Here in Spain, the economy is booming and unemployment and inflation are both down. Times, in short, are good. Nonetheless, the government and the opposition are in perennial conflict mode and their respective mouthpieces, El Pais and El Mundo, are at each other’s editorial throats. Imagine how things would be if times were bad.

Spanish friends told me of a film based on Gerald Brenan’s South from Granada, called - naturally enough - Al Sur de Granada. According to reviews on the IMDB, it’s the tale of a steamy romance between Brenan and his cleaner’s young daughter, Ángeles. The main protagonists apparently spend most of their time full-frontally nude. Or the females at least. This is a little odd as there isn’t a single word of love, let alone sex, in the book itself. In fact, Brenan’s cleaner is mentioned maybe twice and her daughter never. But the director is Spanish and so lots of nudity and sex were obligatory, I guess. Strangely, though, he seems to have missed the opportunity to portray the guided tour Brenan was given of the seedy brothels of Almería. Which is a tad ironic.

My latest compilation of 3 year’s blogs relates to GALICIA & PONTEVEDRA and, given the number of posts, will have to come in three parts. So here's Part 1, covering 2003/4.

2003-4

Hats off to the students at Vigo University. They have been fingered by the police as the most prolific downloaders of songs and films from the internet. As if this wasn’t enough, they have hacked into the university’s computer to do it. It fair makes one proud of our local talent.


This weekend the national fox-hunting championships will be held in the hills near here. More than 600 hunters are expected to arrive and my guess is that the number of saboteurs will be well below the 3.18% level. This is because the chances of them surviving the weekend would be less than those of a passing fox. A different world.

Meanwhile, it seems I gave too much credit to our local lads yesterday. The hackers [or los hackers, if you prefer] who used Vigo university’s massive computer to download films in only a matter of minutes actually lived in six cities around Spain.


Down in the very centre of the old quarter of Pontevedra there is a small grocery shop-cum-bar. By this I mean that behind the counter is the entrance to what must be the most decrepit bar in Galicia, if not Spain. The clientele would be truly frightening if it weren’t for the fact that they are clearly permanently incapacitated by one chemical substance or another. The owner is an old dowager whom my English neighbour – with some justification - thinks is an uglier version of Mrs Thatcher. She is followed around by a spaniel of a son of about 35, who may well be one prawn short of a paella. If they think you are important, they put a sheet of newspaper on the table in your honour. Other than an urge to immerse yourself in Dickensian England, the sole reason for braving this place is to partake of the raisin wine this odd couple serve from filthy barrels. Contrary to all expectations, this sweet concoction is truly delicious and seems to have an alcoholic content closer to whisky than grape wine. Despite this, they virtually give it away. In every sense a knockout. It doesn’t take long to forget about the décor. Or, indeed, everything.


I read that the men in La Coruña are reputed to have the best sperm in the world, howsoever this is defined. It must be the sea breeze. Or gale, to be more accurate.


I was taken today by a lady from an estate agent’s office to see a house in the hills. Not only did she not know where the house was, she couldn’t even find the village. Armed with a good map, I finally got us there. Fortunately, the passing village idiot knew which house was for sale. It wasn’t the one the lady had pointed out to me.


There were 50cm of hailstones in Sevilla one day this week. Up here in rainy Galicia, we have had constant sun and record highs. So, global warming for us and global freezing for them. A cosmic joke.


Having mentioned surly funcionarios last time, I should report that my daughter was given a ticket yesterday for parking her car on a pavement opposite my house that is never used. The reason it is never used is that it is completely blocked by not just one but three huge rubbish skips placed there by the same local council whose police issued the fine. And these fine men, you will recall, are led by a chap who has a habit of crashing into the back of other cars whilst under the influence. We are not confident of a successful appeal.


Another car in the forest this morning, this time occupied [as far as I could tell out of the corner of my eye] by two young men. One of these seemed to have a layer of tin foil on his lap. Useful in the smoking of heroin, I’m told. Then again it might have been the wrapping for his sandwiches. Judging from the quantity of discarded foil, quite a lot of sandwich-eating must be taking place in the forest. At all hours of the day and night.


I have discovered that my local council included a direct debit form in the glossy brochure about the upcoming fiesta activities. That’s how seriously they take these things. No such option is available for the annual household taxes. Thank God everything is in Galician and I can’t understand it.


