The day got off to a good start; I signed on to easyJet and booked my expensive but much longed for seat back to Spain on Christmas Eve. You-know-who seemed even more pleased than I was. My luck continued when my neighbour, Paul, said he would take me to Luton at oh-dark-thirty so I avoided the need for a taxi booking. I had, however, investigated car parking at Luton, just so I could compare against taxi fares, should the need arise. For a little over two weeks, I could get nothing below £100. Now, normal advanced booking type easyJet fares are about £50 return to Alicante. It strikes me that there is something distinctly unbalanced if an airline can fly you from Luton to Alicante and back for £50 but it costs twice that to park your darn car. On with the day…

Having spent a couple of hours several days ago picking up more oak leaves than you could shake a green campaigner at, I thought I’d do my bit to save the planet by taking said leaves to the local tidy tip, now badged a “Household Waste Recycling Centre” in modern parlance. (Clearly, “Tidy Tip” was far too simple.) So as to further increase my brownie points with the greens, I also loaded up three boxes full of assorted bottles for the bottle bank.

When I arrived, a space greeted me where the bottle bank used to be. I’m assuming it had been removed to be emptied in readiness for the debris created by the Christmas drinking binge. Unfortunately, there was now no receptacle for those of us who like to maintain our Christmas intake throughout the year. Never mind, I wanted to go to Morrisons anyway to replenish our quaffing wine stocks and they had a bottle bank. I’d use that. Besides, disposing of the empties where one buys replacement fullies has a pleasing symmetry, don’t you think? Unfortunately, the phrase, “… had a bottle bank” turned out to be uncomfortably accurate; Morrisons no longer actually seems to have a bottle bank. Someone seems to be running around Leighton Buzzard stealing bottle banks. Alternatively, maybe the greenies finally have sufficient broken, rainbow-coloured glass for whatever use broken rainbow-coloured glass may be put to? Maybe we’ve actually saved the planet already?

None the wiser, I bought a goodly supply of various coloured wine in various coloured bottles and, still armed with all my empty bottles, began making my way home. RIght, ‘t is the Monday before Christmas. I suspect most of the people that still have jobs may actually not now be at work. At any rate, most of them appeared to be trying to make their way through Leighton Buzzard. Most of them were at a frustrating standstill. As fourth in line to get onto a roundabout, I must have waited about five minutes before actually succeeding. It was, to all intense and purposes, gridlocked. Judging by the almost complete lack of forward progress being made by anyone, the entire main road through and all its feeder roads were gridlocked.

What about our multitude of fancy new traffic-flow-improving Belisha beacons and zebra crossings that replaced the old multitude of traffic lights at considerable expense? Clearly they weren’t working; traffic flow was much worse, to the point of being very nearly non-existent. Nice one!

Here’s my theory, based purely on a flight of fancy: pretty flashing Belisha beacons and zebra crossings give unfettered priority to pedestrians. On the run-up to Christmas, everybody and his dog is tearing about making ready to make merry. I just wonder if the pedestrians are now gridlocking the traffic. Ah ha – Ramblers’ Revenge! At least pedestrian crossing lights give everybody alternate goes and make pedestrians cross in batches rather than in a constant, gridlocking stream.

I guess the cause could have been something else but I certainly witnessed that very situation when I arrived at Luton airport on Friday. It has what at first looks like an excellent new drop off/pick up zone. Unfortunately there’s a pedestrian crossing right across the only traffic exit from said zone. All the passengers recently dropped off and making their way to the terminal, together with all those passengers just arrived and waracing to be picked up, drag their unfeasibly large bags slowly across this one pedestrian crossing. The vehicles are now blocked in the drop-off zone by their own passengers. The traffic problem is exascerbated by the fact that the vehicles are also trying to enter a roundabout blocked by other vehicles, victims of the very same gridlock, queuing to gain access to the drop-off zone. The outbound traffic flow has to cross the inbound traffic flow. Bloody brilliant! Which Nobel prize-winning plonker developed that scheme? The traffic/people flow is designed to tie itself in knots. And very effectively it does it, too!

