23rd November 2018

It seems to me that Christmas arrives earlier each year. In my opinion, decorations, music, adverts, and films about the 25th have no place in September, October, or November, or dare I say, even before the 20th of December! And as soon as the day is over, we are promptly reminded that there are only 364 shopping days left until next Christmas!

I do look forward to this magical day, and perhaps it’s an age thing, but when it finally arrives, it feels as though I’ve just run two marathons back to back, exhausted, unable to raise a smile, let alone a mince pie (which I don’t like). So, if I don’t manage to buy any cards or presents for my loved ones this year, I do hope they’ll understand that it’s not because I care for them any less, only that I’ve succumbed to sheer fatigue and am in desperate need of some sort of therapy (and not the retail kind).

One Saturday morning, our neighbours popped around to ask whether we’d been having trouble with our drains. Their toilets were filling up and refusing to flush, a rather tricky situation. They wanted to check the drain beside our kitchen to see if it was blocked.

We had noticed the occasional gurgling from the bath plughole in the downstairs bathroom, but nothing alarming, so I reluctantly lifted the drain cover. It was blocked, completely, full of our neighbours’ attempted flushings from the past week. They had already bought some drain rods that morning and tried to clear the blockage outside their house, but with no success. Now, with their rods inserted into our drain, they still failed to dislodge whatever was causing the obstruction.

Fetching my own set of rods, we attached them to the ones already in use, hoping the extra length might make a difference. Still, the brown sludge stubbornly refused to budge. Then I remembered another drain further up the drive, beneath a large Blue Spruce. With some difficulty, we lifted the cover, only to find it, too, was full to the brim with the offending secretion.

When we lowered the rods, I was surprised at the depth of the manhole, just over two metres! After some determined poking, the blockage finally gave way, and, to our great relief, everything quickly drained away with a satisfying gurgle, to only God knows where. And frankly, He is welcome to it.

On the negative side, despite a thorough wash, the smell on my hands lingered for days, no matter how many times I scrubbed them.

On 15th November, Jamie and I travelled to Fuengirola on the Costa del Sol. Jamie had spent the previous three days in London on BD business and didn’t return to Harborough until late on the 14th.

We flew from Birmingham with Jet2 on a mid-morning flight to Málaga. The 2.5-hour journey meant we arrived at 2 pm. From the airport, we took the train to Fuengirola, a fast, clean, and efficient mode of transport that puts the extortionate and unreliable British rail system to shame. The route is the same length as that from Harborough to Leicester, but a far more pleasant ride. At just €2.70, compared to the crowded £10+ fare on the Midland Mainline, there’s simply no comparison.

From the station, it was a 15-minute walk to our centrally located hotel, the Itaca. A comfortable place to stay, just a few minutes from the beach and its seemingly endless ribbon of bars, hotels, and restaurants stretching uninterrupted along the southern Spanish coast.

After checking in and approving our top-floor, sea-view room, we changed into shorts and T-shirts and headed straight to the first beach bar we came across. There, we had what turned out to be both the first and last authentic local meal of our stay in Fuengirola. I chose a plate of anchovies, while Jamie went for local prawns served with mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and tomatoes. It was a very satisfying meal.

Unfortunately, our choice of bars for the rest of the trip ensured that local cuisine was definitely off the menu. It’s well known that the Brits have taken over the Costa del Sol, and with them, they’ve exported their taste in food. British-run bars and restaurants dominate the area; authentic Spanish dining is, regrettably, hard to come by.

We strolled down the strip to the small harbour, packed with low- and mid-range yachts nestled alongside a few much larger trawlers, some undergoing repairs, others being unloaded of their catch.

Conspicuous as non-locals in our sunny attire, we stood out among the wrapped-up Spaniards and naturalised Brits, who clearly found the November air chillier than we did.

Before returning to our hotel, we picked a sports bar, aptly named The London Pub, as the venue for our evening meal and entertainment: the England v USA soccer match, with the added intrigue of Wayne Rooney making an appearance.

As planned, and mindful of the time difference, we were seated in front of the bar’s large screen at 9 pm, each with a curry and a pint of Spanish lager, washing down the UK’s supposedly national dish in fitting style. The game did not disappoint: a 3–0 victory for the good guys. Although Rooney had only a late cameo role, he still managed to display the skills that made him England’s all-time top goal scorer.

The bar was well populated with fellow countrymen, though there was a distinct lack of locals, perhaps licking their wounds in darkened rooms after Spain’s 3–2 defeat to Croatia earlier that evening (which we had watched in our hotel room).

Breakfast in the hotel the next morning was substantial and, unsurprisingly, catered perfectly to English tastes. Afterwards, we caught the train to Málaga Central, a 45-minute journey that cost just €14 for two return tickets.

