At the first sensible opportunity, Francine was go up to base camp on the Bernia to comb the edges of the roadside for orchids. Today was that first sensible opportunity so off we set.

We parked near the entirely wood-fired restaurant and began searching. It wasn’t easy, a start was slow in coming, but we did eventually find some examples of Ophrys. I’ve chosen my phraseology carefully because Francine has been tearing her ever so curly hair out with the identification conundrum. There are lots of Ophryses to choose from, many looking pretty similar. Just to make it more interesting, the markings vary considerably so it can be a tad difficile to know just what you’re looking at. To keep you on toes, they probably hybridize, too. Great!

After due consideration and looking decidedly thin on top, Francine seems comfortable that this particular example is a Bee Orchid (Ophrys apifera). I love it to death; it looks like a little chap lying on his back chuckling because his tummy is being tickled. Hardly a scientific description but it seems to sum it up to me. Glorious.

Now, compare and contrast. There were others that were not, perhaps, Bee Orchids. I must apologize for this photographic effort, hardly in the same class ‘cos it’s taken on my new travel lens – nothing like as sharp as Francine’s macro job. Anyway, we (i.e. Francine) think this is a Woodcock Orchid (Ophrys scolopax). It does look quite different but remember the variation and the hybridization tendency. Awkward little beggars.

Fortunately there were some easier-to-identify old favourites up there too in the shape of Pyramidal Orchids. However, since they were only just bursting forth, I’m not convinced that I’d have recognized some of them. I did recognize this one, though, with just a few flowers open.

I was thinking that I might take up flowers, which have the advantage that they don’t fly away when you try to photograph them, unlike dragonflies. However, if they are this tricksy, maybe I should stick to what I know. Still, everyone gotta start somewhere.

With a fully sunny day, not just an interlude, I tromped off down to what I regard as the main bit of river flowing through Jalón, in the hope of finding more Spanish dragonflies. Pool #1 produced a cruising Emperor Dragonfly/Blue Emperor (Anax imperator) but nothing else. The river by the ford produced even less: nothing, nada, nichts, pas un chat [as they say in France for “not a sausage”]. Most surprisingly, to me, anyway, considering this is just coming out of winter, was a complete lack of water in what I normally regard as fairly reliable pools. In one of these last year, I had found my first Orange-winged Dropwing (Trithemis kirbyi). Now all was dry.

I crossed the river to the north side where there was some reeded habitat that looked good, perhaps, for damselflies to lurk. This is where I’d found a Willow Emerald (Lestes viridis) last year. Now, life appeared scarce. There was another Emperor Dragonfly cruising up and down the main body of water but, at first, that’s all I could see. Then Francine spotted a movement in the grass which turned out to be a Blue-tailed Damselfly. Not exactly an exciting haul and, even worse, nobody was posing for pictures. I was disappointed considering the reported activity elsewhere in Spain.

There was some consolation. Another movement that Francine managed to spot in one of the plants beside the water proved to be a mantis  It wasn’t posing as well as it might but at least I managed to get one half-way decent photograph of it before it hid deeper in the herbage. There are several mantids that might’ve been possible so, given my very basic Chinery guide [Insects of Britain and western Europe], I wasn’t hopeful of anything concrete. However, as luck would have it this particular example had a diagnostic feature in the form of a tall crest on its head; this intriguing looking critter was a Conehead Mantis (Empusa pennata).

Praying Mantises are renowned – or is that notorious? – for the female’s habit of devouring her mate after, or even during copulation. She starts by eating the male’s head but mating continues, I guess his brains really are elsewhere. 😀 There’s a video here, showing this somewhat macabre occurrence,

Fortunately for the male Conehead Mantis, the female of the species apparently never devours her mate. Much more civilized behaviour. Or perhaps she just can’t get her jaws around his head with that crest in the way. [Just kidding.]

