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.)

On the Thursday after we arrived, our UK neighbours, who happen to be here in Spain at the same time, had booked into a locally organized walking tour of Jalón, principally to see the Riu Raus [raisin drying buildings, I believe – maybe more on that later]. What Francine and I were most interested in on their return, however, was their report of orchids in flower on part of the walk. We grabbed directions and set off.

There’s a lot of rough ground in Spain but there were supposedly two orchids on some rough ground behind one of our favoured bars, just after a stations of the cross track. Without precision, there was a fair bit of ground to search but, sure enough, just off the main track Francine spotted two orchid spikes. They were big ones, too, so she spotted them from about 20 metres away. After confirming here suspicion in a book, Francine decided these were Giant Orchids (Barlia robertiana), with quite broad leaves. These two were quite different colours, too, one being very pale. Francine had seen one, her first, she thought, on a walk up a hill behind Senija a few years ago but, despite searching there again, had failed to find the suspect again. With a flowering season noted as January – May, we had perhaps been looking a little too late. So, these were a welcome find.

Spurred on by this discovery, we were keen to see how another of our previously visited orchid patches was faring. We set off up the Bernia, straining my neck looking beyond Italian design obstructions as we bounced and joggled our way round multiple hairpin bends. Finally, to my neck’s relief, we arrived.

It’s a tad exposed up at the top of the Bernia road but we were soon finding individuals of two species, the rather unattractively named Dull Ophrys (Ophrys fusca), which I’d describe as anything but dull with its strikingly dark lip, and the Sawfly Ophrys (Ophrys tenthredinifera). Because we were early in the flowering season, they seemed to be in good, photogenic condition.

There was another notable find up on the Bernia: masses of the tiniest little daffodil-like flowers we’d ever seen. These appear to be Jonquils (Narcissus jonquila). The stems were, I’d say, 6-8cms tall and the flower heads little more than 1.5 cms across. Quite charming.

We did try a wander around Las Salinas in Calpe, too. There wasn’t much moving but we did find one more Giant Orchid near the boardwalk overlooking the Flamingos. Here’s a bit of a close-up of the flower spike, to show a bit more detail.

I don’t think we were expecting to find orchids in full flower, though we had seen evidence of leaves before. A pleasant surprise.

We’ve been here a few days, now. We arrived on Tuesday and, fo the first time in three attempts, we actually made it through the awful automated passport checking machines that Alicante airport has seen fit to install. Again, mercifully, we seemed to be the only recently arriving flight, otherwise the queues would have been a lot longer. As it is, we got through in about 15 minutes. [It felt like longer but probably wasn’t.]

After a very short wait at the Centauro desk, we got the keys to our rental car. On our last two visits we’ve been given a Skoda Fabia – a reasonable car but then, it’s German, in reality. 😉 This time. we’d been allocated a Lancia Ypsilon. Warning bells! I’ve previously made my feelings about Lancia known in Tabling a Modification. Depressingly, It seemed that I was about to drive one.

In another first, the car was actually in the correct parking bay. We did a quick tour of inspection and sat in. I found the controls I was likely to need – lights, wipers, indicators – and and stuck the key in the ignition. I turned it to fire the sucker up. [Apologies if this doesn’t work, I’ve never done a video in a blog before.] Check this out:

What was that? What on earth were those main dials doing? It’s almost mesmerising – you want to keep turning it off and back on again, just so you can keep watching those dials dance. Last time our Skoda Fabia had a blue warning light that didn’t constitute a warning, now we’ve got dancing dials. Such is Italian design.

On the trip up the autopista, the car was OK, mostly. Our neighbours, who eventually caught us in their own car, christened this thing the jelly mould. I see their point. For those who won’t have seen a Lancia for many years [fortunate people], here it is.

I’ve been driving this car for a couple of days, now, and it has become clear that, once taken off the autopista onto ordinary roads, particularly onto relatively mountainous Spanish ordinary roads, that it becomes a complete pain in the neck. I’m tempted to say a dangerous pain in the neck. There follow a couple of examples. The photos are taken from my eye position in the driving seat.

Let’s approach a right hand bend on a simulated relatively mountainous Spanish road. This is a genuine Spanish road but it’s on our development, which is on the side of a mountain, where I could stop in safety to enable a snap of what I’m talking about. The rear view mirror is very low and there is a solid piece of Italian artistry above it, just where sensible car designers would have put a windscreen, seamlessly blending in with the no less solid roof. As I think you can see, the driver’s view around the curve is almost completely obstructed. Car, cyclist, pedestrian? Who knows? [This wasn’t intended as a selfie, I hate selfies and I hate the very term. Just so we’re clear on that. Blame the rear-view mirror.]

Now let’s approach a left hand curve on my mountain route simulation. Here I am, once again stopped on our development. The left hand view is actually even worse. There is – I think you can just see the beginning of it through the windscreen – a road turning off to the left. Now it is the duty of the low, down-curved roofline and thick front pillar to combine and completely obscure the view. There’s about a hundred metres of straight road made utterly invisible. The 9th Panzer Division could be approaching down that road and you wouldn’t have a clue.

The net result, if the driver intends to avoid a fatal accident for very long, is an almost constant ducking, bobbing and weaving motion to see under and/or around these very effective obstructions.

One positive about the car is that it has very good road holding and cornering, as one might expect from a country where all cars and drivers are expected to emulate Ferraris and Lamborghinis. However, it is now the turn of the stiff suspension, the reason the road holding is effective, to kick in bouncing and shaking the driver’s already strained neck.  The neck rapidly becomes sore.

It’s all very tiring and, indeed, tiresome. I hate it!