The Neighbourhood Association

Obviously it was going to be easy to "integrate". As soon as I was living amongst Spaniards my dodgy, evening class Spanish would improve by leaps and bounds through simple seepage. There were other things to be done to help that process. Bars, naturally, were an essential asset, as was cinema, watching television, listening to the radio, and reading newspapers (we're back in the days when dinosaurs still ruled the earth). Very soon, I'd be nattering away about football (something I can't do in English), politics or food with the best of them. At least that's what I thought in 2004.

One of the early strategies was to join the village Neighbourhood Association. We had some good times with the worthy citizens of Culebrón - a musical in Madrid, a couple of weekends in Benidorm and a day trip to Guadalest. There were also a couple of village meals each year - one just before the local fiestas, sitting out on the warm summer evenings under the pine trees by the social centre, and another in November inside the same building. After the November meal we had the Annual General Meeting. In my case, this meeting often involved large quantities of whisky, which were sometimes severely detrimental to my health. In drinking whisky and not some spirit with a mixer, I confirmed my foreigner status. 

The emotions stirred by these events were often contradictory - it was great to be in among Spaniards doing something authentic but the thought of maintaining conversations, often for hours on end, and knowing what to do, and when, filled me with dread. I usually wondered if it might not be better to avoid Spain all together and stay at home with cheap booze and satellite telly?

Nearly two decades later, I'd say we are still a long way from being anything other than foreigners who live here. We're settled in, we're comfortable. We don't get confused by Spanish road junctions, we know to push past the crowds of people at the theatre door etc, etc. Nonetheless, to Spaniards, we are, first and foremost, Britons.

As with so many things nowadays I don't quite remember why we left the Neighbourhood Association. I paid the annual fee in 2017 but not for 2018. Not all the events that go on in the village have anything to do with the Neighbourhood Association. Some are organised through the village pedaneo/a (think village mayor or mayoress). The person to do this job is selected by Pinoso Town Hall. There may be community input but the pedaneo/a is not an elected post. My vague recollection is that the activities organised by the Association missed a beat, it seemed moribund, and any local activity was coming through the pedaneo/a. Covid added to the hiatus. Then in September of this year, Maggie joined in a chance conversation, outside our front gate, and found out that the Neighbourhood Association had been organising trips and meals without us! We rejoined and in October of this year just in time to join the coach outing to Cartagena which was a hoot.

A couple of Sundays ago it was a village meal followed by the AGM of the Association. I was mightily impressed how we were received; there were lots of big grins, lots of pumping handshakes, lots of firm hands on shoulders and double kissing. We arrived at vermouth time. We know how we like our vermouth. We were able to say so. We had at least three offers to sit alongside someone as we sat down to eat at the long trestle tables. We didn't need to ask what we were eating; we didn't find anything strange in what we were eating; we knew the process, we knew the drill, we asked for what we needed if it wasn't there. We joined the conversation; we had conversations - there was no need to smile and nod and pretend we understood when we didn't. We had views on the quality of the food; we opened bottles of drink without thinking we needed to ask permission. All very straightforward.

Set three Spaniards to talk, and you get at least four simultaneous conversations. Turn that into thirty or forty Spaniards, who have had a couple of drinks, who are friends, who still have unsaid things to share and it can get quite rowdy. That's how the AGM was. Only a few people keep up with the flow. Most take refuge in the safe havens of optional conversation. To be honest, while it's all very endearing, it's not good if you're actually interested in the meeting. I realised that some of what was being said made it patently clear that there were certain tensions in the village. Tensions which we had been half aware of but which, especially after the meeting, were explained to us in Cinemascope and full Technicolor. 

I avoided the demon whisky. It was good to be back.

Battening down the hatches

There's not much on Spanish telly on Friday night and so Maggie, who is much more telly aware than I am, often turns over to Gogglebox which I quite like as it doesn't feature baying crowds.

As I weeded the garden I was thinking about the Siddiqui family - well them and the remarkable resilience of weeds. I pondered the Siddiquis speaking English to each other. Without knowing anything about them I presume that they are the second and third or maybe third and fourth generation descendants of someone who would not claim Derby as home.