I had been hoping that I would see my first Odo of the year in the UK before we left for Spain. However, although there had been reports of sightings from several counties, and not even only the most southern ones, I managed to find nothing in Bedfordshire with winter apparently reluctant to loosen its grip. Perhaps I’d have better luck in Spain.

As we drove through central Spain through thrashing rain with the mercury hovering around the 7°C mark, albeit at 1000m altitude, things weren’t looking much more hopeful, though the species list of reported sightings had been considerably more impressive. Today, though, the last day of April, the Spanish gloom parted in the afternoon and the sun shone. As soon as that happened we went to investigate a pool only recently discovered by us in neighbouring Alcalali to see if anyone was about.

Someone was about, though not in anything approaching decent numbers. However, we did see some dragonflies – and they were dragonflies rather than damselflies – at least just a little before May. There were three individuals zooming about this one, modest pool, in the form of a male Scarlet Darter/Broad Scarlet (Crocothemis erythraea), together with both sexes of Red-veined Darter (Sympetrum fonsolombii). The male RVD was the only one posing advantageously for pictures, though, and I could see he was maturing – not yet fully red. He clearly thought he was already mature, though since he was in tandem with the female ovipositing.

The sun was relatively short-lived and, before the afternoon was over, the clouds rolled back in again. Still, at least I’d got my year started.

There was a highlight of yesterday evening’s slightly stressful approach to Grisel. As we were following Silly Sally Satnav on her route straight through Tarazona, as opposed to making the more sensible left turn, we were delighted to see many pairs of Storks building their massive nests of interlocked sticks on top of numbers of Tarazona’s high points. We’d previously seen Storks nesting on apparently dangerous high tension electricity pylons in the rural west of France but here they were in an urban setting. This morning the rain had dribbled its last overnight and had abated, for now anyway, so, grey and cold though it still was, after we’d checked out of our castillo, we set off first to a fuel stop – a full tank would be enough to get us to Jalón – and to try to get a better look at the Storks.

Free parking in a town/city: what a delight. We found a well paved free car park close to the centre of town to begin an exploration on foot.

We soon came across a modest river running through town. It was modest now but, given it’s deep side walls, I suspect this was doubling as a storm drain capable of channelling some serious flood water safely through town. Beside it was an “usted esta aqui” [you are here] map. I thought I recognized the junction where we’d driven past our nesting Storks on the previous evening. We began walking towards it beside the river/storm drain.

I have never seen such a large collection of Swallows zooming about low over the water in my life; there were literally hundreds of them. Every metre of Tarazona’s waterway was teeming with zooming, feeding shapes. I was mesmerized by the numbers. Actually, as we watched, I realized that this was a mixed swarm of (at least) three species. The majority were Barn Swallows (Hirundo rustica) but every now and then a bird with a white rump would swoop by; a House Martin (Delichon urbica). Then I noticed a slightly smaller, browner shape whizz past. This, I think, was a Sand Martin (Riparia riparia). The walls of this water channel were peppered with what I assume were drain holes for the surrounding ground and I spotted a couple of these opportunistic little birds enter one of the holes – ready made nest sites. A bird soon popped out of the same hole and I wondered if I’d witnessed a shift change sitting on a hidden nest, allowing a partner to come out and feed. The funny thing was, we couldn’t actually see any flies at all but there must’ve been masses of them, given the hundreds of birds feeding.

We could’ve watched the swarming Swallows for hours but we needed to move on to the Storks. These were White Storks (Ciconia ciconia).I’d have thought it a little disconcerting to have birds the size of a small private aircraft nesting on ones roof – these guys have a 2m wingspan – so the nests are necessarily rather large. I can’t help but wonder who gets to clear up after breeding season, assuming that someone does.

It was clear that the Storks did not mind a little noise; at least two pairs had chosen to nest on bell towers. As we wandered around the town, the bell in the tallest tower began ringing loudly but the resident Stork continued with its nest preparation apparently completely unfazed. Watching a 1m tall bird deftly manipulating twigs/branches that were almost the same length was quite fascinating. Such innate skill is remarkable.