Here in Spain summer starts today. And so, after weeks and weeks of sun, it is raining. And the temperature has dropped 10 degrees from its high of 32. I might just as well be in the UK. Well, not really; it’s only 17 there.

There seems to be a growing craze up here in Galicia for customising [or tuning] your car. Given that this is usually done by what would in the UK be called yokels, mere words could not do justice to the results. So I have decided to snap as many of these as I can – along with their proud owners [known as morulos here] – and post them on my web page.


Sipping albariño wine with my daughter and friends in one of the town squares at 2.15 this morning – quite early by Spanish Friday night standards – we were accosted by the world’s worst accordion player and his young apprentice. I have never been so pleased [or quick] to part with every piece of loose change in my pockets, despite the fear that he might think we wanted to finance an encore.


We had a lot of fires in the mountain forests last week, when the temperatures and the winds were both high. Most of these, it was reported, had been started deliberately. And at night, when the water-laden helicopters can’t reach them. It was disturbing to read today that the main suspects are ecologists who resent the replacement of oaks and chestnuts by fast-growing pines and eucalyptus. Easy to sympathise with their views but not their protest methods.


Last year, my neighbours to the right built the world’s largest and ugliest bar-b-q in their garden. This year, my neighbours to the left are responding to this provocation with the world’s ugliest above-ground swimming pool. The three gentlemen who are erecting it have been at it for a week now and, judging from the endless huddles, ‘discussions’ and referrals to the manual, I would hazard a guess that this is the first time they have tried this exercise. As the pool is quite large [10m by 6m and 3m deep], I have a vision of the whole Fred Karno thing collapsing and sending tons of chlorinated water into the communal gardens below. At least this might persuade the moles to move on.

Incidentally, the bar-b-q neighbours used it once before separating and then selling the house. One wonders if they debated to have a child to save the marriage but compromised on the bar-b-q.


What a difference a day makes. If you try to get into Pontevedra at 1pm on a sunny Saturday, you have to drive across the frustrated path of belligerent millions who are striving to get out, en route to the beaches that dot our magnificent ria. Or fjord, to you. But at exactly the same time on a sunny Sunday, you are the only person on the road. This is because Sunday midday is family lunch time. Nobody but pathetic loners goes to the beach at this time. Or anywhere else, for that matter. It is a great time for everything in Spain.


Visits to Galicia rose 22 per cent in the first five months of this year. I put this down to the lure of my web page [colindavies.net] and not, as some cynics would, to the fact that it is customary, in Holy Years such as this, to double the time off from Purgatory that is one’s reward for doing the pilgrimage to Santiago.


I’ve reported previously that the literal translation of Pontevedra’s tourism theme for this year is ‘Pontevedra – A Round City’. I speculated that this cryptic phrase meant ‘rounded’ in the sense that it had many things to offer. And this has now been confirmed by the Director of Tourism, who helpfully added that, when seen from the air, Pontevedra is a round conurbation. And that a football is round and Pontevedra have just won promotion. I am left wondering whose mother, sister, daughter and/or aunt she is.


With Spain out of the European Cup, it’s hardly surprising that attention has reverted to the local Pontevedra team. Especially as last weekend they were playing the decider for promotion into the Second Division. I watched the first half but – out of boredom - switched off at half-time. This was a shame as Pontevedra scored three goals in the second half and it was something [or would have been] to see both crowd and players become delirious with joy once victory and promotion were in the bag. Unfortunately, this happened three minutes before the end of the game, when the ref. blew for a foul. Anyway, I did get to see the antics that centred on the much-delayed capture of a purple-painted rabbit that was released onto the pitch during the first half. Sadly, though, I missed a reprise with a large, flightless bird that was pursued around the pitch during the second half. The local paper said this had been a cockerel but, on the TV, it looked more like a pheasant to me. And so it turned out to have been. Never trust the press.

The Pontevedra team is sponsored by a local wood-processing factory, whose acronym features in large letters on their shirts. But they have a different sponsor on their shorts and socks. The logo of this company appears to be series of three sharp mountain peaks and this is imprinted on the players’ backsides. Surrealistically, the desperate-for-cash local TV station spends a good deal of time focusing on the players’ rear ends but, as yet, I have been unable to figure out what the company does. Manufactures haemorrhoid cream perhaps.


