Victoria Twead's Blog, page 13

House Hunting in Spain

[image error] When Joe and I decided to move to Spain, we knew we wanted to live in the country and were determined to leave the rat-race behind. We wanted mountain views, wildlife, big open spaces and the experience of fitting into Spanish village life. So, for us, El Hoyo was the perfect choice, if full of surprises... 

Karen McCann is a fellow expat living in Spain and author of a very witty, engaging book called Dancing in the Fountain. Unlike Joe and I, she and her husband chose city life and are extremely happy in Seville. This is how they found their house...


“We have three main criteria,” I told the rental agent in Seville. “We need a terrace, so Rich can grow his plants. We want to be near the river or a park, because we’re bringing our dog over. And we absolutely do not want to live around Plaza Alfalfa, because of the botellones.” These were impromptu outdoor drinking parties in which young Sevillanos gathered to share bottles (hence the name) of various alcoholic beverages, often until dawn. Among the largest were the ones crowding the Alfalfa neighborhood’s narrow side streets, and — call me crazy — I didn’t care much for the idea of having five or six hundred drunken youths partying on my doorstep night after night.
Our real estate agent took us to cramped and dingy rooftop apartments with vast terraces; suites in old palaces ripe with history and mold; furnished apartments that came with gruesome old couches and, in one case, a live-in landlady; and starkly modern places with hideous, liver-colored floors. There was always a deal breaker. The one thing the agent assured us we didn’t have to worry about was the dog — all apartments allow pets, she explained; you don’t even have to ask. That was great news, but we still had to find the right place to call home.
Finally the agent made one last suggestion: an apartment in an old, renovated palacio. Granted, it didn’t have a terrace or nearby park, and it was in the Alfalfa barrio, although on a quiet back street. Would we like to see it? Before I could get “No” past my lips, Rich said, “Sure, why not?”
The apartment was roomy, with twelve-foot ceilings and shuttered French windows overlooking the roof of a two-hundred-year-old church. And the price, a little above what our Spanish friends quoted us but well below what most foreigners were paying, seemed more than reasonable.
“What about the terrace?” I asked Rich, struggling to keep my head. “What about the park? What about the botellones?”
He waved it all aside. “I’ll put in some window boxes. We’ll walk the dog in the neighborhood. The botellones are streets away.”
He was a goner all right.
We said we’d take it.
When I told a Spanish friend about the apartment she said, “Great! You’ll never have to worry about coming home late at night, because with all the botellones, there will always be people around.” And here I had been thinking that hundreds of drunken youths might be a security problem!
We finally got our hands on a copy of the lease the day before we were supposed to sign it and take possession of the keys. The dense Spanish legalese wasn’t easy to decipher, but one phrase jumped out with hideous clarity: “No pets allowed.”
We called an emergency meeting, and the landlord explained the previous renter owned a dog that so annoyed everyone with its pestilential behavior that he’d decided to ban pets from now on. Then he grew crafty. He said he’d allow our dog here if, and only if, we got all the other tenants to sign a document giving up their right to have pets in their apartments.
Why would anyone give up rights to help strangers? But as one neighbor explained, “Sure I’ll sign. This document means nothing. If I want an elephant in my apartment I’ll have one. It’s my right.” We soon had all their signatures and finalized our lease.
Rich, the dog and I had a home in Spain at last.
Karen McCann

Curious how this compares to house hunting in rural Spain? Check out Victoria’s guest blog on Karen’s site.

Keeping Chickens - 10 facts I didn’t know

[image error] When Joe and I moved to a tiny Spanish mountain village, we weren’t planning to keep chickens. Our next-door neighbour insisted we should, and eight years later, we still have chickens.
There are plenty of ‘How to Keep Chickens’ books, but we’re still learning... Here are 10 things I’ve learned about keeping chickens:

✔ Chickens can withstand almost any weather, hot or cold.
We’ve had deep snow, and scorching summer temperatures, and our chickens seem to cope with either.

✔ Chickens’ tails droop when they are unwell.

✔ Chickens purr when they are content. Honestly!

✔ Chickens can’t see at all in the dark. If you want to catch your chickens, do it after dark.

✔ Chickens eat anything. However, as they have no teeth, stale bread has to be soaked before chickens can eat it.

✔ Chickens make wonderful pets. They grow very tame and are happy to perch on your shoulder or sit in your lap if you let them.

✔ Chickens adore dust-baths. They dig themselves a scrape and lie in it, fluffing themselves up to allow dust to cover every feather, which helps evict parasites. A dust-bathing chicken goes into a sort of trance.

✔ All eggs are not the same. Sometimes our chickens lay massive eggs or tiny ones. Sometimes there is no shell, or a wrinkly one. And they don’t taste the same as shop-bought eggs either, they are much tastier!

✔ Chickens like to roost high. As soon as the sun goes down, all our chickens climb up to their perch (amidst much bickering) and stay there until sunrise.