Before heading back to the car to start out for Jalón, we wandered around, we finished our visit by wandering around some of the streets of Tarazona. It’s a pleasant town and in its network of narrow streets we stumbled across two fishmongers, alleyways, ornately decorated buildings and, of course, yet more Stork nests.

Back on the road, we headed off cross-country intending to call into Daroca, reputedly well worth a visit. Regrettably, though, the rain began again and, with temperatures topping out at 7°C, we bailed out and headed for the autopista towards Teruel. Here, what had been irritating drizzle became a thrashing downpour of biblical proportions. I slowed to avoid aquaplaning on the standing water in the tyre ruts. Welcome to sunny Spain. 😀

The weather had moderated as we approached Jalón. ‘T was still very grey, though. We’re here and this is the first time we have not been able to sit on our balcony on the day of arrival.

Some months ago, I’d had difficulty finding ferry crossings to Spain that suited our needs. Even with my 3-month lead time, there were a distressing amount of sailings that seemed to be full. Adjusting our needs slightly, I eventually found a Portsmouth-Bilbao sailing on 26th April with capacity and a large, outside cabin.

One problem appeared to be Brittany Ferries swapping out one of their larger, more modern “cruise” ferries for an older tub-like ferry. Whereas most slow boats reputedly go to Chine, this slow boat was destined to ply its trade between Portsmouth and Bilbao. Normal crossing times on this route had been 24 hours; this trip would be 5 hours longer at 29 hours. Joy! Not only did it leave Portsmouth a couple of hours early at 08:45, it docked in Bilbao a couple of hours later at 14:15, which made a 1-shot trip to Jalón unpalatable. Francine found a hotel, in the form of a converted castle, about half way, for us to break the journey and recharge our batteries. The castillo was listed under a hamlet called Grisel, near to Tarazona.

We’d left home at 04:15 and boarded the ferry without drama. Excellent. I was a little concerned that our older transport might be a little less stable than more modern vessels but praise be to the weather gods, the Bay of Biscay was as smooth as a proverbial mill pond. In fact, I can’t ever remember a smoother trip on any vessel. So, after an even more tedious than usual 29-hour ferry trip, we disembarked in Bilbao. How anybody puts up with staring at this interminably on a cruise is utterly beyond me. [I know, they generally cruise at night, pausing to invade the next town by day.]

At risk of repeating myself, these Brittany Ferries jobs are not the so-called RORO [Roll On, Roll Off] ferries. Loading and unloading them is a very technical-looking game rather like one of those plastic tile puzzles with one empty space, where you must rearrange the tiles into the correct order by constantly shuffling them around. The shuffling here involves truck drivers reversing articulated lorries into spaces on board, and some car drivers having to reverse their caravans – a risky business given some car driver’s skill levels. The truck drivers are, of course, adept at this. So, after the tile-shuffling disembarkation game, we were not quite the penultimate vehicle to clear immigration, there were actually two cars left behind us. [Is there such a word as penpenultimate?]

The weather was gloomy, very grey and heavily overcast. Sally Satnav did her job and navigated us through the tangled maze of tarmac that Bilbao refers to as a road system. Soon we were on cruise control travelling a well trodden path heading for Zaragoza. Unlike previous trips, our task this time was to aim for Zaragoza but miss. We needed to miss to the right and, sure enough, after three hours, Sally instructed us to exit the autopista and head right towards Tarazona which, for the sake of discussion, we will call Beyond. Soon after exiting the autopista we past a fuel station but I decided to wait until Beyond to fill up.

Enter: technological aberration. Grisel, our target, appeared to be about 3 kms to the left of Beyond. A main road headed that way towards Zaragoza. In that general direction we could see a serious hill/mountain with its top covered by wind turbines. Grisel, we thought, was on what was, for us, the front side of this serious hill/mountain, beneath said wind turbines. Whereas we expected to hang a left, Sally insisted we continue through Beyond. sans deviation. Curious, we thought. It goes without saying that I did not see another fuel station.