It is November so it's time for the meal and Annual General Meeting of the Culebrón Neighbourhood Association. It happened this afternoon, in fact it's probably still going on as, for the first time in years, I did a bunk from the AGM. I'm on, or maybe I was on, the management committee so skipping the meeting is probably a hanging, or maybe a garroting,  offence.

When we are complaining to people about our lack of Spanish they often suggest to us that Maggie and I should talk in Spanish at home. Grammatical considerations aside how self conscious and how foolish, do you think I'd feel speaking Spanish to Maggie? You are correct - somewhere off the top of the stupidity scale. A Tsunami of stupidity.

We've lived in Spain for twelve years on the trot now. Maggie can claim 15 years total because of her time in Madrid in the 90s. For me that's close enough to 20% of my life and for Maggie over 27%. Maybe, like the Siddiquis the home language should be the language we use to generally communicate and, like the Siddiquis, our home TV should be our home TV. But it isn't. Why else would I be watching Gogglebox?

I didn't really want to go to the Neighbourhood Association meal this afternoon. It isn't so much the Spanish anymore. I've sort of accepted that my Spanish is bad and always will be. The reason I didn't want to go is because the Association is probably the place where I feel most foreign. Paradoxically that's because, almost certainly, it's the place where I am most warmly greeted. At the last meal there was a lot of kerfuffle about where we were going to sit. We sat somewhere only to be told that such and such was going to sit there and, when we tried again, we got a similar story. Our final destination was the metaphorical seat behind the column. This looking out for your pals obviously happens everywhere, people hold seats and places in queues for latecomers. I suspect though, that if challenged, most seat holders would cede the right to the people who were physically present. Shift the German towel and the sunbed is yours isn't it?

After the Association meals the conversation is never just football, or the weather, or music. If we talk about music we compare and contrast Spanish and "English" music. If it's football, I'm conversationally buggered but, even if I weren't, the conversation would become an analysis of Man U and Barca or Aston Villa and Mallorca. I'm as guilty of this as the Spanish person alongside me but I am marked out as different (and incidentally inferior) because of my nationality. Just once it would be nice to have conversation, flawed as it may be, where we were talking about Stoke and Watford because we are talking English football or Numancia and Rayo Vallecano because were are in Spain or even about PSG, Manchester City and Sevilla because we are in Europe (just).

Uninformed

I'm sorry but I've been reading again. La familia de Pascual Duarte this time. In it, at one point, the "hero" of the book is wondering about taking a steamer to America. He has to queue. When he finally gets to the front the clerk gives him a list of prices and sailing times. He complains that that isn't what he wanted. He wanted a conversation about the possibilities. To my mind this is a real difference between we Brits and the Spanish. We like to read our information and Spaniards like to talk to someone to get theirs.

With a bit of a push from me, and despite a little opposition, the village now has a couple of WhatsApp groups. I wanted one group but some little territorial dispute apparently made that impossible. So we now have a quick, effective, cheap, reasonably inclusive and only slightly confusing channel for sharing information. It's not helped much though. We had an outdoor film in the village last Friday. Nobody seemed to know what film we were going to see till it started. And on Monday I found out that I should have booked up for the fiesta meal last Friday.

I'm sure that it's just the reading and talking thing and nothing to do with that old Knowledge is power chestnut.

Cakes and talk

I went to a meeting of the junta directiva, or mangement committee, of the village neighbourhood association this afternoon. I was worried beforehand that I would stutter and stumble so much that I would make a complete fool of myself. In the end I thought I did alright. I wasn't exactly Lincoln at Gettysburg but I managed to respond to what was going on around me and, even, to initiate topics and ideas in a reasonably coherent way. It's amazing how the right and better verb, adjective or noun repeatedly came to mind fractions of second after I loosed my second rate and simplistic phrase into the room.

Some of the committee members had met with the town mayor and a councillor earlier this week. They were reporting back to the couple of us who hadn't been there and looking for a decision. I'm not quite sure how much of what I heard is confidential and how much is public domain but, as it's not very interesting to anyone outside the village, I won't go into detail anyway.