✔ Chicken language is easy to learn. For example, they have different sounds for “I’ve laid an egg”, and “Where are our treats?”, and “I’ve found some great food here!” and the “bk-bk-bk” alarm call when something frightens them.



Chickens are gentle, engaging creatures. Now that we appreciate their charm, we are horrified by the conditions in which some chickens are maintained. Battery farming is cruel and unnecessary. We applaud the efforts of the BHWT, and other organisations, who fight for the rights of chickens!

So, do you have space in your garden for a few ex-battery rescue hens?

Cats! The art of sleeping in a box...

[image error] I love these photos. Very hard to choose a favourite!

Decorating, bad backs and cuckoos

[image error] Spring has most definitely sprung. In our valley, Joe and I can see and hear the frantic activity all around us. The birds are at their noisiest and busiest, building nests, finding mates and packing as much as they can into each day. Sparrows, bee-eaters, a pair of kestrels, swallows, cuckoos, owls, all in our valley, all in over-drive.

This month, Joe and I, too, decided that our house needed freshening up. When we lived in England, I spent hours agonising over paint colour-samples, trying to pick exactly the right shade or hue. Here in Spain, it’s much simpler. White paint is all we need. Gallons and gallons of it. So we bought the paint and concentrated on the scaffolding. Our house isn’t high but it’s built on the slope of a mountain and scaffolding is essential. The usual conversation took place.

“Joe, shouldn’t we just check the instructions to make sure we’ve put it up right?”

“Nah. It’s obvious where all the pieces go. Hold this, it’s the last strut.”

“Then why are there three bits left over?”

“Oh...” Joe scratches his nethers in thought.

“And why does it wobble? It doesn’t look very safe...”

So we take the wretched thing to pieces again, and re-assemble it according to the instructions. By that time it’s too dark to start painting and we abandon it and go indoors. Which is when disaster strikes... Joe lifts a saucepan of water, and a yell rents the air.

“*&#@*! Owww!” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“My back! I’ve done something to my back!”

My heart sinks. It’s happened before and we know from bitter experience that there is no cure, just rest. I’m not a good nurse, but Joe is a worse patient. He moans, groans and winces with every breath, and I am expected to wait on him, anticipating his every need. In addition I’m forced to carry on painting, alone, plus finish my third book, along with the usual household chores.

I can’t even find sanctuary up the scaffolding. As soon as I get it into position, paint and brushes at the ready, a voice floats out from inside with a multitude of demands.

“Vicky? Vicky! Are you making coffee?” or “Vicky? I can’t bend down and tie my shoe-laces.” or “Vicky! I can’t reach the TV remote!”

“I’m up the scaffolding, painting,” I remind him, but to no avail. The whine from inside simply becomes more insistent.

A week has gone by and Joe’s back is now, thankfully, much better. The painting is coming along nicely and the house is beginning to look fresh and clean. After a day of slapping on industrial quantities of white paint we reward ourselves, in the garden, with a glass or two of Paco’s wine, as dusk descends. We like to watch the birds roost and the sun go down behind the mountains, tinting the sky with random splashes of pink and purple. The bats arrive, flitting crazily around the street-lights, filling their little stomachs with moths and midges.

If I ever return in another life, I think I’d like to be a cuckoo. They must have the easiest life in the animal kingdom. No nest to build or maintain, no children to raise, nothing to do but please themselves, and us, with their wonderful call. And I’ve never heard of a cuckoo with a bad back, either.

Cats! The art of sleeping in a box...

[image error] I love these photos. Very hard to choose a favourite!

My uncle was a famous explorer

[image error] Joe and I were sorting out boxes, unopened and stored since my parents died in 1993. Imagine our astonishment when we came across a complete manuscript called ‘Horizon Fever’ written by A E Filby, my uncle. It describes his 37,000-mile journey from London to Cape Town, and back again, in various motor cars, including an Austin 20 which is now displayed by the British Motor Museum (see pic above).

I never met my uncle but I wish I had. He died of malaria in 1942, well before I was born. What tales he tells! Missionaries, pygmies, big-game hunting, gold-mining, crossing the Sahara and swimming in the Nile with crocodiles... One of his companions was a monkey called Congo. Another was a dog that adopted him, until it was killed and dragged up a tree by a leopard.

I think I would have liked Uncle Archie. Of course I don’t condone his attitude to animals, belonging to a bygone age when big-game hunting was admired, and ‘conservation’ a buzzword for the future. Archie comes across as a courageous, feisty, quick-tempered, bossy little man, but full of fun, generous and never one to bear a grudge. I imagine his human companions found him difficult to travel with, but he made friends easily and was much in demand by the Press and for radio broadcasts.

Joe has taken up the task of transcribing ‘Horizon Fever’, and we intend to publish it. We’re resisting the urge to make any changes, or edit in any way, as we feel Uncle Archie should speak for himself in his own colourful style. Luckily, we also have photographs and newspaper clippings of the incredible journey. Joe has undertaken the challenging task, made particularly tricky as the original manuscript was bashed out on an ancient typewriter that had the ‘e’ and the ‘o’ missing.

