers the day before Christmas Eve as well as announcing their engagement; younger daughter on working holiday in Sydney, wangled 10 days holiday and spent the season at the beach … which leads to the question: Is this a good time of year, in the Northern Hemisphere, for three whole Public Holidays (and four in Scotland, where they take New Year rather more seriously)?

Not that this is a major issue for retired folks who may do as they please and still receive sufficient money to live simply … assisted by this being paid into an account automatically and which can be drawn anywhere in the world where there is a cashpoint. Freedom calls again!

To revisit role play for awhile … having flirted with “writer”, flattered by some “readers”, declined to dramatise the rest from writing as “writer's block” …. just not inspired and no need to stick in any particular role … although the social activist role has been happily played since returning in April and very rewarding it has been, albeit with challenging moments from project funders demanding increasingly detailed feedback for their small investment … and some lingering social responsibility, not so much to the project as to the dear co-co-ordinator, left with it last winter and wanting some support so that her voluntary effort does not drift into a full-time unpaid job.

One of the features of the winter, as “writer” developed “reader” disappeared … a deficit more than remedied since April, with novels as well as philosophy and lay versions of new science devoured enthusiastically … Rupert Sheldrake and his morphic fields resonationg strongly, along with Fritjof Capra and David Bohm … and J. Krishnamurti a constant companion …

Not sure if “walker” is a role – perhaps the “pilgrim” or “saunterer” element is the role and walking is walking …. anyway the Stanhope based settled life includes a daily dawn walk for 50 minutes, usually on the same route …. keeping the body fit for another longer outing … and enjoyable in its own right, of course.