So what did I learn? Well that at least 60% of Spaniards like snowballs, the cakes. It took a while for anyone, except me, to risk one but eventually three more were eaten with very favourable comments all round. Who knows what the approval rating would have been if the other two members hadn't exercised restraint?- maybe for Lent, maybe for health or maybe to avoid the calories. I was able to use the cakes to make a point. I suggested that the people around here tend to stick with the things they know; the tried and tested. Different things are, largely, ignored. Just as an aside you see that I took food. So did everyone else. No Spanish event goes without food and I knew.

In dodgy Spanish I tried to push the idea that the neighbourhood association should be trying to find solutions to those things that cause problems to people in the village. I mentioned transport for older people or those who don't drive and I was instantly told that buses couldn't break even which gave me the perfect in to talk about dial a ride, car sharing and community transport schemes. I mentioned the village's pathetic power supply and how that might be something for a bit of community action and I talked about the multi role shops in Teruel. It was like the old days - talking vaguely about community development.

Of course I didn't really say much. I did a lot more listening and even more nodding. I found out a fair bit about the village that I didn't know and about the slightly less than democratic process that provides the town hall with a village spokesperson.

In the time that we've lived in Culebrón I've been impressed with the effort that several individuals have put in to make the village a better place. It will be interesting to see if the larger committee manages to do anything differently

A week before the Fiestas

I could have driven home. I'm sure. After all I'm typing so I must be have some control of my faculties. But I didn't. It never crossed my mind. Till now. I left the car and walked past the ermita, up past Eduardo's, past the goat farm and the barking dogs and came home. I didn't see a single car. It isn't far, maybe 500 metres.

Tonight was the vecino's meal, the neighbourhood association. The chicken from Maribel's wasn't bad but, for the first time ever, I didn't have to to fall down drunk instead of talking. Not that I didn't drink but I didn't end up dead drunk, just drunk. What's more important, to me at least, is that I kept talking. I made hundreds of errors, I couldn't remember half the expressions I was looking for but I went around and I kept talking. Language we talked about, of course, but music, films, food, travel - normal sort ot things - Belgian beer and Tossa de Mar, stag nights and Gibraltar.

I was still there at 3am, talking. It was normal. Tables in the open air, a warm night, strings of incandescent bulbs hanging from the trees. All as usual except that I kept talking. I didn't retire into drink.

It's all Maggie's doing. She's the one who has forged the links with the locals by teaching them or their children English, by having a bilingual chinwag every week. She wasn't there so they made do with me as a substitute. They took care of me. The annual vecinos meal. Splendid. Best ever.

Village hall and pub

I'm cool with a romería and with Elena gone on to her birthday party it was up to me to save the vermouth session. Last night we had the annual village meeting to plan the summer fiesta.

I forget the reason. Actually I've got a bit of a bad head this morning because I popped into Amador's bar on my walk home and that sort of set me on the path of wrongdoing and amnaesia. I've just remebered a conversation with Eduardo outside his restaurant which was faltering, as always, but this time because of alcohol rather than more general stupidity. Anyway, whatever the reason everything got changed around a bit this year.

So on Friday instead of the vermouth session to kick off the village fiesta we're going to have a catered meal followed by the music and dancing. Cost cutting was the order of the day because the grant from the Town Hall will be 900€ again this year and lottery ticket sales haven't been very healthy either. There was talk of not having live music. The blasphemy of a "party tape" was suggested.  Eventually they decided on Raphael - for pasa dobles and cha-cha-cha. I tried a little joke with the woman sitting next to me about it not being the Raphael but she had no idea what I was talking about.

That was like me and the meeting. I was just about keeping up with the gist as the ten or twelve people there mounted simultaneous conversations but to say I understood would be being economical with the truth.

