Blog No. 9
Wednesday, February 11, 2009 at 12:49AM Hello everybody I’m back from my holidays now and I’m sorry to leave you unblogged for so long. I’ll write something more original in a day or too but for the moment, just to give you a flavour of what my holidays were like I’ll reprint an article I wrote for the Sunday Times and which was published a couple of weeks ago about owning a second home in Spain.
Just before I do that, I’m currently working on a memoir covering the time I spent in Liverpool up to the age of 18 and if anybody knew me or my parents during that time, it would be great if you could get in touch with me through the website or via my publishers Hodder by emailing henry.jeffreys@hodder.co.uk
I own a house in a village in southern Spain, in a valley kept verdant by ancient aqueducts that draw ice-cold water down from the high sierras through olive groves planted a thousand years ago by the Moors in the long-ago paradise that was Al Andalus. Yet because I have been working more or less full time in the UK this year and last I have not had much chance to enjoy it. So, in order that it did not lie empty and unloved we rented our house to a couple we knew for most of this June, July and August.
Judging from reports that have slowly filtered back to me from the village, this couple enjoyed a long lazy summer of poolside parties, candlelit dinners and Sunday afternoon barbecues overflowing with rich red wine. They made impromptu visits to the beach and had jolly lunch outings to historic pueblos with friends who’d flown out for the weekend.
“Wow” I found myself thinking, “...I wish I had a house in Spain where I could do that sort of thing.” Before I remembered that I did: that all this revelry was happening in and around the house that I owned! Still if I am honest I know I will never ever have what that couple had, because the carefree, laughing, lazy existence I’ve described, is the life, not of the house owner, but of the house renter. To my mind the closest, most truthful depiction of the life of the house owner in southern Spain is that experienced by Ray Winstone in the film “Sexy Beast”. In a few turbulent days he is nearly killed by a giant boulder which makes a huge crater of his swimming pool, is haunted by visions of a giant, demonic rabbit-like creature and then he’s forced to endure a terrifying visit from a psychopathic killer played by Sir Ben Kingsley. That’d be a quiet weekend for me in my village.
I suppose I am exaggerating a little but I would still maintain that If you want a quiet, restful holiday once or twice a year then rent a villa, if you instead wish to live all or part of your life in a vivid, mad, slightly frightening manner that heightens all your senses then I suggest you buy somewhere in the mountains of Andalusia. Over ten years ago we rented a house from a friend who owned a place in what was to become our village and enjoyed it so much, even over a dank Christmas holiday which saw us shivering round the inadequate stove as the rain lashed the valley relentlessly, that we began looking for somewhere of our own. We did not lack for people who were eager to help us. This was long before the housing fever that has destroyed the economies of both the UK and Spain in the last few months but even back then there were a number of British property developers who drove us around, got us drunk, bought us dinner and then almost as an afterthought showed us houses that might be for sale or plots of land that almost certainly had planning permission.
In common with many people who buy a house somewhere they have holidayed, we left our brains at home for the duration but, given our utter naivety and stupidity throughout the process, we were incredibly lucky to end up only a year and a half later with a beautiful spacious home that I am able to pretend I designed after one night presenting Biff our builder with a paper napkin on which I’d done a sketch of a house in crayons that looks like it was scribbled by a four-year old. Our terracotta-tiled home has a swimming pool and twelve orange trees, cactus and bouganvillia run riot in the garden, there are stone benches and a shady cabana and it is still worth a lot more than we paid for it. It doesn’t seem to be falling down and I’m pretty certain we would be able to prove we own it in the courts. Mind you having said that, we are involved in a property dispute with a (British) neighbour about a corner of our land and according to the documents held by the authorities our garden actually belongs to another (Spanish) neighbour above us while we are the proud owners of a large slice of the main road that runs past our house to the next village. Which I suppose means that at least I could set up my own turnpike if the writing work dries up.
Over the last decade we have also been very lucky with natural disasters which sweep through the valley from time to time. There’s been one torrential flood which entirely washed away a neighbour’s garden but we were fortunate to have some highly capable friends from the North of England staying at the time who managed to keep the rainwater out by slaving continuously with brushes and buckets for four hours: they were even planning to carry the fridge up to the bedrooms if things got much worse. Others have not been so fortunate: opposite our house there is an orange grove that was bought by some Brits a few years ago, they planned to have a few tasteful houses dotted amongst the trees. They reckoned without the local town hall. Before they were allowed to begin construction the town hall insisted they use up a fair slice of their land building an L-shaped road that doesn’t go anywhere, complete with motorway grade tarmac, a cobbled pavement and antique style street lighting, all at the expense of the homeowners. The Spanish builders then moved in. Within minutes they had knocked down the street lighting with their lorries, torn up the tarmac and ground the cobbled pavement to dust under the tracks of their cranes. The British are now faced with coughing up more money to rebuild the pavement, re-lay the tarmac and reinstall the antique style street lighting.
So why be a homeowner? There is the simple pleasure of being able to turn up at the airport clutching just your passport and front door keys, knowing your socks, knickers and anything else you might need are waiting for you in your Spanish house. More profoundly, if you don’t live there all the time or don’t own a place you haven’t invested in the community and you cannot expect to fully take part in the life of the village: there is a definite hierarchy and if you visit and rent you count for little. We once said to Biff, one of the original Brits in the valley who built our house and his partner Elaine who look after our house and of whom we are very fond, “If we didn’t own a house would you still be our friends?” “No,” they replied without having to think about it.