Sally proceeded to have us wind our way around the far side of the serious hill/mountain to the Back of Beyond, no civilization in view, before bearing left onto a single track road with the distressing sight of grass growing down its centre where tyres fear to tread. Had the track not been signed to Grisel, I’d have panicked more than I did.

We climbed the back side of the serious hill/mountain, rounding several hairpin bends, before finishing up on the summit directly beneath the assembled rotating turbines of the wind farm. From here our track descended round more hairpin bends with little more in sight. I was on the point of considering a 15-point turn when, first of all another vehicle approached out of the mist and then something resembling civilization loomed into view. Ah, Grisel, I presume. We entered the back of it.

Now, Grisel is very small but sports a mass of very closely packed streets, all of which were curved so you had no chance of seeing where they might be heading. They were so tightly packed that Sally’s map was unclear and, by the time she’d said “in x metres turn right”, you’d passed two junctions with a third lying ahead and were left wondering precisely which “turn right” she’d actually meant. Just to improve matters, the glowering sky now began depositing very wet rain.

We found a church with some (just) off-road parking and stopped. Francine resorted to a Spanish phone call to the hotel’s number. No answer or, more accurately, a recorded message in incomprehensible Spanish. A second attempt resulted in the same recorded incomprehensible Spanish. Happiness was at a low ebb. Francine was considering punching Jalón in as a destination and forgetting our overnight stop completely.

I heard voices and a lady appeared with a small child in tow. I donned my waterproof and trotted off to try my meagre Spanish. Muttering something along the lines of “por favor, señora” followed by “castillo”, “hotel” and “coche” [car], fortunately she got the gist of my problem and pointed downhill telling me to go “izquierda” which fortunately, I understood meant left. “Baja” [low] and “parking” [guess that one] also featured somewhere in her sentence. I muttered something further that I hoped expressed my deep gratitude to her before setting off and finding the parking area, complete with a sign showing pedestrian access to the castillo.

Armed with bags and raincoats, we were now faced with a locked, metal covered, humongous double door; not quite a portcullis but just as impenetrable. A rope dangled through a hole in the door, beside which were instructions to pull to gain entrance. We pulled. No sound emanated. I pulled again, more forcefully. More silence at first but eventually I heard the reassuring sound of approaching footsteps. The door opened. Lurch would not have looked out of place. Instead, we were greeted by the smiling face of a pleasant Spanish man who mercifully spoke reasonable English. Relief began to settle.

Checking in, our host was mightily amused by our satnav’s chosen route wasting an additional 5 or so kilometres to take us round the Back of Beyond, over the backside of the serious hill/mountain, threading us between the wind turbines before descending the front side back towards Beyond. “But we are only 3kms from Tarazona the other way”, he said. “Yes, we thought that, too”, we muttered through gritted teeth.

The worst over, we were in desperate need of a drink. Our original plan had been to find somewhere to eat in Tarazona but in the dark and the rain, and not yet having travelled the correct road, we opted instead for the remains of our picnic supplies, originally used on board the ferry, in our hotel room. Besides, very soon I was not going to be sober enough to drive. Our room had a very pleasant terrace which would have been great, were it not for the rain.

If anyone ever meets a Garmin programmer, please strangle them warmly by the throat until they be lightly dead.

Thanks to our friends in the village, we’ve been put in touch with what I’d describe as a freelance bunch of walkers in the area; they call themselves the Costa Blanca Mountain Walkers. Thanks also to the fact that my extremely irritating thus far 14-month long attack of plantar fasciiitis appears to be at least subsiding – it hasn’t actually gone away – I actually feel like doing considerably more walking at last. On this trip, Francine and I have been out on a few walks ourselves – those that we’ve managed to locate – and enjoyed them. And here’s a point: one of the difficulties with walking in a strange area – we’ve suffered both in France and more recently in Spain from this – is finding and following a walk’s supposed route. So, hooking up with what are essentially willing, free guides seemed like an excellent idea. Along with two others of our friends in the valley, today we went along on an exploratory ramble to meet them.