Technorati Tags: gridlock,Luton Airport,Leighton Buzzard,Belisha beacons,recycling

So, here it is,the shortest day of the year – in the northern hemisphere, at least. I am quite sure that it didn’t feel like the shortest day for Carol who, once again, was destined to drive down to Alicante airport and back, this time so Steve and Rosemary could fly home. Now Carol really would be home alone; apart, that is, from two demanding dogs and three somewhat less demanding cats. Was it that Shakespeare chappy who penned the line, "parting is such sweet sorrow"? What complete nonsense. Whoever it was should have had their quill taken away and their ink well tipped over their head. Happily, the trip went well and, though emotions were naturally running high, Carol, Steve and Rosemary all arrived back at their respective destinations without mishap.

To further soften the blow of Carol’s flying entirely solo, friends Chris, Yvonne and Scamp (el perrito) had invited Carol round for dinner after the airport run. Carol’s Tuesday will also have something to look forward to because she has a lunch date with Jim and Hazel, et al. It’s comforting to know that there is an impromptu support group for such times of stress.

My Sunday was once again spent as chef for myself and mother. I had lashed out a rather princely sum amounting to about £1.50 on a pork shank from Morrisons supermarket. The Germans are very keen on their pork shanks (hocks), particularly with sauerkraut, and I’d been eying them up for some time hoping to duplicate a German feast. My plans seemed to be regarded with some suspicion by mater so I went a lot more conventional and saved my jar of sauerkraut for a more fitting occasion. I simply slow-roasted the shank which turned out to be excellent, both very tender and very tasty. I even managed crackling, though one of my teeth doesn’t really like such things so care is required.

Mother seemed to be in grand form and keen that I return to Carol and Spain in time for Christmas, bless her. There does seem to be a suitable easyJet flight at "oh-dark-thirty" on Christmas Eve – expensive but suitable. If the other necessary arrangements, transfers to the airport and transfer of mother to cousin Mark for Christmas, can be made, I’ll shorten Carol’s term of solitary confinement.

Carol seems at least to be having some fine weather to enjoy in Spain for Steve and Rosemary’s last full day before flying home. They’ve been down into Jalon for a look around its so-called rastro, more of a flea-market than anything, I think. Then they went into the harbour area of Calpe where there are many fish and seafood restaurants all of which, in honesty, are tourist-trap establishments but they are very pleasant nonetheless. The worst aspect is the almost constant fending off of hawkers circulating around the tables. Writing a jaunty, "Sod Off!" message across one’s forehead might be the most appropriate solution, only after the meal has arrived, of course. 🙂

Back in not-quite-as-sunny-and-warm Leighton Buzzard, I was off on a shopping trip with mother. Driving through the town has made the place look a little different in the two weeks that we’ve been away. Before we left, works were afoot in the main drag through town. The most visible changes were the additions of several (six or more) wide speed-bump arrangements, some of which appeared to be in rather odd places, such as immediately before a roundabout. The master plan has now become apparent. Several of the many sets of traffic lights which locked traffic up periodically have been ripped out. In their place, across most of the wide speed-bump thingies, zebra-crossings have sprung up, each adorned with traditional, old-fashioned Belisha beacons. There’s also a new roundabout, in one place. I imagine the idea is to enable traffic to flow with less interruptions.

My drive through in the dark was uninterrupted. I couldn’t help but think that the array of orange Belisha beacon globes flashing atop their illuminated black and white poles seemed to be swamping the relatively modest seasonal Christmas lights just a tad. Hmmm.

The weather really did seem to have settled down in Spain. What a day for me to have to be leaving for Leighton Buzzard via Luton. The sky was a crystal clear blue with not a puff of cloud in sight. This is exactly what we’d been hoping for and I was having to leave on my mercy mission. Drat! Such is life; needs must and all that. Stiff upper lip! At least it would be a good day for Carol, Steve and Rosemary to enjoy Spain while easyJet winged me back to the UK.