The foot race has been moved to Sunday along with the football and the chocolate. The gachamigas and the church parade have moved to the Saturday. I think we cut out the rockets to save money. I realised that the vermouth session was missing from the plans. I nearly spoke up but, in the end, my nerve failed. Kipling would have been cross. Fortunately when Inma was checking the budget to see if we could save any money anywhere she spotted the vermouth and she had the temerity to suggest scrapping it. Elena spoke up for alcohol as the perfect accompaniment to the football and the vermouth was saved.

Then there was the romería. Someone suggested a romería instead of a procesión. Suddenly everyone was voting. I was nodded at across the room - join in - vote for the romería along with everyone else said the nod; so I did. There was talk about whether it should be in plan formal or informal. Now I know what a romería is. It's a Catholic festival where there is a journey to a shrine or suchlike with or to a saint or Virgin. I asked my neighbour what the route would be but, again, she had no idea what I was talking about. So I asked Inma when she was checking that I'd understood what was going on. "Yes, that's right," she said, normally romería is a bit of a pilgrimage but we just mean that it's not like this - she crossed her hands across her body at waist height - and everyone gets to follow the saints instead. The problem is because the priest can't say mass till eight it's going to be in the dark so we'll have to choose a route that goes to lighter places. Another of those things where I know but I didn't.

And the vermouth? Well as Inma was showing me the running order I pointed out that the vermouth session was missing. "So it is," she said and it was written down on the back of the official envelope.

'Til the only dry land were at Blackpool

I've been to some cold places in my life. England in January isn't that warm; the Isle of Lewis and Stockholm are often colder but they are not uncomfortable places. Culebrón on the other hand is uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. Outside it's about 7ºC and it's midday. The house isn't set up for it. Wind whistles under the doors, through the windows. Marble and tiled surfaces don't help. Built for summer, not for winter. The only warm place in the house is under the shower. Outside, the sky is blue, the sun is shining. Wrapped up, with gloves it's warm enough. But inside the chill soaks through your bones. Down in La Unión I haven't yet started to close the windows at night or use a heater but here. Brrr!

Our local petrol station has no petrol, no diesel and no gas bottles. Everyone says that the owner can't pay his bills so the oil company won't deliver except for cash payments. The next nearest petrol stations are at least 10kms away. The car wash is still in business though. I used it today rather than plunge my hands into a bucket of cold water.

The local bodega on the other hand was doing a roaring trade on Sunday. I think, though I'm not sure, that the farmers who produce the grapes which make the wine, have a running account with the bodega shop. They buy things on tick against the money they are paid for the grapes they harvest. The shop sells groceries, things for around the farm, workwear etc. It's an interesting place.

In the Santa Catalina district of the town, one of the older and possibly poorer parts of Pinoso they are having a fiesta because it's her day on the 25th. I plain forgot to go to see the street bonfires on Friday evening. Yesterday I was going to go and watch the flower offering and have a look at the mediaeval market as I drove back from the cinema but I changed my mind when I noticed that the temperature was hovering around 2ºC and there was a chill wind blowing. What fun in drinking a micro brewery beer or eating a chorizo roll with hands frozen by the cold? I did pop in today though.

There's a circus in town. I half wondered about going. The camel and the strange long horned cow type beast parked outside the big top looked very mangy and very out of place. I arrived to take a few snaps just as the Sunday matinee crowd came out. There wasn't much of an audience.

I'm just back from lunch down in the village hall. It was the Neighbourhood Association AGM. We always have one of the local paellas with rabbit and snails and gazpacho, a sort of rabbit stew with a flat form of dumpling. It's always the same. The meal started late, there was applause when the metre and a half paella pan was brought into the hall from the outside kitchen where it has been cooked over wood. There was plenty of drink and the actual meeting was sparsely attended and very disorganised. For the first time ever, and despite being the only foreigner in the place, I didn't feel too lost. I laughed when I didn't understand and I voted knowing what I was voting for despite the chaos. It looks like we're off to Benidorm again in March. Everybody else was drinking the very fashionable gintonics (gin and tonic) but someone found a bottle of whisky for me. I drained it. My typing may have suffereed.

The title, by the way, is from three ha'pence a foot by Marriott Edgar. Snaps on the Picasa link at the top of the page.