The CBMW folks had organized a coordinated set of four walks, all departing from the nearby village of Lliber. For freelancers, they seem extremely well organized. Their walks are graded rather like ski runs, as green (easy), blue (moderate), red (moderately strenuous) and black (strenuous) routes. Moderate, for example, is described as being:

up to 12km, less than 400 metres ascent and less than 50% rough going.

Since this was our first outing with them, and since we were still feeling our way back into it, we opted for the easy route, described as:

A walk of up to 4½ hours on good surfaced tracks and less than 200metres ascent.

Well, you’ve got to start somewhere.

We began on an unfamiliar track and the first interesting item of the day was a long string of Pine Processionary Moth caterpillars marching, in their traditional follow-the-leader style, across a concreted section of path. The caterpillars hatch from large gossamer nests in pine trees – they can readily been seen hanging there at this time of year. The caterpillars’ curiosity is that it is only the first in line that can see, allegedly, so all the rest follow on nose to tail like blind mice. Well, blind caterpillars, anyway. Now, such a spectacle fascinates Mr. Naturelover (me). Unfortunately for them, though, the caterpillars have a ferocious defence mechanism in the form of a covering of tiny poisonous hairs which can, it is said, kill a dog – the hairs break off and catch in a dog’s throat, causing swelling and choking the beast. Or so I’ was told. Here is an article sounding a little different, concerning the tongue rather than throat, but still including potentially fatal results. Being the founder member and president of the Dog-Free World Society, this is fine by me – there are far too many dogs on the planet and most are ill controlled – but it does upset dog-owners, which seem to constitute the majority of the human race, turning them into Pine Processionary Moth haters. Our back marker must have been one such because, as Francine and I stared in fascination at this curiosity of the natural world, he grabbed a rock, placed it over the lead caterpillar and trod on it. It’s probably a very effective way of destroying the whole string of ‘em, the rest of the critters being blind and now having no sighted leader. Unless they have an answer, such as another caterpillar suddenly developing sight, it seems like an evolutionary weakness. I imagine the remaining caterpillars now sit in the sun and desiccate waiting for the dead leader to start off again, though I’ll have to do more research. I was perturbed but bit my tongue, which at least didn’t swell up and choke me. [Seethe]

Still grinding my teeth, our route now turned out to be somewhat familiar, passing one of my dragonfly pools behind Lliber. It continued up the valley towards and into Jalón before crossing the river’s course and returning on the opposite side back towards Lliber. Francine and I had walked the track beside the river course on a number of occasions, even with our favourite exception to the dog rule – OK, so I’m a hypocrite and should be a politician. However, we were led off piste to stare at another local curiosity, this one man-made. It’s an old deposito, a water storage device, a.k.a. reservoir. Our neighbour, who has been visiting Jalón for 12 years, had been introduced to this old artefact a week or so earlier on his Riu-Rau walk. Water was pumped up out of this storage into irrigation channels, which could still just about be seen. There seems to be confusion over the age of this storage tank, Roman and Moorish being muttered, but I think I’d favour Moorish given the shape of those arches – very Alhambra. Not that I know anything of ancient things, you understand.

Educated, we continued back, passing through Lliber’s cemetery, to the restaurant from which we had set out. Here, I must say, the restaurant did a splendid job of catering for the 100+ that had taken part in the four routes of the day. We were treated to two tapas, croquetas and albondigas, then in our case, Merluza [hake] in a saffron batter, though lamb, chicken and pork were also on offer, and finally a desert. Three courses with a half bottle of wine per head – 12€. Quite staggering. I still do not know how the Spanish do it. OK, this was not haute cuisine but it was good food.

Other than murdering caterpillars, the rest of the CBMW folks were a convivial bunch. We could have been more stretched so we will have to try one of their more challenging routes next time but I certainly hope there will be a next time.