As the day was so clear, Steve and Rosemary elected to make the journey down to Alicante airport with myself and Carol. After dropping me off at Alicante’s terminal 2, the remaining Spanish contingent made their war up into the mountains to visit a mountain-top village called, rather grandly, El Castel de Guadalest, but usually referred to simply as Guadalest. It may be a bit of a tourist trap but it is nonetheless very worthy of a visit with some spectacular views. Today, the conditions were absolutely perfect for such a visit. (Since I was boarding a plane and Carol was without her camera, we didn’t take any photos but you can see some on Steve and Rosemary’s blog here.) I was, of course, outrageously jealous about their visit in such perfect conditions, but very pleased for them, nonetheless. Somehow the inside of a Boeing 737-700 just didn’t hold the same appeal. Neither did the thought of landing back at Luton. I can’t think why.

Check-in had opened at 10:40 and I checked in a little later after fond farewells. I was, unusually, in no rush. Since I was travelling alone, just me and my Spanish-lesson-laden iPod nano, it really didn’t matter a hoot where I sat. Normally, I’m there waiting for check-in to open to try and get into as advantageous a boarding group as I can, though that’s a forlorn hope on easyJet these days.

For readers who may not know, easyJet does not assign seats. Passengers are assigned a boarding group based essentially on check-in sequence so the earlier one checks-in the better: the first to board get more seat choice. At least, that’s the theory. The original system has been modified a little and, in my opinion, messed up considerably. The original, simple, four boarding groups (A, B, C, D) have now been subverted by two modifications.

First, it is now possible for the pretentious and/or rich to pay a premium for so-called "Speedy Boarding". These folks constitute the SB group. Those is the SB group have paid a premium for their advantage so, I suppose quite reasonably, they get to board ahead of everyone else, including ahead of those with special needs such as the disabled and elderly. The special needs folks are in the second group to board, S-something-else. I’m afraid the devil in me, however, is mightily amused when, as is not terribly uncommon, buses are used to transfer passengers to the plane. The Speedy Boarders then get priority boarding of the bus ("move on down the bus, please"). The Plebs then swarm onto the bus. When the bus pulls up at the plane, it tends to be the Plebs who have ended up nearer the doors and who spill out of the bus first and rush onto the plane first. Excellent! I can’t help but think that this was not the intended result.

The second innovative annoyance comes with online check-in, which has been introduced by easyJet but only for those travelling with nothing but carry-on baggage. Passengers with hold baggage must still queue at the check-in desks, naturally enough, to get their bags weighed and tagged. I take issue with two things. Firstly, this encourages too many people to carry ridiculously large bags, more suited to the hold, onto the plane. There is a carry-on size limit but, even if it were checked religiously, cramming 150+ maximum size carry-on bags into the overhead bins is something less than realistic. Secondly, I don’t see why a carry-on only passenger should get preference over a hold baggage customer. Quite the reverse, in fact, since hold baggage is charged per item and these customer have paid more for their flight than those with only carry-on. Online check-in starts filling up boarding group A. Normally, I suspect, it completely fills it.

The result is that flying with any check-in baggage pretty much consigns one to the last boarding group, B.

Having said all that, I remain quite a fan of easyJet which has served us well on a number of occasions. Such was the case today. My flight was well used but not full and landed just 15 minutes later than scheduled despite a combination of aircraft queues departing Luton on the outbound leg and strong headwinds flying north on the inbound leg. However, I cleared immigration and baggage claim in about 25 minutes and was very pleased to be met by my cousin, Mark, and my mother to complete my untimely homeward journey. I’d have preferred them not to have driven straight past me on their first circuit, though. 🙂

My mother seems quite well so far but thinks that her loss has not yet sunk in. She also seems to think I might get back to Carol for Christmas. Naturally, I’d love to. Arghh! As yet, we have no information about funeral arrangements.  We’ll see.

Following yesterday evening’s news of the death of my mother’s close friend and companion, Tony Hodsden, our mood was naturally subdued. easyJet has stopped its Thursday flight between Luton and Alicante but I had managed to get a seat on the Friday flight (tomorrow) to return home and do what little I could to help. Regrettably, that meant leaving Carol to her own devices in Spain with the house, two dogs and three cats to look after. She would, at least, have Steve and Rosemary for company until Sunday, when they fly back. It was also becoming clear that she would have the support of several expat. friends in the region, who were rallying around to help in whatever ways they could.