You may have missed the media reports but the Celtic Nautical Games are being held along our coast this week. Participants include Wales, Ireland, Galicia, Brittany, North Portugal and those international maritime giants, Cornwall and the Isle of Man. In addition, invitations have been extended to honorary Celts from Cantabria, the Basque country and the Canary Islands. The big event, apparently, is Painting Your Face Red And Swimming Away from Italians Pretending to be Murderous Invading Romans.


Summer has brought to Pontevedra both more British tourists and more beggars than I can recall from previous years. The most impressively organised of the latter are the gangs of Rumanian women who sidle up with a child in arms, whining that they have several children and no money with which to buy milk for them. Given that the women are invariably well-dressed, amply-fed and carrying babies who are at least plump, it is hard to credit that anyone could believe this rubbish. But some must as it is clearly a profitable business. And well-managed, too. For this year the gang bosses have recruited a far younger and prettier crew than ever before. And, if I and my web site are to blame for some of the Brits, it seems that the Spanish king is responsible for bringing the Rumanians here in droves. During a recent state visit, he positively implored them to come to Spain now that they are fellow members of the EC. Though I doubt that he really meant as mendicants.


This being the first Saturday in August, it is the big fiesta day in Pontevedra – Feast of the Virgin Pilgrim – and the start of 3 or 4 weeks of non-stop partying in town. The local paper provided a huge supplement on the Fiesta today. Two things in particular caught my attention. The first was an article from the President of the Brotherhood of the Virgin Pilgrim, calling on us to bear in mind the religious element of the festivities. And the second was an article on the people of Porto Santo – on the outskirts of town – who insist that Christopher Columbus was born there. Two groups of people living in cloud-cuckoo-land perhaps. The nice headline on the Columbus article was “It’s hard to prove the great explorer was born in Genoa”. Or Manchester, I imagine. But not Porto Santo, apparently.


Something is quite definitely going on. Apart from the unprecedented [preliminary] booking of the town’s elite for parking offences a couple of nights ago, I have seen the police swarming all over town in the last few days, booking everything in sight. And, to cap it all, I have this morning received notice of a second offence. This refers to an event of three[!] months ago when I am alleged, on a spot 14km out of town, to have ‘parked in such away as to prevent the best use of the remaining space’. Given that I have railed more times than I ought to have done about this widespread, inconsiderate Spanish practice, this would be more than ironic, if it were true. But how can we possibly know? I never received any sort of ticket at the time and, anyway, the offence is so widely defined that anyone and everyone would be guilty of it at any and every time. A more blatant example of revenue gathering I have yet to see. I suppose someone has to pay for the ever-improving fiesta fireworks but I shall take myself down to the police station tomorrow and at least demand sight of the copy of the parking ticket that should have been issued to me 3 months ago. If it exists, I shall take it from there, with minimal expectation of equity. It’s at times like this that one has to remind oneself of the numerous good things about life in Spain and tell oneself that the balance is overwhelmingly positive. If only one would listen!


The town newspaper has printed the results of its survey on the quality of this year’s fiesta. 44 per cent say the events are very good and an equal percentage say they are very poor. Manoel has pointed out to me that, since these cancel each other out, they together reflect the notorious Galician habit of evasively declining to give a view on anything. Except on how one has parked, of course.


When I walk my dog in the forest each morning, I often meet an old chap who has taken it upon himself to water the young oak saplings that the local council nobly planted three years ago. The funny thing is that, if I greet him in Castellano, he answers me in Gallego. But, if I greet him in Gallego, he answers me in Castellano. I suppose Manoel would say that he is a typically perverse Galician. But, even if he is, he’s doing a wonderful job with the saplings. Incidentally, these have hardly grown at all in three years. At least not above ground. Whereas the ubiquitous eucalyptus and mimosa trees have rocketed skywards in the same period. No wonder the local wood processing companies have done for many of the oak forests of Galicia. It’s just as well that there’s unlikely to be a call for another Armada. Can’t see the eucalyptus trees being up to the job.


Well, this is the 12th day of August and up here in Galicia we’ve hardly seen the sun since the start of the month. In fact, more rain has fallen in the last 3 days than in the whole of June and July combined. And the big annual fiesta has been a complete washout. So, if you are reading this somewhere in Galicia because of anything I said on my web site, then I apologise. But it is not really my fault. Apparently – along with the UK and France – western and northern Spain are being hit by the tail end of some tropical storm which has wandered east from the Caribbean. As you will know, these are given human names and I think this one is called ‘Bastard’. Or it is in this house, anyway.