From the station, we ambled downhill through the bustling streets of this compact city towards the harbour, taking in the many statues and festive displays along the way. Christmas comes early here, too. As we’ve observed in many of the countries we’ve visited, the local population is remarkably law-abiding when it comes to pedestrians. Glance across a road, and cars will stop. At pedestrian crossings, if the green man isn’t flashing, locals won’t cross, not even if there’s not a single vehicle visible from horizon to horizon. Yet every time Jamie and I exercised a bit of common sense and strode across, leaving a crowd of obedient Spaniards behind, we couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt; no doubt they tutted at the unruly foreigners.

The harbour had some prestigious visitors that day. The Costa Pacifica was in port, having discharged its cruisers into the city, some of whom we later encountered at the castle high above Málaga. But the real spectacle was Octopus, the £220 million superyacht with a permanent crew of 60. Once owned by Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen, it now belongs to his sister, Jody. Jamie was particularly inspired by the sight and sheer scale of the vessel, vowing to own one just like it one day. Personally, I preferred the Costa Pacifica.

The climb up to Málaga Castle was strenuous but well worth the effort. At just €7 for both of us, it was certainly a more cost-effective experience than Windsor Castle, though, to be fair, we weren’t subsidising any part-time royal residents here.

The panoramic views over the city and port were spectacular, and the castle’s extensive battlements provided plenty of opportunities for scrambling about. A must-visit for anyone in Málaga!

On our return to the city, we briefly admired the exterior of Málaga’s enormous cathedral before enjoying lunch in the sun at a charming restaurant in the city centre. One particular waiter provided plenty of entertainment, using a mix of lively patter and enthusiastic dance moves to lure in potential diners. He had some success, but when people ignored him and walked on, he seemed to relish the challenge; perhaps for him, the thrill was in the chase rather than the capture.

Returning to the bridge, we paused for a while to watch a group of canoeists skillfully playing a game of ‘pass the ball.’ It was impressive to see their control and coordination as they manoeuvred across the water.

With perfect timing, we arrived in front of a large screen just in time for the England v Japan rugby match. With proper English grub ordered and suitable refreshments in hand, we spent the rest of the afternoon cheering on the lads to a well-deserved (but tricky) win.

We returned to the hotel to change into long trousers in readiness for the evening’s entertainment. It may have been November, but as Jamie discovered on the first night, this is southern Spain, and the mosquitoes are still out in force, just as keen to bite as they are in the height of summer. After ordering a 4 am taxi to the airport from the front desk, we headed back to our favourite beachside bar for the Portugal v Italy match, accompanied by more wholesome British fodder and suitable beverages. I can’t recall the score. I wasn’t that interested in the match, but Jamie was keen, and no doubt he does.

We did indeed catch our early taxi back to Málaga Airport. I would have preferred the much cheaper option of the train, but with the first service not running until 6.10 am and our flight departing at 7.15 am, it wasn’t a risk we could take. However, Jamie informed me that we were travelling in a top-of-the-range Mercedes (whatever that is), and I must admit, it made for a very comfortable journey.

The Ryanair flight left on time (why does Michael Kevin O’Leary insist on such ungodly departure hours?), and although I had planned to watch a few episodes on Netflix, I fell asleep and woke up as we began our descent into Birmingham. By midday, we were back in Harborough, enjoying a truly traditional British meal, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings, cooked by a very English lass, my Sue. By gum, it doesn’t get better than that!

On 20th November, Sarah dropped Mia off at Willow Bank before heading to work in Northampton. Mia spent the day with Peter and me, ambling through the chilly South Leicestershire countryside before enjoying our favourite lunch in Foxton. Meanwhile, Sue went shopping with Charlotte in the morning, followed by a U3A history group in the afternoon. Mia and I arrived home shortly before Sue returned, and it wasn’t long before Sarah appeared. She stayed for tea before accompanying Sue to Harborough Theatre for a performance of The Madness of King George III. Meanwhile, Mia and I curled up in front of the log burner and watched I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! on TV. Mia found the programme rather dull and soon drifted off to sleep, snoring loudly.

The 21st was another bitterly cold day; I couldn’t get warm at all on my morning bike ride, no matter how frantically I pedalled.

Later, Sue and I met Joan and Phil for lunch at the Sondes Arms in Rockingham. They had flown in from Italy at the weekend for their annual visit to relatives and friends, taking the opportunity to stock up on items that are difficult to obtain on the continent. The venue used to be a regular Tuesday haunt of ours until Charlotte slipped two discs last February, and we hadn’t eaten there since. The meal and the company were excellent. Both Joan and Phil looked well and appeared to be in good health, though they were quite concerned about my recent eye problem.

We presented them with a bottle from my experimental batch of red and pear wine to enjoy before they return to Italy at the weekend, fingers crossed on that one! They are worried about their situation with Brexit looming, and unsurprisingly, we share the same views on politicians. There seems to be little difference between them, no matter which country they claim to represent.

As a possible solution, Joan and Phil are contemplating a return to the UK, renting out their home in Santa Vittoria and finding private accommodation in the Harborough area. In preparation, they have already visited an estate agent to explore rental costs. With a bit of luck, things will be much clearer by next March, helping them decide whether such a move is necessary, fingers crossed on that one, too!

If all goes well, we’re hoping to meet up with them again in the spring.