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It rained and it rained for a fortni't, 

And flooded the 'ole countryside. 

It rained and it kept' on raining, 

'Til the Irwell were fifty mile wide.

The 'ouses were soon under water, 

And folks to the roof 'ad to climb. 

They said 'twas the rottenest summer 

That Bury 'ad 'ad for some time. 

The rain showed no sign of abating, 

And water rose hour by hour, 

'Til the only dry land were at Blackpool, 

And that were on top of the Tower.

Back to Benidorm

It cost more this year. 15€ more to be precise. We set out earlier and I think we maybe got an extra meal. Otherwise it was very much the same. In Spanish style we stuck with what we know and went to the same hotel. Benidorm remains as unique as ever.

Maggie said the best part for her was in a bar with a motorbike/Hell's Angels theme and live music on the seafront. I think the bit I enjoyed most was when someone asked us if we wanted to go into a bar - free drink he said. He wasn't the first to ask nor was he the last but, for some reason, we went into his place and not the others. There was a group of girls on a hen party and later a bunch of blokes out for a stag night. They were all in fancy dress and it seemed a bit desperate as they tried, so hard, to have a good time in a tacky bar on a coolish evening in a quiet Benidorm. There was a bloke who took off his shirt maybe in the hope of attracting one of the girls with his six pack. Unfortunately for him any physical plus was nullified by the minus of his drink fuelled inability to walk.

On Sunday we crossed the whole length of town to the Gran Hotel Bali, until recently the tallest building in Benidorm and for many years the tallest building in Spain. There are four taller skyscrapers in Madrid now but Benidorm, amazingly, still has the most high-rise buildings per capita in the world. We intended to go to the observation floor of the tower but the cloudy day and the draw of the paid for school dinner quality food in our hotel were too much and we didn't make it. A treat for next time.

We were with the Culebrón Neighbourhood Association of course. Just like last year. Actually we didn't interact with our Spanish neighbours as much as last time because of our unwillingness to initiate conversations in Spanish so it wasn't really as interesting. We have nobody to blame but ourselves and we still had a good time.

Finally, a word of warning. The Benidorm City Bus Tour has to be one of the least informative tours in the world with, apparently, nothing of note along the whole length of the journey.

May I bring this meeting to order

It was the Annual General Meeting of the Culebrón Neighbourhood Association today. As is now usual we were greeted effusively by lots of people. As usual we had the meal beforehand. As usual we had a choice of rice and gazpacho. As usual Maggie and I sat with Mari Luisa, Daniel, Marisa, Carol and David. As usual there was a gap next to us at table.

With the tables put away, the paella pan scrubbed clean and the prawn heads picked up off the floor it was time for the Annual General Meeting.

The AGM is always a bit disorganised. At least by UK standards it's a bit disorganised. When I say a bit disorganised read absolute chaos. Sometimes there is an agenda but today there wasn't - no minutes either. Of the four key members of the committee - Chair, Vice Chair, Treasurer and Secretary - only the Chair and the Secretary were on hand. With little else to lean on the meeting hinged around the accounts.

The slightly inebriated Secretary started by eulogising the Village Mayoress and the President of the Neighbourhood Association. He made more or less the same remarks every hour for the remaining three or so hours of the meeting. He employed quite colourful  language too - very Kenneth Tynan.

The original fifty or sixty diners dwindled down to maybe ten people. I drank five whiskies, generous whiskies, from a bright pink J&B bottle, during the meeting. The President resigned but, as nobody was willing to take her place, the Secretary suggested she stayed on another couple of years so that she would resign at the same time as the village Mayoress. This apparently made sense. I was happy. She is one of the few people in the village with email.

We were told that the Village Hall didn't really exist as a legal entity which was why we couldn't let any Tom, Dick or Harry donate a gas cylinder to fuel the stoves to cook the paella. That's why gas featured in the accounts! We heard a few times how the President took full responsibility for not delegating responsibility. It's true that she mopped up her own spilled G&T. The President and Secretary complained that nobody was willing to help at Villazgo or carnival time. I dared to speak. "I think it's because we don't get asked." The Secretary  told me I was wrong. Fortunately nobody else heard because they were all talking to each other. I was on the front row. The President asked me if it wasn't true that the trip to Benidormm had been excellent, I agreed, it had. It was decided we would go to Benidorm again.