On the coast many of British expats live in communities walled off by high fences and their own lack of understanding of the Spanish culture or language. They shop in places with names such as “Spainsbury’s” that stock only British produce, they watch UK TV on satellite and read English language newspapers produced on the coast, which always seem to have headlines about Irish gangsters gunned down outside fish restaurants. Up in the mountains people are kinder and there is a genuine cultural exchange between the two communities. I often think this was epitomised by the tale of “Rockin’” Ron. Ron was a retired engineer and a bore of frightening dimensions ( he once spent an entire evening in the bar telling my wife about the different kinds of toast he’d eaten in his life) who had been robbed of his life savings by a conman on the coast. He came to our village and rented a tiny flat with the last of his money and managed to find a place for himself there in a way I can’t imagine would have been possible either on the costa or back in England. Until he died the British community looked out for him in many ways, checked he had his medication, took him on outings to Granada and endured his various grilled bread-based anecdotes and whenever he returned from the local supermarket Ron would find his pockets were full of little sweets the Spanish had slipped into his jacket to try and cheer him up.
That is why you should buy a house in the mountains of Southern Spain ( I imagine there are plenty going cheap right now) these little communities of British are a fascinating social experiment. Marooned in an alien culture, unrestrained by the British class structure and the British weather and forced to rely on those around them, these voluntary exiles can find themselves becoming either the best people or the worst people that they could be. Either way it is an exciting and vivid life.
Reader Comments (13)
You appear to have turned into Boris Johnson, encouraging us to spend money we don't have. There was me thinking you were cowering from all of the loonies in the previous posts, but now I find you have had a very middle class holiday. I wonder what a radical comedian from the 80's would say about that?
Alexei you got a pimple on your ass its name is Vicus Scurra.
Great post, makes me want to move out there even more, if I had the money I would be there now. I'm glad to hear you are in the good part of Andalucia and amongst the best group of homeowners/expats, the ones who actually make an effort to speak the language, eat the food and get involved with the community. Surely these things are where the true beauty of Spain lies anyway? I really like the North of Spain, Cantabria for instance where the country-side charm is just amazing. I really love the language and am still trying to get to grips with it; the problem is I have gone from a mediocre French speaker to a non French speaker/crap Spanish speaker! Ah well, could go on for hours here but I'd be preaching to the converted, have fun in the sun amigo.
We too have a house in the village. One of the things of note is that the locals do have a sense of community, no more so than when they have fiestas, when all are welcome. But we have also noticed a significant number of coincidences and connections. There are some which are closely linked to you, so I'll only mention the most tenuous. When we bought our house we read Barcelona plates. Here you have the character drive out of the Spanish village and end up at the Garth Hotel in Hendon - yes, you've guessed it,the very place where our son-in-law's father worked as Maitre d'. Tenuous or what?
Clearly you also see Biff as one of the best of people. How could he not be, as an ardent Leicester City supporter?
Good to see you're back online, Alexei !
Nice to have you back Alexei. :)
Hey Alexei,
I finished reading Mr. Roberts a few weeks ago, just a week after returning from Malaga/Jaen (my girlfriend is from Jaen in Andalucia, so I have been about 5 times now to the area depicted in the book). It was funny to read your book just one week after hearing all about the Spanish (and British) cultural customs from my girlfriend's sister. Luckily I did not see or hear one English voice in the region around Jaen, or even Granada - primarily as I was on a tour of the olive harvesting process, so deep in the countryside. I really have an attachment to the area now, the large and cold houses owned by my girlfriend's family are somewhat foreboding, the interiors either decaying or stuck in the 1950's Spain. The summer is a much more relaxing time, but the valleys are just too still and typically prey on my city-centric nerves.
Anyway, my girlfriend is reading Mr. Roberts and will, I am sure, verify the authenticity of your text :)
Great blog ... and I agree, Andalusia is a great place to have a home, and the further from the coast the better, or at least that's how I justify living in the city of Cordoba rather than being stuck on or near a beach in Almeria, Granada, Malaga, Cadiz or Huelva ... Cheers.
All I've learned is to keep clear of godamned fish restaurants. I knew they were terrifying eateries at best but now gunplay with Irishmen ? Thank you for the post and remember it's the low profile fast moving target that lives to see tommorow .
Alexei ... Ray here from the weeping woman hotel and club guantanamo bay in sunny Crewe. not been in touch since that small pro bono student filum ... some 3 ish years ago ... It`s your turn to buy the Indian (that sounds bad in these p/c days) but seriously I have reopened the redundant club (nailed to the hotel`s starboard flank)..I was once a sailor.... wwwtheboxcrewe.co.uk and we are going down a storm in the world of indie & mild but old punk bands ...just had the uk subs .. spear of destiny ... sham 69 are pointed towards us as i fiddle with the keys ... so we doin well my ansom!!! not being one to stand still ,I`m about to open one night weekly as a comedy venue .... I would love to have you open the night ... would you have any objection to my borrowing your words ? ie Club Guantanamo bay ...or even weeping women waiting woom ... Hope you get back thanks a million .. Ray .... are you sure your dad didn`t have a bike !!! 07803 620503
Just returned from Spain (first family holiday abroad for 10 years - so ready for it) met Biff, what a laid back guy!
My aunt lives in Barcelona and she owns an aboveground pool that also filled my childhood memories....
Thanks for telling me I should buy a house in Spain! Living on the coast east of Malaga I might need a job first. Unless you are lucky enough to have earned a lot of money attacking capitalism and the consumer society you probably can´t afford to buy a house here, so although that might mean you wouldn´t be my friend I will just have to live with it!