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Pete and Jan in Andalucia, Two
Aug. 21st, 2008 08:13 pmSATURDAY:
One of the first sights to greet me on Saturday morning as I walked into the front room (my first Saurday without an FT in about 14 years, I reckoned) was that of a peacock staring at me through the French windows. Hmm, I said to myself, that's not something you come across that often in Lewisham. We had been told of the presence of this bird, so it wasn’t a great shock. Percy the Peacock was to become quite a companion for a couple of days.
Slobbing around, we munched on some of the food bought Friday night. Chocolate biscuits do not suit Spain. They merge into a soggy solid inseparable mass. Lots of swimming, reading, etc.
In the evening we went for a meal in Jimena Frontera, the old town on the hill. Driving in these places is for masochists only. We eventually reached a hill sufficiently steep for Jan to refuse to drive up it. She then encountered a temporary but potentially inconvenient inability to find reverse. Hopeless as I may be at driving cars, I’m not that bad at parking them. And, useless as I may be in the car with the gearbox from hell in driving forwards, my reversing was top notch. So I parked it for her.
The restaurant was not crowded, and the waiter was friendly. The weakness of the pound compared with the euro makes the attributes “cheap” and “expensive” rather harder to apply at the moment. But I felt that the meal was a fraction overpriced at E41.50 for two, before tip. Then again, that’s tourist areas for you.
Jimena de la Frontera clearly attracts a large number of British holidaymakers and an equally large number of expats. The description “Dordogne by Africa” wouldn’t be inaccurate. Mainly middle-class, middle aged people, who have tried to get away from the “commercial” Spain where “all the Brits” retire, only to create their own different little England inland.
Driving back, I managed to stall the car on a railway line. Yes, driving in Spain with me could never be described as dull. The problem that I have with the Seat Ibiza gearbox (well, one of the problems) is that it’s so easy to find fifth when you want to be in third (or, indeed, on one occasion, first). Jan said that if I’d listened to her and ordered an automatc... But, well, as a rule, I prefer manual transmission. It’s just nice to have one which has power ratios that come from somewhere other than the planet Zog. A Seat Ibiza Diesel does not need five gears. Indeed, I’m not sure that it needs four. But, everything has five gears these days (at least, the MR2, I hear, has six), so what you end up with is a fifth gear that will stall the car if you are going less then 30mph and will stall the car if you are attempting to climb an incline of more than 1 in 100. Oh, and the rather rocky road up to the villa causes the car to stall in second gear. I know this not because I tried it (I was pessimistic enough about the interplanetary gearbox to keep it solidly in first gear up that particular minefield) but because Jan did, later in the week.
I owned a Volkswagen Beetle once. I reckon that the Beetle could have negotiated the hill to the villa in third, stopping off for a cigarette half way up.
The house is fantastically situated, with gorgeous views, bar the fact that we are 100 yards uphill from a functioning farm and silage plant. And the water supply, both hot and cold, could most kindly be described as temperamental. Luckily it doesn’t matter too much if the hot water goes off (which, we were to find out as the week progressed, it did, with monotonous regularity – I suspect that all four houses up the hill use the same hot water supply. The house above us has three teenage visitors; I need to shower and shave by 7/.30am to get to the early morning hot water supply before they do) but when the cold water cuts out, that’s a mite irritating. Particularly if, as happened to Jan once before we drove into town, you have your hair full of shampoo.
Sunday:
“So, how long do you think it will take to get to Ronda?” asked Jan.
“Oooh”, replied I, glancing askance at the map, “shouldn’t be much over an hour and ten minutes”.
I had failed to allow for two, fortunately at least partially counterbalancing, factors.
1) Jan drives faster than I do,
2) Driving to Ronda entailed ascending a mountain a fraction higher than Ben Nevis.
It was when we got to 900 metres in altitude and my ears popped (they were to do so once again at 1,400 metres) that I realized my 1hr 10 minutes assessment was going to be woefully inadequate. We must have driven at least 20 miles without getting out of third. And this, remember, is the gearbox from hell, as well as a diesel engine.