Before this hiatus, one pair of our friends, Chris and Yvonne, whose house and dog (Scamp) had begun our enjoyable round of house-sitting adventures in Spain and California, had organized a wine tasting with some tapas accompaniment at a small boutique winery called La Bodega del Garroferal a little further up the Jalon Valley near Murla. The winery is run by a German gentleman called Peter Arnold and his English wife, Helen. Peter grows a small crop of Shiraz grapes on his own land, sufficient for roughly 600 bottles, but supplements this by buying in grapes from other growers. He currently produces a rosado, three tinto’s and three blancos, although one was sold out so we tasted just two of the whites. Having been trained in viticulture in Germany and, having worked professionally in Germany, South Africa and, now, Spain, Peter is able to give entertaining explanations and tours in multiple languages, sometimes in one sentence. 🙂 His wines are quite entertaining, too.The weather was set fair and this interesting diversion made a pleasant end to what would hopefully be only part one of my Spanish experience, 2008. I am anxious not to leave Carol alone for the remainder of our original trip (until January 11th). We headed back for a coffee with Chris and Yvonne following the tasting. Even though we had paused en route at a local spring to replenish Carol’s fresh water supply, we arrived back at the  house ahead of Chris and Yvonne. Curious!  Maybe they had called in to the local supermarket for some supplies? Regrettably, that was not the explanation.  It transpired that Chris had stopped at a local single track bridge but the taxi behind him had not. The exchanging of insurance details had been responsible for their delay. Fortunately, no one was hurt and the damage, whilst being more than superficial, was not severe. It’s time for things to stop going wrong, now.

it was soon also time to head back via the supermarket to our borrowed house and pets for me to pack in readiness for Friday’s flight back home. Chris and Yvonne had very graciously offered to drive me to Alicante airport but Carol elected to use the journey to familiarize herself with Geoff’s car and do so herself. She would, however, be having dinner with Chris and Yvonne after her Sunday trip to Alicante for Steve and Rosemary’s flight home.

She’ll be an expert expat. in no time.

After yesterday’s dismal weather, today looked much more promising with a little high, wispy cloud cover in a relatively clear sky and no cold wind. The light wasn’t going to be great for panorama photography but these were excellent conditions to introduce Steve and Rosemary to the occasionally challenging walk around the Bernia.

Walks in Spain are, in our admittedly limited experience, rougher than we are used to in England. The walk around the Bernia is about five miles/eight kilometres of terrain varying from an unmetalled narrow road, through something resembling a goat track, to indistinct paths across, and sometimes up, various scree slopes of loose rocks and boulders, these having begun their long geological journey from the 1000 metre high peek of the Bernia to its base. One or two areas require the use of hands and are more like climbing than walking. These clambering sections are the reason I postulated a new “minimum leg length” categorization for walking routes. Enough of this easy/moderate/severe classification – what does that mean in practical terms? Surely it would be much more practical to point out that persons with an inside leg length below, for example, 25 ins/63 cms are in danger of getting stuck. 🙂

The most spectacular feature of the walk around the Bernia, and the one that catapults it into the realms of greatness from our point of view, is the natural tunnel through which one has to crawl to cross between the north and south sides of the Bernia’s ridge. The tunnel is only about three feet/one metre high and it is necessary to remove any rucksacks and crawl. It is about 100 feet/30 metres long and, going clockwise, the south side of the tunnel opens out into a cave with creepers dangling across its mouth revealing spectacular views of the Mediterranean coast beyond, including the blue-domed church of Altea, complete with a few fish farms of some description just off its coast, and the skyscrapers of the oft-maligned Benidorm. (Benidorm is OK when viewed from a distance. We have yet to risk it in close-up.)

Rosemary is very close to my newly postulated “minimum leg length” requirement for this walk and had a little difficulty on one or two of the more arduous sections. Nonetheless, she stuck doggedly to the task in hand and conquered the route. There were times when she may have been wondering why she was there but I am sure that her sense of achievement will win out and that she will look back upon the Bernia experience positively and with fondness; it really is worth it.

