Notes from Spain – raindancer required!

Here on the Costa Blanca we’re aware that there appears to be a water shortage. We’ve not seen or heard any official pronouncements about a ‘hosepipe ban’, however. 

Normally, we’re very impressed with how the water system is managed, considering the long hot months, the vast numbers of occupants of holiday hotels and homes, and the widespread agriculture in the area.

On very rare occasions, we find the water pressure has been reduced; at these times some householders higher up the hill tend to get no water. These restrictions are limited to a few hours at most.

Swimming pools can still be filled, and gardens are still watered – even the community gardens.

I don’t water the garden often, as the plants are well established with deep roots – oleander, bougainvillaea and roses mostly. The dish-washing bowl is emptied on plants in rotation, as is the receptacle from the air-conditioning outlet.

This year seems to be especially serious, the Alicante province having recorded the worst drought in 25 years, the lack of rainfall virtually half that of previous years. This inadequate rainfall has been noticeable since 2013. Forecasters don’t see any change for some time. The level of the La pedrera reservoir not far away has dropped, though it isn’t as bad as some places in Spain.

La pedrera reservoir

The effects are felt more inland, which affects agricultural communities, which rely solely on aquifers, whose reserves are constantly dwindling. The coast near us has alternative supplies, water transfers from the north or desalination plants. We’re also near the River Segura, which is diverted to countless irrigation canals. (A few years back, a hapless driver ended up in one of these canals; it cost him his life). Mountains are not far off, the plains sloping to the sea being highly fertile, with crops seeming to be constantly planted and harvested by hard-working farmers.

However, when it rains here, boy, does it rain! Torrential; the streets tend to flood very quickly. This is the main reason why the pavements have unusually high kerbstones, to channel the rain-water.

Reminiscences - Ceremonial divisions in the rain

Back in 1969, during training in the Royal Navy. Jargon was everywhere. Certain groups of individuals belonged to Divisions; and to compound matters, Divisions also referred to the mustering in those groups on the parade ground. The entire collection of divisions or groups on the parade ground were referred to as Parade. I hope that’s clear…

Rain - Smithsonian/Wikipedia commons

Normally, if there is likely to be inclement weather, the parade is mustered in a drill shed for ‘wet weather routine’. However, on this particular day of insistent rain, due to the fact that it was Tuesday – Ceremonial Divisions day – the omnipotent officers decided to proceed as usual, with the Parade dressed in gabardines. Beneath our rain-proofs we wore our best uniforms. 

Parade got wet.

As we stood there, at ease, then ho!, at close order, the open order, at wet ease again, dribbles of rain drooled annoyingly off our cap brims onto our collars. Meanwhile, our Divisional Officer stood in his Number One uniform, including sword, without benefit of a gabardine. Presently, a rating crossed the parade ground at the rush and handed an oilskin to a neighbouring D.O.

An order was given: ‘Parade – up collars!’ Of course, by now, our collars were soaking; if our necks had been even slightly dry and warm, now they were wet and cold, and most uncomfortable.

During the intervals between orders, I listened to the sibilant patter of rain. It ricocheted off the parade ground like enemy fire; we appeared like toy soldiers, or rather wet toy sailors (or perhaps more aptly, penguins).

When the order ‘Paray-d will march past, into threes, right turn!’ was given, a husky growl of ‘Oh, for f***’s sake’ issued from the rear of our class, sounding very much like our Petty Officer Bishop. He was a tough taskmaster, but he clearly felt for his lads.

As ordered, we marched past the Commanding Officer, Commander et al, and our trousers were spattered with mud and drenched through and through.

As we marched in that rain, I felt oddly stimulated by it. Perhaps the act of marching got the blood flowing, warming the body? Anyway, there were no lasting effects, save that the uniform required laundering, and it was quite an experience, never repeated. Minor natural adversity, perhaps, but it was strangely exhilarating. Wet but exhilarating.

[These reminiscences were written at the time, 1969. Now, I doubt if ‘exhilarating’ would be appropriate!]

Next – The Polka-dot Parade

 

 

Going South-2 - Going South To The Costa Blanca-2003

Yesterday, I offered a shortened article about our emigration from the UK to Spain December 2003. At landfall, we’d driven off the P&O Portsmouth-Spain ferry the Pride of Bilbao and headed out of the port area, Jen navigating from the AA route planner obtained off the Internet plus the Michelin map. 

Bilbao is dominated by the green slopes of the surrounding mountains, even beyond the high-rise buildings.  The city’s busy reinventing itself, its steel mills and shipyards being transformed into conference centres and luxury flats, and of course there’s the famous Guggenheim Museum (opened in 1997 and featured in the Bond movie The World is Not Enough) which has generated a tourism boom.  The city celebrated its 700^th anniversary and is worthy of an article in its own right.  We drove round the edge of sprawling Bilbao as the dark receded.

