Mezcla

The Arrival

After an uneventful, but very expensive, drive through the entire length of France to Southern Spain in a self-drive box van, we arrived (handy hint: never hire a twin-wheel vehicle in Europe, they charge you a king's ransom on the toll roads). 

It was late January and we'd set off on icy English roads, crossed the channel in a force eight gale and completed three laps of the Calais ring road before finally finding the road south. Then we'd trundled along endless motorways at 60 mph, with innumerable stops to hand over vast amounts of cash at toll booths. As we travelled the weather gradually improved until we reached our destination in Spain and I fell out of the cab, having lost the use of my legs. It was amazing. It was as warm as a British summer.

The Boss had insisted that we take our all treasured furniture and possessions and, despite my objections, she got her way. Of course, we could have flown there in two hours and bought everything new in Spain for less than the cost of the transportation, but it seemed our battered old stuff had huge sentimental value.

I crawled into the on-site sales office to be greeted effusively by Paco, the promoter's agent. He sat us down in the office and insisted on making coffee and inane conversation until I pointed out that we had to unload the van. I had to return it to England straight away. So we needed the keys to the villa.

'You don't need any keys,' he informed us.

'We don't? Why?'

'Because we're still waiting for some of the doors.'

We drove the short distance to our dream home to be met by an army of builders. There was most of a house sitting among the debris but The Boss and I were apoplectic. There was no front door. All of the ground-floor rooms were supposed to have fancy French windows opening onto the terrace, but they were all open to the elements, and there was no terrace. Tumbleweeds blew around in the sitting room and we had to duck to avoid the sparrows whizzing through the downstairs hallway.

'You told us last week it was ready!'

'It was almost ready. We just had a few little last-minute problems.'

'Problems, what problems?'

'There was a local fiesta ... we lost a few days ... the suppliers didn't deliver ... anyway, don't worry, the garage is ready so you can put your things in there.'

'And where are we supposed to sleep?'

'The bedrooms have doors. It's perfect. Only the downstairs has a few little jobs to finish. In two days ... all done.' Paco assured us.

'You expect my wife to stay here alone, in a house with no doors, while I drive back to England? What if thieves get in?'

Paco eyed The Boss. 'They'll just have to take their chances,' he said.

The builders pitched in to help unload the van and carry beds upstairs. The electrician proudly showed me how to switch the electrics on and the plumber demonstrated that water came out of the taps. 

'What more could you need?' Paco asked.

'A lock on the bedroom door for a start,' I told him.

So we spent the first night with a chair wedged under the bedroom door handle and, luckily, no intruders showed up. Not that they would have found anything worth stealing. The next day I set off to return the box van to England and then drove straight back to Spain in our car. Four exhausting days later, we were ensconced in our building site, sharing our days with half a dozen cheerful Spanish builders, and I was introduced to the art of shrinking piles ...