I have long disliked the British climate.[Ed: No, really?] Though this may sound extreme, I think of it as one of the worst climates on the planet. Such a statement requires explanation.

It’s not that Britain has normally had dreadful extremes of weather but it does have a drab nothingness, sometimes for 12 months of the year. Winters are frequently cold, wet grey affairs, when the oppressively leaden skies weigh down on the psyche. The countryside becomes sodden and muddy, turning walks into slithers. Unlike a decent continental climate there is not usually any useful snow fall so skiing and other potentially exciting winter pastimes are not made available. British winters are simply irritating.

A proper summer rarely arrives in Britain. One did arrive in 1976, a year that everyone who was around then can remember, but that memorable exception simply proves the rule. Summer is often a warmer version of winter with lighter grey skies and no dry season, as such. There is not usually heavy rainfall in summer, but completely sunny, dry days are a rarity. Showers are the order of the day and not the preserve of April with its folklore April showers. British summers frequently disrupt outdoor events and planning a BBQ is nigh on impossible. My mother used to complain ‘cos I gave her no warning if I suddenly invited her round for a BBQ. I explained that the weather had given me no warning, either. At some point in a year, summer may put in a brief appearance but it is usually for less than a month and we never know which month might be graced by it. British summers are hardly worth the name.

In these regards, the British climate is surely one of the most frustrating on the planet. That’s what I mean about being a bad climate. [Note: Britain now does seem to be getting worse winter extremes with various sections of the countryside being much more regularly inundated, and American politicians still stubbornly refuse to accept the notion of climate change.]

It is, perhaps, not surprising, therefore, that I  have had a long term love affair with the more southern regions of France and its Mediterranean climate. Here, with greater extremes of weather – inundation has long been a possibility – a proper summer does usually turn up and for considerably longer than a few measly weeks. Southern France is typified by the smell of hot pine forests and gloriously colourful Mediterranean plants, such as Bougainvillea, marking the difference in the climate. This glorious plant, frequently in flower, just screams “Mediterranean”.

With our relatively recent forays into Spain, even longer, reliable summers exist. I love ‘em all. Here, our friends can wander out into their garden and pluck a fresh lemon from their lemon tree, take it inside and cut a slice for their gin and tonic; a slice of fresh citrus fruit just seconds away from growing. That screams “Mediterranean”, too.

As a lover of summer side pursuits, I’ve long fancied living in a place where the climate not only allows me to get outside in comfort but that demonstrates the fact by allowing the iconic Bougainvillea to grow. recently, I’ve added been fancying the concept of having my own lemon tree for my gin and tonics, too.

Whilst we may now have such a suitable property, given our extended absences, a real lemon tree, though a small potted one would suffice, or a real Bougainvillea that would doubtless require attention to keep it alive through the lengthy summers, is not a practical proposition. However, knowing my desire for such an icon, Francine very cleverly found me the perfect answer for my birthday. I am now the proud owner of a maintenance-free Bougainvillea.

Happy chappy – modern fake flowers really are quite amazing.

One of the most appealing features of Casa Libélule when we were considering buying it, was its position half way up the south facing slopes of a mountain – well, hill since it’ll be under 3000ft – complete with balconies on both levels giving splendid views of the valley below. The lower level balcony, outside bedrooms 2 & 3, is really only wide enough for airing clothes but the upper level balcony, outside the living area, is about 2m deep and good enough for a (gas) BBQ and lunch table. It’s pleasant just to sit and watch from here.

We noticed from early days that there was a serious design flaw, however. A window and a sliding patio door open onto the balcony. What there wasn’t was any way of opening either the window or the door from the outside. When going out onto the balcony, we became very practiced at pulling the door to, preserving any heat inside, with our hands wrapped around the door edge to ensure that it didn’t fully close. Then Francine spotted a handy-dandy rubber, multi-purpose door stop which could be positioned inside the door jamb, thus saving our fingers – just close the door against it. Our hand habit was superseded by a new rubber doorstop habit.