Having eventually returned to release our canine and feline charges from captivity, I was in the midst of cooking a dinner using some of our gathered wild rosemary (the herb rosemary rather than friend Rosemary) from the slopes of the Bernia, when Carol received a most unwelcome text message. For the last eight years or so, my mother (90) has had a devoted friend and companion, Tony Hodsden (83). Together, they have shared day trips, shopping trips, lunches out, and generally just been there for each other. They have shared holidays and Christmases away to English destinations such as Devon and even, on three occasions, summer holidays at Lake Como in Italy. Pretty damn good for people of their vintage. Tony has been much of my mother’s mobility and has been an absolute saint. Beatification really would not be too great a reward for him. On Sunday last we had heard that he was in hospital having broken his leg in a domestic accident at his own flat. Now we received the devastating news that, while we were struggling with the Bernia, he had died in hospital after what was said to have been a very successful operation to repair his leg.

For us, the wonderful circular walk around the Bernia will now be Tony’s.

Technorati Tags: Bernia,Spain,travel,Altea,Benidorm,walking

Jake, the black and white cat, was a little late this morning; he waited until 5:15 AM to awaken us by scratching at our bedroom door and suggest that we might let him out. Carol obliged. 30 minutes later Bailey, the pure black cat, began meowing to announce that he, now, would like to go out. My turn; I got up, opened the main door. As Bailey shot out, Jake shot back in and jumped up on the kitchen sink unit looking expectantly at me. He wanted a drink of water so I obligingly started running a slow stream of water from which he could lap.

It is proving to be an interesting exercise looking after a house with a mixture of two dogs, both female, and three cats, all male. We are no strangers to pets so naturally knew that there were clear differences between the two species but didn’t realize how sharp the contrasts were until observing the two in close proximity.

The three cats are all individuals with different habits. Jake gets our attention by a gentle scratching at the bedroom door. Bailey gets our attention by meowing. Chester, the ginger cat, thus far hasn’t seemed to find it necessary to get our attention at all, though he certainly does attract it when he decides that the time is right for him to start humping one of the cushions on the sofa. Yikes! Jake drinks water from a running tap, Chester drinks milk having stood in a particular spot to signal that he wants some. Bailey drinks water from the dogs’ bowl by dipping in one paw and licking it. Jake won’t eat while either or both of the other two are eating; he dines alone.

The two dogs, golden retrievers called Sherry and Chandon, are entirely different. They always do things as a pair. One dog can’t move and appear to be getting something without the other one fearing that she’s missing out and trying to muscle in on the act. Indeed, a human can’t move without the dogs thinking it must be for their benefit. We were given a timetable by which to feed them. They seem more or less to understand the timetable with their excitement building almost to fever pitch as the clock ticks around, though this doesn’t stop them trying to grab more food in between times. This remains true even if they were actually fed a mere 10 minutes earlier. No matter, someone’s moving so it must be our food time. The humans are sitting at the table, maybe they’ll feed us too. The dogs give the impression that, if one were to put down unlimited quantities of food, they’d keep eating until they exploded. “I’ve had enough” is not a phrase that has a dog equivalent. Without the strict feeding regime, the dogs would overeat and stuff themselves stupid. There’s nothing delicate or appreciative in the way they eat, either. Everything, no matter what it might be, is greedily wolfed down so fast that it stands not a chance of touching the sides. Taste buds, if dogs have any, are a complete waste of canine evolution. Darwin would be turning in his grave.

The cats are essentially aloof and independent, giving the impression that it is they who are gracing you with their presence rather than you looking after them. We were told that the cats would tell us what they want and when. It’s absolutely true. It’s taken us a little while to get used to their language but it’s working. They nudge us, metaphorically speaking, when they want food or a drink and they stop when they’ve had sufficient. Put too much food down for the cats and it gets left. That is, anything inaccessible by the dogs gets left. Any remains accessible by the dogs last as long as it takes one or both of them to cover the ground and vacuum it up. Any tidbit out of the ordinary, the lungs out of a rabbit for example, gets thoroughly investigated by the cats prior to being eaten. First it is sniffed thoroughly, then it might be licked for a minute or two. Only if they decide it is befitting their standards do they consume it. Should they decide it is not to their taste, they leave it and walk away. Attempting to retrieve a morsel rejected by a cat is likely to place one in danger of losing one’s hand to a rapidly advancing, salivating dog or two. When the cats decide to eat, they do so delicately, eating only what they like and only as much as they need and taking their time over it. In short, they are much more self-controlled and refined.