( more holiday tales )
One of the first sights to greet me on Saturday morning as I walked into the front room (my first Saurday without an FT in about 14 years, I reckoned) was that of a peacock staring at me through the French windows. Hmm, I said to myself, that's not something you come across that often in Lewisham. We had been told of the presence of this bird, so it wasn’t a great shock. Percy the Peacock was to become quite a companion for a couple of days.
Slobbing around, we munched on some of the food bought Friday night. Chocolate biscuits do not suit Spain. They merge into a soggy solid inseparable mass. Lots of swimming, reading, etc.
In the evening we went for a meal in Jimena Frontera, the old town on the hill. Driving in these places is for masochists only. We eventually reached a hill sufficiently steep for Jan to refuse to drive up it. She then encountered a temporary but potentially inconvenient inability to find reverse. Hopeless as I may be at driving cars, I’m not that bad at parking them. And, useless as I may be in the car with the gearbox from hell in driving forwards, my reversing was top notch. So I parked it for her.
The restaurant was not crowded, and the waiter was friendly. The weakness of the pound compared with the euro makes the attributes “cheap” and “expensive” rather harder to apply at the moment. But I felt that the meal was a fraction overpriced at E41.50 for two, before tip. Then again, that’s tourist areas for you.
Jimena de la Frontera clearly attracts a large number of British holidaymakers and an equally large number of expats. The description “Dordogne by Africa” wouldn’t be inaccurate. Mainly middle-class, middle aged people, who have tried to get away from the “commercial” Spain where “all the Brits” retire, only to create their own different little England inland.
Driving back, I managed to stall the car on a railway line. Yes, driving in Spain with me could never be described as dull. The problem that I have with the Seat Ibiza gearbox (well, one of the problems) is that it’s so easy to find fifth when you want to be in third (or, indeed, on one occasion, first). Jan said that if I’d listened to her and ordered an automatc... But, well, as a rule, I prefer manual transmission. It’s just nice to have one which has power ratios that come from somewhere other than the planet Zog. A Seat Ibiza Diesel does not need five gears. Indeed, I’m not sure that it needs four. But, everything has five gears these days (at least, the MR2, I hear, has six), so what you end up with is a fifth gear that will stall the car if you are going less then 30mph and will stall the car if you are attempting to climb an incline of more than 1 in 100. Oh, and the rather rocky road up to the villa causes the car to stall in second gear. I know this not because I tried it (I was pessimistic enough about the interplanetary gearbox to keep it solidly in first gear up that particular minefield) but because Jan did, later in the week.
I owned a Volkswagen Beetle once. I reckon that the Beetle could have negotiated the hill to the villa in third, stopping off for a cigarette half way up.
The house is fantastically situated, with gorgeous views, bar the fact that we are 100 yards uphill from a functioning farm and silage plant. And the water supply, both hot and cold, could most kindly be described as temperamental. Luckily it doesn’t matter too much if the hot water goes off (which, we were to find out as the week progressed, it did, with monotonous regularity – I suspect that all four houses up the hill use the same hot water supply. The house above us has three teenage visitors; I need to shower and shave by 7/.30am to get to the early morning hot water supply before they do) but when the cold water cuts out, that’s a mite irritating. Particularly if, as happened to Jan once before we drove into town, you have your hair full of shampoo.
Sunday:
“So, how long do you think it will take to get to Ronda?” asked Jan.
“Oooh”, replied I, glancing askance at the map, “shouldn’t be much over an hour and ten minutes”.
I had failed to allow for two, fortunately at least partially counterbalancing, factors.
1) Jan drives faster than I do,
2) Driving to Ronda entailed ascending a mountain a fraction higher than Ben Nevis.
It was when we got to 900 metres in altitude and my ears popped (they were to do so once again at 1,400 metres) that I realized my 1hr 10 minutes assessment was going to be woefully inadequate. We must have driven at least 20 miles without getting out of third. And this, remember, is the gearbox from hell, as well as a diesel engine.
( more holiday tales )