I was going to have a sixth whisky and see it out but, for no real reason, I chose to slip away instead. I didn't quite see where we were going.

Except Benidorm of course

The day we went to Beni

Benidorm has to be one of the oddest towns in Spain. For a start it looks odd. Far too many tall buildings for your average Spanish town. It also seems to lack any sort of cultural life in the theatre and museum sense of the word. I'm sure that isn't true but as an average visitor all I saw were bars, restaurants, poundstretcher type shops and sex clubs. All of them had that sort of seedy, run down look reserved for brash seaside towns.

Benidorm feels oddly foreign too. Obviously the majority of businesses in a Spanish town dedicated to tourism are Spanish but there are so many British, German, Dutch and even Chinese businesses that it would be easy for any of the nationals of those countries to forget that they had left their homelands.

Benidorm was odd in another, much less quirky, way. At one point on Saturday night we were strolling along a pedestrianised street. There were bars on both sides and planted firmly in the middle of the street were muscly, shaven headed men. I presumed that they were under-employed bouncers being used as early evening leafleteers until the bars got going and their bouncerial skills were required. Every bar had some sort of offer - free shots with every beer, bargain pints of vodka and Red Bull, two for one deals etc. We'd been given a couple of leaflets as we strolled though I suppose for most of these places I was too old. They'd have me down as a customer for one of the bars with the other white haired men where María Jesús would be playing her accordion. But there was something wrong with the way the bouncers were standing; with their lack of movement. Maggie noticed it too. There was menace in the air and I'm still not sure whether it was from the bouncers themselves or because of what they were waiting for.

I can't remember the last time I felt threatened walking the streets of a Spanish town. Last night, in Benidorm, surrounded by signs for British Breakfasts, Scottish bars and roast beef dinners I did. A Spanish couple we talked to later commented on the same unease.

We were there, in Benidorm, with the people of Culebrón, with people from the Neighbourhood Association. Elena, who heads up the Association, had found a deal at a Benidorm hotel. For the princely sum of 27€ per person we got the coach ride from Culebrón to Benidorm and full board in one of the big Benidorm chain hotels for twenty four hours. It was the sort of hotel that has a featured dance band in one lounge and a music quizz in another. There was a two for one deal on most drinks too.

To be truthful we didn't do much except eat, drink and stroll for twenty four hours but that would be a majority pastime here. The weather was excellent, the room was good, the food was plentiful and we were made to feel very welcome. I had predicted disaster but I was wrong. It couldn't have gone much better.

Just one last observation. We left Culebrón at 4pm in the afternoon. It seemed odd to our British sensibility. Obviously, if we British are going somewhere we get up at the crack of dawn and try to get there before the shops open. Probably the timings were linked to whatever package the hotel was offering but none of our Spanish travelling companions thought that a late afternoon start was in the least odd. We'll be there in nice time for dinner they said.

A bus to Benidorm

Back in November at the AGM of the Neighbourhood Association there was talk of going to Benidorm for a weekend. A couple of weeks ago that vague possibility turned into reality. I got the email. Were we coming?

Now the immediate and romantic answer is a resounding yes. Picture it; we two Brits taking our place as members of our adopted community, striding arm in arm with our compañeros down the prom in search of serious fun.

When I asked Maggie about it she was more realistic. You think it's a good idea now but, when it happens, you'll get cross because you have trouble with your Spanish. First you'll get cross with yourself, then you'll get cross with me and then you'll start sulking or drink too much and leave me to do all the talking. She's right of course. And, there's not that much serious fun to be had in Benidorm at this time of year anyway.

Today I got a second message from the vecinos. They needed a decision and they needed it now. There were lots of outsiders wanting to get on the coach. Proper community members got first dibs.

Of course we'll be there I said. Wouldn't miss it for the World I said.