But I think it’ll be worth it. The result, I’m sure, will fascinate other readers as much as it did us. ‘Horizon Fever’ is a real snapshot of life when much of the world was controlled by the British Empire, and Uncle Archie’s journey was most definitely an incredible feat of endurance.

More Spanish owls

[image error] I love opening emails from readers. Some just say nice things, some tell me about their own lives, and others send photos of their pets or wildlife.

These really delightful owl pictures come from Dave Hemsley. He wrote:

Really enjoying the newsletter and of course the books.
Thought you might like to see the owls that were nesting in the Chocolate tree in ILBER VALLEY near To JALON (Xalon).
I was lucky enough to capture these shots, as the last of three chicks flew the nest in June 2008.
This particular chocolate tree has been the home of a family of tree rats, snakes and of course the owls over a number of years.
Looking forward to our next trip to the villa in September.
Your stories are so similar to our experiences.
Keep up the good work and making us smile.
 
Dave.

Thanks, Dave. They are beautiful pictures!
 

Scops owls in Spain

[image error] Can you believe it? It's exactly one year since Joe and I were under house arrest in the Middle East. Spring was the only thing on our minds then, but it was the Arab Spring, not the seasonal one. So this spring in El Hoyo is rather special, our first after a year away.
One of our favourite signs of spring is the scops owl arriving in our valley. We've never seen one, but we hear them nightly. Usually, there's just one, trying to attract a mate, but the other night there were three of them, all competing.
Scops owls don't say, "Twit-Twoo" like some other species. Scops owls are perfectly happy with just a "Hooo" every 20 seconds or so, repeated over and over again. So the conversation went rather like this:
Scops Owl #1, "Hooo."
Scops Owl #2, "Hooo."
Scops Owl #3, "Hooo."
Our valley resembles a Roman amphitheatre; even the smallest sound travels and can be heard by all. So Joe and I stood on our roof terrace at dusk, listening to the owls trying to out-do each other. Actually, Joe is rather good at imitating these owls, and this opportunity was just too good to miss. 
"Hooo," said Owl #1, from somewhere high in the valley.
"Hooo," agreed Owl #2, his voice echoing from our far right.
"Hooo," added Owl #3, somewhere to the south of us.
"Hooo," said Joe, beside me.
Utter silence. What? An interloper! A gatecrasher competing for the attentions of a lady owl?  Oh, horror! We giggled as we imagined all three owls' expressions as they swivelled their heads, trying to work out where this uninvited newcomer might be perched. I imagined them ruffling their feathers in annoyance, their yellow eyes piercing the gloom in an effort to see this cheeky infiltrator.
Having got over the shock, the owls pulled themselves together and resumed their hooting. But so did Joe. Now we had a quartet, all in perfect time. Occasionally a fox would bark, but the four performers refused to be distracted. The three owls took it in turns to hoot, leaving time for Joe to chime in at the end of the sequence. I left them to it. I had supper to prepare, and I could rely on Joe to carry on with the good work.
Half an hour later, I called a reluctant Joe inside.  
"Two of them gave up," said Joe, triumph in his voice. "It was just me and the southerly owl left."
"Eat your supper," I said, "before a lady owl comes knocking on our door, looking for you." 
So, do we regret our year in the Middle East? No, not at all. If nothing else, it makes us appreciate our life in Spain even more, surrounded by nature.

Spanish red wine

[image error] We were shopping at our local Carrefour, rounded a corner, and were greeted with this scene...

Actually, what surprised us most was that nobody was making much effort to clear it up. (It occurred to us to fetch some straws and offer to help.) I think in England, it would have been roped off, warning signs put up, and they'd be mopping immediately.

We were just very glad that we hadn't caused the accident.

I wish I could read Polish...

[image error] The title is, 'U mnie zawsze świeci słońce' which my google translator insists means, "U me always lit the sun". Really? No chickens? No mules? Hmmm... Those nice people at Pascal Publishing in Poland have now translated 'Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools' and it's already on sale in Poland.

And here's the blurb:

"May abandon the gray everyday, to the picturesque villages in sunny Andalusia and there find your paradise on Earth? Victoria urges her husband to move from wet England to southern Spain. Henceforth be guided by only hearts. Buy ruins in the tiny village, meet new friends, biesiadują with wine, become part of the principal world of fascinating culture. Zaprzyjaźnią with osiemdziesięciopięcioletnią, popalającą trawkę seksbombą. Are growers of hens and their eggs are? its hottest commodity? in the native village. Do not expect, however, that this place has pretty good zażartować from received. Let uwieść czarowi small, Spanish town, where life becomes sielanką ... with a little chilli. A lovely, warm story. Superiority of the scene."

I just hope it makes more sense in Polish, haha!