Our pet care instructions seemed a little unfair at first: the cats get what they want whenever they want and the dogs are strictly controlled. I get it now, though; it’s entirely necessary.

It was raining and quite cold today. Just the right kind of weather for a warming dinner of rabbit in almond sauce. Hence the rabbit lungs for Bailey, which he eventually decided were good enough for him to eat.

Technorati Tags: dogs,cats

True to form, at 3:20 AM Jake, the black and white cat, decided that it was time to go out and roused me by scratching on the bedroom door once again. Naturally, I made the journey across the cold tiled bedroom floor obligingly to let him out.

To recover from another disturbed night of rest and relaxation, we took a walk up the valley to try to get into Alcalalí, the next village up the river, for a beer before wandering back. Our route started off beside the river with crag martins swooping about, egrets on fishing missions, and the occasional kestrel hovering over the fields looking for lunch. There were a number of small LBJs hopping about on the edge of the river. We didn’t instantly recognize these guys but we eventually identified them, with the help of a field guide, as chifchafs. They’re not by any means rare but it’s the first time we’ve had a positive spotting of them. Passing almond and orange plantations, we could hear the almost ever-present serins chattering away frenetically but they are quite shy and difficult birds to see.

We couldn’t really remember the precise route to take to Alcalalí. In fact, since last years floods, there is a lot of flood defense work being undertaken and it’s possible the route has changed. Eventually, however, we did find a river crossing that would have taken us into Alcalalí. However, probably due to winter rains, the fording point was a little too deep for our footwear, so we retraced our steps for a beer at the Aleluja Bar in Jalon.

On our return trip we noticed a strange vine-like plant bearing large pods, roughly the shape and size of papayas. The plant was certainly using many of the orange trees for support and, since the orange trees bearing it looked less healthy, it may have been parasitic. Unlike papayas, the pods were very light for their size. Eventually we found one of the strange pods open revealing a host of seeds with feathery parachutes. We have as yet no idea what this plant might be so we’ll have to try asking a few locals.

To complete the excitement on our return trip, Carol spotted a hoopoe flying before us to sit for some time in a tree before deciding that we were finally too close and fluttering off. There is no stranger ornithological creation than a hoopoe and they are always a thrill to see.

What is it about 3:20 AM in this house? Last night I had carefully remembered to power off the computer completely, as opposed to hibernating it, so as not to be awoken by the ghost in the machine suddenly awakening. This time I was awoken, again at 3:20 AM, by a curious scratching sound at the bedroom door. Another excursion from bed across the cold tiled bedroom floor revealed that the culprit was Jake, the black and white moggy, who seemed to want to be let out. “OK, I’ll cross yet more cold tiles for you but don’t you dare tap on the window to be let in again”, I thought.

Having once again woken up for the second time, breakfast was calling. Yesterday, we’d positioned the mottled poinsettias and eaten the no-longer-mottled-once-cooked flat beans which just left our yellow and green mottled mushrooms to be dealt with. On the Sunday before the Immaculate Conception (i.e. last Sunday), the local Mas-y-mas supermercat had been open in the morning so I was tasked with popping out to get some eggs and, hopefully, some interesting Spanish sausages to accompany our mottled mushrooms by way of a warming brunch. Jalon looked disturbingly quiet as I drove into it. Even more disturbingly, there were no welcoming lights glowing across the front of Mas-y-mas. The sinking feeling that we had miscalculated was confirmed by metal shutters across the entrance door. Drat! Last week’s Sunday morning opening must have been by way of special dispensation for being closed on the Monday of the Immaculate Conception. Disgruntled, I returned empty handed.

Undaunted and driven by hunger, Carol began a raid of the cupboards for things to accompany our long-awaited mottled mushrooms. Triumphantly, she raised a can of Heinz baked beans, some left-over potatoes which could be fried, and a packet of sliced morcilla (Spanish black pudding). Given the success of the cupboard raid, we soon settled down to a perfectly reasonable brunch.