Rice with rabbit and snails or rabbit stew?

The Junta Directiva

I haven't commented on the Neighbourhood Association meal for a couple of years so I will this time around. To be honest I could simply repeat most of the text on the link above down to the menu except that there were no lupin seeds this year. It's not quite true, there were a couple of things that I noticed as different.

I had an interesting conversation with the President of the Association, not in its content but in the fact that it took place at all. The last time we spoke for more than 30 seconds she commented that, unlike my wife, I couldn't speak Spanish and that I should be ashamed of myself. This time she was at pains to compliment me on the way that I expressed myself and was able to string an argument together (we were talking politics.) I liked that. I like compliments about my Spanish.

Another thing was that I needed to open a bottle of beer and I went in search of a bottle opener. The abnormal thing there was that I felt perfectly comfortable just searching through the detritus of the serving area till I found one. It may have taken six years or so but I realised that I didn't feel out of place or uncomfortable in just helping myself. Nobody jumped up from their seat to help the helpless and hopeless foreigner as has happened so many times before either. Maybe it's because when someone else had explained to me, in mime, how to use the press tap on a box of vermouth to pour it out I had said that I was English not stupid. Was I being assertive or just plain rude?

The AGM after the meal was the normal riot. As usual when things got heated the language changed to Valenciano. A bit of bad feeling about who should supply wine for the village events and a bit of argy bargy about whether the summer meal should be self or outside catered. The discussion about the stall at Villazgo was more relaxed though there were some barbed comments from the President about who had to put the work in each year. The discussion about a charabanc trip also had two definite camps, one for a cultural type outing (we've had trips to a musical in Madrid and to a an area with limestone caves and touristy villages) or whether it should be a mad night out in Benidorm. The compromise was to find out the best deals on both and then to see who would sign up for what.

Good fun as always.

Down the village on a warm summer's evening

20€ a year to join the Village Association. A bargain. Subsidised meals, sometimes a trip and the always enjoyable AGM where nothing gets done and nothing is resolved.

This is the best though. The meal the weekend before the Fiesta. The food is sometimes good and sometimes ordinary. Sometimes I feel to be a part of what's going on and sometimes I feel like an outsider. But whatever happens, for me, it is the quintessential image of summer in the village. Much more intimate than the Fiestas, so much more Spanish than the November meal

The neighbours are there. It's warm. The lights are strung up from the village hall. There is hubbub as everyone talks and laughs and drinks and eats and comes and goes. A little oasis of people enveloped by the dark summer evening.

Even when I don't enjoy it I appreciate it and last night I did both.

Glad it's all over

Like Captain Sensible, the residents of El Culebrón were glad it was all over. The biggest cheer of the afternoon came when the Annual General Meeting finally came to an end. The Association was celebrating its tenth birthday. We've been members for five of those. Like all Spanish public meetings it had bordered on chaos with personal attacks and insults thrown into the mix. At one point the chairwoman attempted to re-assert order with a spot of fingers in mouth whistling.

Nothing much was decided except to accept the annual accounts and to agree a small increase in the annual membership fee from 18€ per household per year to 20€. I must have missed the re-election of officers and acceptance of last years minutes amongst the din.

From the accounts it appears that only 21 households actually sign up to the Neighbourhood Association so the 2€ increase is hardly going to make much difference to the annual figures.

When I used to stage AGMs getting anyone there was always the difficulty. The "Vecinos" never have any problem with that because, like any Spanish event, the principal reason for being there was to feed. No problem about the menu either. The two traditional dishes for the area: a rice paella of rabbit and snails and the warming rabbit stew called gazpacho (not the cold soup from Andalucia) as usual. I chose the gazpacho but I ate the breadlike base along with the stew rather than keeping it apart to spread with honey afterwards. I've often been accused of having strange eating habits but spreading honey on stew soaked pastry has always seemed a bit perverse to me. Maggie went for the rice.

Pleasant enough do. We were the only Brits there this year amongst the 60 or so diners and a couple of Spanish acquaintances actually made sure we sat with them which was a pleasant change. Normally we end up being pushed right to the edge of things. The conversation didn't exactly flow but we held our own.