In the first half of August, we had more than double the normal rainfall for the whole month – the most for 30 years. It makes one almost nostalgic to read of the terrible forest fires of June and July. Especially as it is still bloody raining.


The local police have announced the arrest of a 57 year-old man who is alleged to be the pyromaniac responsible for around 50 of the forest fires of earlier this year. One problem is catching such people, say the police, is the reluctance of villagers to give information about something they don’t regard as much of a crime. I suppose that, if a fire devoured their house and a couple of kids, they might take a different view. Though perhaps not, if it were only a spouse.


This was the weekend of the great return from summer vacations and the town was gloriously empty when I went down for lunch. In fact, the only stupid prat with a camera was me. Perhaps it was my tourist disguise that motivated the waiter to give me change from a 10 Euro note and not from the 20 Euro note I had actually given him. I decided to take this up with him but not the [diversionary?] fact that he had failed to charge me for my glass of wine. In other circumstances, I would have of course.


There is a Turismo office in the centre of Pontevedra. I’ve never thought about this until today but it must be part of a national network. This thought arose from a quest for a copy of a particular leaflet. At the Turismo office I was told that that they didn’t have one as it was issued by the town council. At the town hall they [naturally] said they knew nothing of the leaflet and told me to try the Turismo office. But I persisted and, down in the bowels of the building, was advised that I could get a copy from a wooden kiosk opposite the town hall. So, hard as it is to believe, this shack must be in competition with the Turismo office.

Back to tourism in Pontevedra – the young lady who womans the council’s kiosk was interviewed in a local paper today and asked who the most exotic tourists had been this year. She cited Australians and New Zealanders. Not the adjective most Brits would come up with, I suspect. Especially in Earls Court.


Perhaps it is a fashion of which I am unaware, but last year Ethiopian babies were the most favoured for adoption by Galician couples, followed by Colombians and Chinese. Nationally, Russian and Chinese babies head the list, followed by Ukrainian and then – a long way behind – a ragbag of others. Try as I might, I can’t think of a link between Galicia and Ethiopia. Perhaps one of the religious orders has an orphanage there.


There was a dead dog on the pavement outside the supermarket entrance this morning. A great Dane, of all things. What made this even stranger was that I had just passed a dead Siamese cat on the grass verge, a couple of hundred metres away. A bizarre suicide pact, if ever there was one.


Yet another request for directions today. But, given that the couple in question asked me to direct them to the street they were already in, I guess we can be forgiven for concluding that their level of awareness is not of the highest order. Or perhaps it was the fact that I was carrying an umbrella even though the sun was shining that convinced them I was a super-aware local.


When I got back from town yesterday evening, I noticed that there was a warning triangle in the road, advising of a large crane working a few doors down. When I went out two hours later, someone had driven over it. Which is exactly what happened to me the first and last time I put mine in the road. Perhaps it’s a local sport no one has told me about.


In a report about what preoccupies Galicians, 42% of people in Pontevedra and 48% of people in Vigo felt most worried about Urban Traffic, Transport and Parking. Figures were similar for all other cities in Galicia, apart from Ferrol. Here, the percentage of people concerned about these things was a whopping zero. Top of their list of things to worry about, at 65%, was unemployment. I guess we can conclude from this that, if you are lucky enough to have one of the few jobs in Ferrol, you don’t have too much trouble getting around in your car or in parking it when you have finished touring the empty streets. Bit of a come-down for Franco’s birthplace.


There aren't many traffic jams in Pontevedra midday on Sundays but I found myself in one yesterday. It was five minutes before I and a couple of other drivers realised it was being caused by someone who had decided to stop to watch a building being demolished but couldn't be bothered to park. We were not happy.


Tired of Monopoly and Scrabble? Then go to the web site of the Diario de Pontevedra and send off for your free copy of Talismanes, a new board game centred on the challenge of getting from France or Portugal to the shrine of St. James the Moor Killer in Santiago de Compostela, here in Galicia. Not a big hit in the shops, I guess.


An impressive new begging scam this week. As I was loading groceries into my car at the supermarket, I was approached by an unusually silent young woman, who sorrowfully inclined her head towards a clipboard containing a list of donations to the Spanish Deaf and Dumb Association. As I put my hand into my pocket, the cynical section of my brain moved into gear and told me that the logo was shoddy; that the woman looked far more Eastern European than Spanish; and, finally, how clever it would be to disguise the fact you can’t speak the local language by pretending to be deaf and dumb. So I told her - rather pointlessly, I suppose - that I had no change and then watched as she and a companion evaporated through the exit on the approach of the security guard.