It’s strange how quickly you adapt to driving on the other side of the road – even with a right-hand drive car.  Reading the smaller numbers on the speedometer’s kph dial soon became second-nature.  We had no intention of falling foul of speed restrictions here – though there were very few speed cameras in evidence.

It was overcast and dull.  Not surprising, really, as the north of Spain gets more than its fair share of rain and is green most of the year as a result.  One motorway sign we came across was of a raining cloud and a ‘100’ kph limit – warning motorists to reduce speed from the standard 120 on this section when it rains.  As we climbed into the surrounding mountains it did start to rain.  Another motorway sign showed a huge snowflake, warning of possible snow.  We saw two snow-ploughs driving up an adjacent road.  (Less than four days later this journey would have been through heavy snow, these selfsame ploughs working overtime to keep roads clear).

We turned onto the A68 or E80 – many roads have a European number as well as a national one. 

The only toll booth we encountered in our 530-mile drive south was at Junction 3 where we picked up an entry ticket and would be charged further south.  We now met mist and low-lying cloud.  Our daughter Hannah rang on the mobile so we gave her a weather report as we drove through fog.  A ten minute stop at a service area exotically named Area de Quintanapalla where we enjoyed tortilla and coffee. 

A few years ago some Eurocrat busybodies tried to get the enormous black Osborne bull-silhouette advertisements taken down; a sensible compromise was arrived at whereby the company name would be removed but the bulls could stay since they were synonymous with the image of Spain.  We passed the first of five of these bulls on the Burgos southern bypass signposted Valladolid, Madrid and the second on the approach to the N1, the end of the motorway, and paid the toll. 

 

Burgos was the home of El Cid in the eleventh century and was the base two centuries later for Fernando el Santo to reconquer Murcia, Cordoba and Seville.  Fernando started the building of Burgos’s cathedral, one of the greatest in all Spain.

Still keen to find the sunshine we’d promised it, our trusty car climbed to one of the highest points in the Puerto de Somosierra area – 1440 metres - and met sleet and snow.  One of the tapes we played was Placido Domingo, singing the American Hymn from East of Eden, and the words held a little significance for us both: ‘I dreamed of Eden all my life and now … where  ever I go across the land I stand so proudly in the sun and say “I am home”’ – though the sun still had to make an appearance!

 
Now we joined the toll-free motorway M40, the Madrid western bypass and followed the signs for the Aeropuerto – not that we were considering flying out through lack of sun or anything, just following directions … Essentially, this ring-road round Madrid was clear for us though vehicles travelling in the other direction were at a standstill, echoing our beloved M25 no doubt. 

Eventually we turned onto the A3 for Valencia – the Avenida Mediterraneo - for a short while, joining the A31 and stayed with this road for some 176 kilometres following the signs to Albacete.  From a psychological standpoint, you feel you’re covering a lot of ground as the kilometres rather than miles count down on the road-signs.

 
Now – at last! - the land was filled with sunshine, the ploughed fields a deep russet colour contrasting with the green trees and cultivated hills.  Rise after rise displayed modern wind turbines, graceful against the blue skyline, like small armies frozen in time while on the march.  Here you could imagine a modern-day Don Quixote tilting at these windmills.

After 275 miles we filled up with CEPSA petrol and soon afterwards sighted two more bulls. 

 

At about 3:50pm we joined the N301 until we hit Albacete – the fifth bull was sighted at the junction for Albacete.  Because our car was fully laden we didn’t stop, but this small city is worth a visit.  It was called Al-Basit – the plain – by the Moors but apart from a few old back-streets it’s a modern city.  The museum is renowned for its archeological and ethnographical collection, including five small Roman dolls perfectly sculpted and jointed and an array of local Roman mosaics.  Like Toledo, Albacete is famous for its high-quality knives, an industry that can be traced back to the Moors.

We passed under the hill-top fortress of Chinchilla de Monte Aragon but didn’t linger for the view as we still had over 150 kilometers to go.  A short run down the N430 then onto the N330 for seventy-five km and we were in familiar territory, the Alicante region and arrived at 6:30pm as dusk turned into night.  We’d covered some 815km in ten hours, with stops.  It was a lot easier unloading than loading the car.  We’d arrived at our temporary residence, a base from where we would seek a permanent home under Spanish skies.

And just a week later on Christmas Day we were sitting with friends on the roof under those clear blue skies eating a traditional turkey meal with all the trimmings. 

 

[Note: Not every Christmas lunch can be eaten out, sometimes it's just a bit too cold; the nights are cold too. But the skies are usually gloriously clear blue! Then, petrol was about 81 cents a litre, now it's 1 euro 41 cents!]