News and the ability to travel

This morning we were in Pinoso and we bumped into our pals Paul and Dee as we bought rice crackers. We talked of fused spurs, model making lathes and beauty products. The inconsequential chatter between friends.

Paul and Dee live in Culebrón and, last weekend, they were surprised to find a workgang outside their house planting trees. The local TV was there. A regular little party. Paul and Dee tried to get in touch with us so we could join in the fun.

Tonight, at the village hall, with the neighbours, I'm hanging around, feeling lost, inspecting the toes of my trainers as I wait for the meeting to start. There are four or five women behind the coffee bar and they're talking about los pinos, the pines - pines and trees are synonomous here; if it's a tree it's a pine.

The matter was raised in the full meeting. Apparently nobody had said anything about planting trees before. It just happened. The farmer who can no longer get his tractor past the pines to work his land is a little peeved. The meeting formulated optional action plans.

It made me think. A stray comment in the superrmarket and, just for once, I was in the loop. Now I can go back to Paul and Dee and add something to their story.

No wonder the Archers, an everyday story of country folk, has run for so long!

Barking at the moon

I've done it before. I don't quite know why. Inma, the "Mayor" of our little village sends me an email - "There's a meeting tomorrow in the Village Hall to talk about the summer fiesta, it would be good to have you there." Like a fathead I go. Maggie has more sense.

I knew what it would be like. Twenty or so people. Plastic chairs. The sound echoing off the tiles and bare walls of the village hall. The side conversations, when things get heated, usually in Valenciano and always shrill and loud. Me, wanting to say something, having something to say but not tonight. Tonight, I had to be content with formulating the ideas in my mind, unsure of how to express, in Spanish, what I wanted to say.

They managed without me though.

The problem is money. The village fiesta, an event in honour of our Patron Saint has always been sponsored by the local Town Hall. Last year the Town Hall, strapped for cash could only find 2,500€ to support the village Neighbourhood Assocaition. This year it's down to 900€ and that amount is still a budget figure rather than cash in the bank. The town's quarry, the largest in Europe in terms of the tons of stone dug out, just isn't providing the revenue it has for ever so many years. Pinoso is grinding to a halt. A Town Council, used only to spending, doesn't know what to do.

Back at the village hall we decided to ask each house in the village to support the fiesta to the tune of just 10€. Add that to the 500€ plus in the accounts and the vermouth evening, the gachamigas cooking, the football games, the band for Saturday evening, the childrens games, the chocolate party and the church parade (including flowers and live music) should be safe. Reducing the brochure to an A4 sheet was the work of seconds. Not so the evening meal. We went back and forth, we talked about the large families being excluded by the price. We talked about cheaper menus, about cutting out the booze, the coffee, the pudding - but good sense won out. We're going to have a proper sit down meal with all the trimmings - waiters and everything.

Looks as though there won't be any poor people at the meal then.

The Neighbourhood Meal

There are two "free" neighbourhood meals each year, one at Fiesta time in high summer and the other one in November associated with the Annual General Meeting. We missed the November meal last year but not this. Turnout looked a bit down to me but we still made plenty of noise in the local Social Centre.

Our welcome seemed genuinely warm and there were two other Britons there which made extended conversations somewhat easier. I'd been worried about getting there on time but I shouldn't have been so Brit as the meal actually started about 1½ hours late! Starters were things to pick at in the middle of the table - lupin seeds, olives, local sausage, prawns, salad, bread and crisps. Next we had the choice of both the staple local specialities: paella with rabbit or gazpacho (a sort of rabbit stew with a pasta type dough) - I managed to have some of each. Pudding was locally grown mandarins or melon and then a choice of "Gypsy's arm" - a bit like a sticky Swiss roll with either cream or chocolate filling - yumee! Coffee to finish of course though Maggie had some sort of pretend tea and then the spirits just to settle our stomachs.

For the first time in ages I didn't take too much advantage of the free booze so I enjoyed the stroll home