This morning there was some activity in the first house of our development. Francine went out onto the balcony to be nosey. Eventually I followed to have a look myself. CLICK! What? OH SHIT (or words to that effect)! Where’s that handy-dandy little rubber door stop? Ah, there it is, on the floor inside the now-shut-with-no-means-of-opening-it door. And here we both are, on the outside.

Without breaking something, we are both now locked on the balcony. Being on the side of a mountain, the very hard concrete and stone ground level of our development is about 16ft/5m below our feet. Both our entrance door keys, should we ever manage to get to it, are locked inside the house, along with that handy-dandy little rubber door wedge. We had at least lodged door keys with two friends in the valley, to act as key-holders. However, our Spanish mobile, the repository of all our Spanish contact numbers, is also locked inside the house, along with our keys and that handy-dandy little door wedge.

I do have my English mobile phone in my pocket, though. It has contact details of our English neighbour who is also out in Jalón on this occasion. Being a smart phone [Ed: unlike its owner], I also have a my email contacts. I send off emails to our key-holders, hoping they’ll be watching their accounts. Next I call our English neighbour’s Spanish mobile which IS on the smart phone – no answer. I call Mrs English-Neighbour’s UK mobile. Voicemail. We pace up and down our distressingly small world, not receiving any responses to my emails. Over the course of about 30 minutes, four further attempts to reach Mrs. English-Neighbour’s mobile also go through to voicemail. Bugger! Now my phone’s battery is running distressingly low. Furthermore, I my phone account has a £2.50 cap on roaming charges which can’t be topped up without a credit card which is – you guessed it – locked inside the house along with our Spanish mobile, our keys and that handy-dandy little door wedge. It’s a race to see which runs out first, my battery or my £2.50 call limit.

A familiar car approaches up the steep hill below us – one of our neighbours, a full time resident. As she walks away from her car in the parking area behind Casa, I call to her from the edge of our prison, explaining our lamentable situation. Suppressing a smirk, she heads off to key-holder #1 who lives just below us. No response from his bell, car not on driveway – out. A second neighbour, the president of our owners’ association, appears and, completely smirk free, proceeds to call a locksmith. What an organized chap he is; just the sort to be president of our owners’ association. Ah, good.

Having failed to reach key-holder #1, neighbour #1 now sets off to key-holder #2, who will shortly be leaving for the airport on a return trip to the UK. It’s all beginning to look like a Hollywood last minute rescue – or is it more like Brian Rix farce? I’m certainly feeling stuffed. 😀 [My apologies, that’s a bilingual joke.]

A van approaches; sadly a painter not the locksmith.

A second van approaches. relief, the locksmith is here.

Now, when we locked ourselves IN Casa having just bought it [see A Key Moment – can you spot a pattern forming?], we had our entrance door lock changed to a security lock. Whilst our entrance door wasn’t now actually locked, it was on the latch. It took Mr. Locksmith a mere 15 seconds to gain entry, sans key, thence to rescue us from our self-imposed balcony prison. Blushes were in order.

Neighbour #1 now returned armed with our key from key-holder #2, who she had managed to intercept just prior to leaving for the airport.

Mr. Locksmith was not unfamiliar with our situation, having been called upon to free several similarly imprisoned people, some of whom had apparently been déshabille. There, blushes would certainly have been in order. Mr Locksmith offered to return mañana to make modifications to our doors such that we would not repeat the exercise. We’ll stay off the balcony until then.

In hindsight, the hand-wrapped-around-the-door approach was probably safer but, let’s face it, it was an accident waiting to happen, given the design – if I can call it design.

One of the places we most like to visit within easy reach of Casa Libelule is Moraira. Moraira is on the coast with a more or less south facing sheltered bay. It provides the satisfaction of seeing the sea and has pleasant enough cafes and restaurants for relaxation, In season, there is even a lagoon with the possibility of seeing some dragonflies. The sun was out today, though the air was cool, so we decided to go there.