My picture appeared in the Diario de Pontevedra yesterday, as a member of the English Speaking Society. Gratifyingly, the staff in my favourite café clearly thought this accorded me minor celebrity status. Just wait until I get my weekly column!


I’ve just happened upon a blog entry of June 2003 about a couple of central heating engineers who had been up on my roof, checking why there was no draw in my boiler exhaust pipe. They said they would refer their findings to the main office in Barcelona, who would come back to me. Sixteen months on, and with winter again approaching, I am wondering whether I should give them a prompt.


Thousands of tons of clear crystal water fell on Pontevedra this morning. Which is a bit ironic as the stuff coming out of my taps is filthy brown. Since it’s a holiday weekend, this may continue until Tuesday so I have put pans out in the garden to catch a small fraction of the next deluge. Needless to say, the afternoon has been sunny so far.


After 3 years or so of virtually daily attendance, I have suddenly been accorded double rations status at my favourite café. What this means is that I get two helpings of tapas with my glass of wine. Effectively, I get my lunch for the price of a glass of Albariño. This, of course, is wonderful but quite what triggered the development I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s true that I’m a good tipper – by Spanish standards excellent – but I have been for a long time. Perhaps it’s an example of the renowned Galician conservatism. Or maybe my accumulated tips passed the tipping point this week.


I collected just 300ml of rainwater on Saturday night [one mugful] but the weather has been stunningly sunny since then. And the tap water is still brown. Perhaps something will be done tomorrow, when consideration turns from the dead back to the living.


99.5% of applications for firearms in Pontevedra were approved last year. These included 411 people who said they wanted them for personal defence, compared with 5,400 who cited hunting purposes. These figures would be inconceivable in today’s UK, especially the former, as no one is allowed to go in for self defence with a pencil, never mind a rifle. Yet, strangely, gun crime is unknown in Pontevedra, whereas it’s rising rapidly in the UK.


If any of you are thinking of doing the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, you might like to know that, if you walk all the way from Roncesvalles, it will consume 100,000 kilocalories. The same amount of energy as expended in childbirth, apparently. There’s an image.


Pontevedra’s dogs range from Irish Wolfhounds, Huskies and Samoyeds right down to repulsive creatures smaller than an average cat. But the most popular breed is clearly the Boxer. Apart from thoughtless emulation, I can only imagine that this is because they have one of the shortest canine life spans.


At the flea market in Vegetables Square today, we had the novelty of a stall manned by a couple up from Valenca in Portugal. It was good to see that that our neighbours can more than hold their own when it comes to peddling complete tat.


Buoyed by yesterday’s success of my team, Everton, against their biggest rivals, Liverpool, I thought I’d attend my first match of Pontevedra FC today. These local heroes were promoted to the 2nd Division at the end of last season but, after a string of home defeats, are now firmly in the relegation zone. I thought I might bring them some better luck, especially as their opponents were the team below them. The first thing I noticed at the ground was that the pitch wasn’t surrounded by dozens of stewards sitting with their backs to the game, watching for crowd trouble. The second thing I noticed was that the game kicked off five minutes before the scheduled time of 5pm. Anyway, after a dire first half, Pontevedra finally began to resemble a team which might score but, sadly, couldn’t quite manage it. Two minutes into injury time, the visitors got a corner and you know the rest. So much for me as a talisman. As the despondent supporters left the ground, they assisted the cleaning staff by depositing their seat cushions en masse on the pitch and then moved on to giving some friendly advice to the team manager as to where he might seek his next job.


There’s a new bar-restaurant in the old quarter which looks like a French bistro but serves Guinness. This gives it the right to call itself Donegal’s Irish Cavern even though it couldn’t look less like one. But I suppose this means it can quickly re-brand itself in line with the next fad when all things Irish cease to be fashionable. Wales this time?


Six solid weeks of sun came to an abrupt end yesterday, with the departure of a persistent anticyclone for its Christmas holidays. Most of us will regret its passing but not, I guess, the dowagers of the town who have sweltered through the last two weeks in the statutory fur coats of December. I imagine they will be swarming through the streets and cafés after Mass tomorrow, smug with seasonal satisfaction.