Carol and I had had an abortive visit to Altea on a previous Spanish trip since we didn’t really know where the interest was or where to park. Armed now with more information from Geoff and Pam, we decided to help disperse our latest calorie intake by trying again. We wandered along the promenade where we past a family standing apparently selling slices of cake. Curious, I thought. However, additional calories being the last thing we currently needed, we resisted their advances and continued to the marina.

Altea’s main attraction is the old town centred quite high up around what was reportedly an attractive church. This is where we headed next. We found our way up various hilly streets and pathways burning yet more invaluable calories and eventually found our destination. The streets were certainly very attractive and the church had some pleasingly blue domes but it’s facades seemed less than scintillating to this observer. Nonetheless, it was a pleasant enough place for a wander before finishing with a beer in a local bar (oops, more calorie intake).

On our way back we called in to Calpe in search of difficult-to-photograph flamingoes in its lagoon. To our deep disappointment, they now proved totally impossible to photograph due to being completely absent. Our quarry had flown.

The ghost in the machine spirited the PC awake again at about 3:20 AM last night. I had forgotten to shut it down completely and had only hibernated it. It really is quite disturbing when the hard drive starts whirring away and the screen begins glowing all by itself – all very Close Encounters of the Third Kind. A swift excursion out of bed across the cold tiled bedroom floor sorted it out but slumber was interrupted for some time.

After waking up for the second time and enjoying a relatively leisurely breakfast, we drove the few miles into Benissa to introduce Steve and Rosemary to Spanish markets and see what appealing items we could find. The main focus at such markets seems to be fruit and vegetables but there are other stalls with flowers, charcuterie (sorry, I know that’s French but I haven’t learned the Spanish yet), clothes and hardware stalls with a splendid array of paella pans in various sizes. That seems like a silly phrase, really: paella means pan, I believe, hence the name of the dish, so “paella pans” would probably translate as “paella paellas”. That’s clearly rubbish: they have a wonderful array of paellas in various sizes. Also on sale are matching paella rings, the gas burners, to go with the paellas. The trick to making a first rate paella is in having the correctly sized paella ring for the chosen size of paella.

Carol’s first purchase was not a matched paella and ring but a matched pair of intriguingly mottled poinsettias. A gardener would probably describe these poinsettias as “variegated” but I’m no gardener and they look mottled to me. Whatever, they will help increase the Christmas atmosphere while we are house, dog and cat sitting.

“Mottled” seemed to be the theme of the day. It cropped up again as the ladies bravely lashed out on some curious-looking mushrooms that seemed to be basically yellowy-orange but with a slight green mottling. Steve remarked that they looked sufficiently frightening to make one give them a wide berth should one happen past them on the forest floor. Nonetheless, since they were for sale in the market we must assume them to be edible and work them into our menu.

Not content with mottled poinsettias and mottled fungus, our market booty next included flat green beans with red mottling. [Note: disappointingly, the mottling subsequently vanished upon cooking. Darn!]

There’s a particular vegetable puzzle that we have yet to solve concerning Spanish gastronomy: large artichoke leaves are commonly sold on the markets but we have thus far been unsuccessful in discovering how to prepare them. Given the amount of effort involved in preparing that part of the artichoke normally considered edible, the flower, I cannot imagine the preparation required to turn these enormous leaves into something edible. Rosemary attempted a rescue by accosting two perfect strangers and, first enquiring if they were English [yes], secondly enquiring if they knew what to do with said artichoke leaves? No, they did not. They did, however, volunteer that they put celery leaves into soup so maybe that might be a clue. Hmmm?

Having broken away form the ladies with a mottle fetish, I had spotted some bright, spankingly fresh looking bonito tuna in a local fish shop. I was a little concerned that, given the theme of the day, they might not be sufficiently mottled to be added to our collection. However, my fears were unfounded and they were voted in unanimously so another purchase was made. Two fish, ample for four, weighed in at 1.25 kilos and we were charged the princely sum of about €5.50. Darn good value, even at this Gordon-Brown-induced disastrous exchange rate.