As I said last month, the hot weather in July and August makes me very grumpy – and I get even more grumpy when I remember that as a young man I couldn’t get enough of it. True, the family holidays were normally spent in the more temperate clime of Devon or Cornwall but the happiest and most rewarding time of my life was spent in the blistering heat of the desert in 1943 as a newly commissioned young lieutenant in the British army. In the same way that the shock of an ice-cold bath had got us all going at school on a crisp Winter morning in England, the blazing African sun had much the same effect on our young soldiers preparing to go Bosch-bashing at el Alamein. Though our tanks were technically inferior to the German Panzers, our acceptance of the climate and our tally-ho enthusiasm gave us the mental and physical agility to make mincemeat of poor old Johnny German whose tactics were as predictable as his diet. When battle was engaged it soon became clear that the Sausage and Sauerkraut Brigade were never going to be a match for Battalions of lads fed since infancy on good old Roast Beef, Yorkshire Pudding with mighty helpings of Plum Duff to round it all off!
But I digress. I suppose my real grouch is not about the heat itself but about how people – both residents and holidaymakers - behave at this time of year.
In other seasons Mierda del Mar has a natural equilibrium and, though I don’t approve particularly of the motley and mainly British assortment of humanity who have recently come to make up fifty percent of the population, I have to admit that it kind of works as a community for most of the year. It’s strange how the traditional and somewhat slothful peasant culture of old Spain mixes almost comfortably with the South London plumber, the Bristol electrician, the retired Northern insurance salesman, the ex-publican from Sittingbourne and the ex-Deputy Editor of the Welwyn Garden City Times. Though there is little real contact between them, Spanish and English can be found in the same bars and restaurants and they all acknowledge each other with smiles, friendly grunts and the occasional hug or playful punch in the stomach.
In the Summer this changes. The water supply which is fed by two wells dug deep into a non-replenishing prehistoric pool of water, is barely adequate to service the needs of the town in winter. When the pumps at the top of these wells are put into overdrive for the summer rush, the situation becomes chaotic. Long periods without water – hours which turn into days – affect us all, tourists and residents alike. The hotels, guest houses and holiday flats suffer more because the taps and valves are all locked with chalk caused by 10 months of not being used. Sewage systems block, then overflow, and frequent power failures mean that unpleasant smells cannot be spirited away by fans or air conditioning.
Tempers fray, the North London Plumber and the Bristol electrician who started the season rubbing their hands together and smiling because of all the extra business which summer brings are, by the third week in July, spent forces and, paralysed by alcohol, they spend much of their time making vulgar gestures at young Yorkshire secretaries who occasionally react favourably to their nasty propositioning.
The normally good-humoured Spanish treat the loutish tourists with even more disdain than they merit - and the Northern insurance man, the Sittingbourne ex-publican and the ex-Deputy Editor play ‘Dodge the Tourist’ and stick together. The latter, instead of using the seasonally overpriced local bars and restaurants, send each other RSVP Dinner invitations where, with little fingers crooked, they are happy eating familiar English food and ‘taking’ rather than ‘drinking’ a variety of less than noteworthy Spanish wines.
Future Perfect
Meanwhile, back in the old country the weather appears to be comfortably wet and windy, and our boiled pudding of a Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, seems to be cutting the mustard in a way in which few of us would have previously imagined possible. But then I suppose whatever followed that chameleon lightweight Tony Blair was bound to be an improvement.
To his credit, Gordon’s first moves are worthy of approval - his more reserved attitude towards the United States and its born again, gun-slinging President and the way in which he has quietly and efficiently led the country through what could have been a much more serious Foot and Mouth crisis, deserve praise. More worryingly for an old ‘dyed in the wool’ Conservative like me, I have to ask myself if David Cameron would have a chance of leading us to victory if Gordon were now to call a quick election. My own fear is that it’s going to take many months of being locked in a small room with Norman Tebbit for the young David to be made battle fit.
To celebrate the end of the summer, which coincides with my dear wife Arabella’s 80th birthday on 15th September – don’t worry, she doesn’t mind me spilling the beans – we are to have a spectacular English Tea Party at our modest country hovel “The Barracks”. A marquee has been ordered, our live-in Spanish couple Jesus and Maria have been given leave of absence (banished) and Arabella’s favourite God-daughter Annie, Countess of Wexham, has been asked to display the talents of her very own exclusive Knightsbridge catering firm. On order are a selection of delicious home-made jams including quince and damson, wafer thin slices of cucumber on equally wafer thin slices of bread and butter; melt-in-the-mouth meringues, sponge cakes so light they could be carried off by the softest of breezes, coffee cake, plum cake, carrot cake – and all to the accompaniment of some very special Chinese and Indian fine leaf teas.
And to enjoy these festivities we shall have at the starting post, a collection of family and friends – son Hugh, feisty granddaughter Jessica and noisy brother Harry with his timid hiking companion Cedric – and many local worthies who will help to reflect the esteem both private and public in which my dear wife is held. On the minus side we have had to invite Mierda’s ridiculous German mayor Fritz Fahrtsmann (unless we can persuade him once again to retire and spend more time with his sauerkraut) - but on the plus side there will be our dear local C of E vicar Cannon Jack Trumpington, the swashbuckling Captain of Mierda’s troop of Civil Guards, Enrique Gamberro Raro de Miguel, and my neighbour and old chum Tarquin – Maggie Thatcher’s special weapon during her most successful period in Downing Street.
I shall let you know how we all get on next month. I make no secret of the fact that I’m praying for a cool windy day with a refreshing bout of gentle rain.
