Stressed - but in a good way

Tuesday

I am still not that tranquila. "Tu, mucho estres," Pablo kept saying to me. We were on the way to Albox, to have the ITV (MOT) done on the old Hyundai. I called the ITV centre in the morning to check my appointment and found out it was for 12, (doce) not 2 (dos). I dashed over to Pablo's - he was in the goat shed - and asked him if he could make the time. Sin problemas, no problem. But there were, of course. Just as I was about to drive round to his house, the Hyundai wouldn't start. This was despite the fact that I had left the battery unconnected (you have to, because the door warning light won't go off, and drains it). Pablo came round and asked me if I thought I would pass the MOT with "that"? Hmm. We jump started it and went across country to Albox - a nasty place full of ghetto British people. I explained to Pablo that I needed Consuelo, his daughter, to colour my hair dark so nobody would know I was English. He pointed out that I would still have an accent, so I said he'd better improve his teaching.

Amazingly, the car passed. The MOT cost 30-something Euros, and that includes road tax. It lasts for 2 years. A bargain. Pablo explained that the MOT centre in Albox is better than the one in Vera, which is state-owned. It is private, therefore more flexible. Excellent. There was no way I would have got through it on my own, though: you have to queue in the right queue and then follow a lot of instructions over a loudspeaker - though I might have been able to play the stupid Englishwoman card, of course. On the way back, Pablo and I had a drink in a bar - as usual, he knew half the people in there and they were all related to him. One old guy, Augustin, told me what great people the British were. I looked doubtful; afterwards Pablo told me he makes money selling them houses. But he does like them, he added, they are "buena gente." Everyone here is always "buena gente;" on the way back, Pablo explained that he was doing me a favour taking me to Albox, and that was because we were friends; it would not be friendship if he charged me for it. I agreed with this, and said maybe I could do him a favour, but I didnt know what. He laughed and said: take me to England. I said Sandy could do that any time, but Pablo said there were the goats to think of, and when I said I could look after them, he just laughed. I was quite persistent though; in a year or so, there is every chance I will be able to keep my eye on 250 goats.

The decorators, meanwhile, were finishing the ceilings. The four efficient Romanians from the day before had gone; they spoke good Spanish and also cleaned up with the mop and broom after themselves, something they told me the Spanish builders never did. Romanians are everywhere in Europe, they said - can't be bad, if they are all as smart as these. The Spanish lot did a beautiful job, but left a huge amount of rock on the floor. Maybe it's not the done thing for men to use the mop. I cleaned up till about 10.30, then sat outside on the terrace and listened to the animal noises. Something got Cheeky 2, the next door dog, barking all night.

Wednesday

Went to Lubrin market this morning but forgot my old lady wheelie trolley so had to trot back and forth from the car with my plastic bags of vegetables. This involves quite a steep hill up to the church from the main road. When I think of circling Sainsbury's car park to get close to the door! Met a few neighbours - Maria, Juana and Pablo's son's girlfriend from the Ayuntiamento and went into the legendary post office, where the lady always says there are no parcels, without looking. There was no parcel. I had a drink with Pablo and Maria from Los Fuenblanquillas, the next village- they entered into a long discussion about the guy who had tried to charge us 9,000 Euros for an hour of water, and how it was "una locura," crazy. The whole irrigation water thing is very complex: extra water for the land, as far as I can understand, is owned by individuals or societies and is bought and sold either with or without land. I want some - not that I'm going to irrigate anything, but it's a good thing to have; however, at 1,500 or 2,000 top whack, according to Pablo.

This evening, my neighbours Consuelo and Isa came round to look at the house and be friendly. They joked about having a glass of weak Lambrusco and how it would make them drunk, said I had to find Isa a "novio", boyfriend, and talked about the fiesta that's being held on Friday in the village; it is paid for by the Ayuntiamento and features a lady on an accordion and free drink. Absolutely, I will be there. They asked me to join the group of women that walks round the village at 8.30, chatting. Absolutely. I am very flattered. "That way, you'll learn a lot of Spanish," Consuelo said. She has already taught me something that evening: the teenage years are know as the "edad del pavo," the turkey years. Most suitable: at nearly 13, Alexander is just beginning to be a bit of a turkey.

Finally, the broadband man came up to day. Though Iberbanda is Spanish, it was an English guy that came up. He didnt even get out of the car to deliver his "no way, love," speech. Bugger - but later Sandy pointed out that if we go for 4 megs, we might get a big satellite and this could work. Not that I really care for me - I actually could go off the whole online thing and just read books, but Sandy is still suffering logistics stress, and if broadband makes him happy..

A little reflection

This is a big change from my old life, and it should be hard, but it isn't. Is this because it hasn't gone on long? Will I wake up one day and miss London Bridge station? Will I stop feeling happy just to be walking through Lubrin market with a trolley on wheels, shopping for tomatoes and chorizo? I can't imagine it ever wearing off, and if I could, I need only remind myself that my neighbours, who have always lived here, constantly say how good life is here. "It's a great life here," they all say: carpenters, builders, housewives, everybody. Who ever says that in the UK? Is the fact that they don't just the famous British understatement or irony - or do they mean it? In any case, they mean what they say here: it is good.

When we decided to come here, quite a few people said to me "oh, you're brave." Not really: I don't miss commuting under grey skies at all and doing what you want isn't brave. Anyway, I do feel scared, constantly. I was scared about the ITV test, scared about the flipping broadband. I'm a bit scared of driving to Madrid, but I'll still do it. I think I read somewhere that people mean by "brave" is not that you feel less scared, but that you are prepared to act rather than not act despite being scared and I suppose this is true.

Some things don't scare me: like ghosts. Consuelo said she was too scared to be on her own in the house, but I feel completely safe in this old farmhouse, in this remote village. The noises outside, whatever they are, are part of the landscape. What frightens me is newspapers and their terrible stories, depression and bad weather, and not Cheeky 2 barking at the old boar trundling through the olive trees, when it is pitch dark outside.