We parked just outside town and began wandering towards the winter-subdued action. In the cool breeze, there weren’t even many birds on the lagoon; they were doubtless sheltering. Time was approaching lunch but our normally chosen cafe/restaurant displayed an unhelpful looking array of stacked chairs. Closed!

Forced into being adventurous, we ventured continued up and beyond the harbour where all the big boys’ toys were moored.On the higher ground above the harbour, we paused to take in the money view, before breaking new ground and continuing further round the next bend. There before us was a particularly appealing looking, sheltered bay. Judging by some of the houses sprinkled along the opposite hill, this was where the boys with the big toys might live..

The path continued left and downwards before tracing the edge edge of a delightfully sunny, sheltered bay. The walkway was lined with tables and a good number of people relaxing in the sun, though not as crowded as I might have expected. Lunch bells were now ringing loudly; we just had to go down and try to join them. As luck would have it, there was a free table under a sun canopy placed more or less centrally outside the unpretentious cafe itself. This was about as much invitation as we needed, combined with the fact that our favourite chopitos [baby squid] were on the cafe’s menu.

This is Portet. It was reasonably busy – the cafe was clearly a goldmine – but I couldn’t quite understand why there weren’t more people here given what we’d describe as an idyllic location. Maybe the relative lack of parking in Portet itself saves it? I could have sat here all afternoon.

My previous post introduced the term Riu-Rau. A Riu-Rau is a raising drying veranda or building, typified by a series of arches. Well, I suppose that it’s a grape drying building, really, since they become raisins only once they are dried. 😉 Anyway, today we were off with a couple of friends to see one.

We weren’t just off to see a Riu-Rau. This particular Riu-Rau is in Jesus Pobre, a small town relatively close by, and is used each Sunday for a farmers market. Markets are good [well, perhaps regular British markets aren’t so great] but farmers markets are even better. I think this one was actually being billed as an artisan market, which sounds even better – the power of marketing! 😀 Our friends picked us up and we set off in one car.

We didn’t know quite where we were going but our driver knew the way to the town/village. We abandoned ship in the first field that was being used for parking and implemented our strategy for finding our way to the action at such events: following other people or, occasionally, backtrack people carrying bags. Sure enough, we soon found the Riu-Rau which gets pressed into use as a market hall, allegedly each Sunday. This building looked new but I imagine it had been given a wash and brush up. (The lump behind it is the Montgo, BTW.)

There were some stalls scattered around the outside of the Riu-Rau but from my point of view the most interesting stuff was inside under cover – this is where most of the food was. I was particularly taken by a charcuterie stall (OK, that’s French but I don’t know the Spanish equivalent term). Here were some splendid looking chorizo sausages and some particularly fine looking morcilla (black pudding/blood sausage). I couldn’t resist – I bought one. After all, a plateful of morcilla y habas [broad beans] would make a fine supper. There were some good looking alcachofas [globe artichokes] on a vegetable stall which we couldn’t resist, either.

Sitting after our purchases with a coffee, we bumped into a couple who we’d seen peering around our development the day before. We’d shown them around our little Spanish hacienda, amicable folks that we are. They’d actually wansted to be nearer teh action and had made an offer on a place in Jesus Pobre. (I hope we didn’t put them off.) They were another Scottish couple looking for an escape route from the Scottish climate. I’ve recently realized the disproportionate amount of Scots that we count amongst our circle of friends over here; discounting our immediate neighbours in England, who are not out here full time, we now know 12 people living in the valley full time, 7 of whom are Scots. Considering that there are about 10 times as many English as Scots (in our home island, I mean), that’s one helluva disproportionate amount of Scots. Our latest acquaintances would make it 9 out of 13. Scotland must be a great country to leave. 😀

Regrettably, Francine’s stomach seemed to object slightly to the richness of my farmers market morcilla so I don’t suppose I’ll be able to repeat that. Still, I have at least sampled it. (I thought it very good.)