Awake, for morning in the bowl of night has flung the stone that puts
the stars to flight.
And, lo, has caught the sultan’s turret in a noose of light!

Spanish life is not always likeable but it is compellingly loveable – Christopher Howse: ‘A Pilgrim in Spain’

Cosas de España/Galicia

The disgraced ex-king has arrived back in Galicia – by private jet, of course – to take part in another regatta at nearby Sanxenxo. As he can barely walk now, I’ve wondered how he can be a crew member in a racing yacht. But I guess the answer is he’s sitting down all the time. If not almost lying down. Or he has a lackey to pull the ropes for him. [I know there’s a special name for ropes in a boat but I can’t recall what it is at the moment . . . ]

Talking about miscreants . . . A local deputy mayor has been fined a huge sum and deprived of her driving licence for 9 months, after being found to be almost 4 times over the alcohol level. This happened after she’d left a local fiesta. You’d think she’d know that the police wait on the edge of these, so that they can shoot fish in a barrel.

For obvious reasons, I’ve just recalled that not just one but three driving instructors in Majorca were found to be over their permitted alcohol limit this week. Which I believe is 0.0%.

Pv city has a low level of crime and according to new stats released to day, they’re lower than ever so far this year. Which is nice to know. But I suspect it means the various police forces which drive cars slowly around the place will be even more bored than before. Likewise the two bastards on motorbikes who drive around looking for motorists to ‘denounce’.

The UK

This is an article on the (alleged) insanity of the new Labour government’s energy policy. Certainly sounds worrying for all and sundry.

A propos . . . A comment from Private Eye: For months now, we have been urging those politicians and green advocates who claim “renewable energy is cheap” and will “reduce our bills” to watch carefully for this year’s subsidies auction. As predicted, the results demonstrate the exact opposite of their claims. When will they accept the obvious – that cleaner electricity costs more? The auction has confirmed that overall the price of new renewable electricity is rising sharply. In sum, our future sources of decarbonized electricity cost significantly more than the sources we use today that they will replace. This will have to be faced, rather than avoided, and the costs admitted. Unless the government plans to subsidise consumers by a general taxation (as during the energy crisis) increases in electricity bills on nailed on for all And none of this will “delink the price of electricity from gas prices”: they’ll remain stubbornly linked. [UK electricity prices, by the way, are much higher than those in competitive economies.]

The EU & The UK

Immigration: An interesting development reported on by The Times here . . . Germany and France are calling on Brussels to negotiate an “essential” asylum and migration deal with the UK which is “conducive” to European Union demands. The new UK PM’s “reset” of European relations is seen as an opportunity for the EU to win concessions on “legal mobility” for migrants into Britain in return for helping stop irregular Channel crossings in small boats. So . . Will all those East European folk return to the UK’s bars, restaurants and hotels? And strawberry fields?

A propos . . . Another Private Eye comment: One mistake Prime Ministers David Cameron, Theresa May, and Boris Johnson all made was to assume they could get concessions from the
EU without giving much in return.

The Way of the World

A ‘right-wing’ view on the impact of human rights laws. . . A profound challenge to the particular interests of the nation state. And: Productive of a culture which has undermined the fundamental values of Britain and the West.

English

• The T-zone: The area of the face that includes the forehead, nose, and chin – known for having a higher concentration of sebaceous (oil-producing) glands compared to other parts of the face, making it more prone to oiliness and acne breakout.
• Foetal no-marks: A description of people in their 30s with no achievements to their name who’ve been sent to the House of Lords.

Did you know?

Ever been suspicious your phone was eavesdropping on your conversations and then targeting ads at you? Well, if Ford gets its patent approved it might well be your car doing the eavesdropping.

You Have to Laugh

Perry has sent me a funny video. Best not to watch it if your mind is narrow,

Finally . . ,

As if jinxed, both my printer and my phone simply stopped dead today. In the case of the printer, this was just seconds after I’d thought how useful it was to have a printer at home, especially one that had proved robust over several years. I suspected some sort of paper jam but the bloody machine refused to give up the ink cartridge until I yanked it out with force, clearly damaging it in the process. Only when I inserted an old – almost empty – cartridge – did the printer work again, to my immense relief. The phone, though refused to respond to any commands and my taking the back off it only made things worse. Far worse. Nothing appeared on the screen when I put it back together. So, off to the shop tonight, to buy the replacement I’ve been thinking about for a while.

Finally, Finally . .

Another moan . . .. Long term readers will know September has always been my favourite month. But things change. Thanks to the massive increase in ‘pilgrims’ passing through Pv city -150,000 this year, compared with 5,000 pa 15 years ago – it’s now hard to get a table of an evening on the terraces of my favourite watering holes. The essence of the problem is that the strategy of getting to a terrace at 7pm – which works well during July and August when the tourists are all late-eating Spaniards – turns out to be useless when the city is full of hungry foreigners desperate to eat ‘early’.

And, on top of that, it’s the month when the Atlantic Blanket returns and I wake up to heavy rain and a view like the one at the top of this post. Possibly, like pilgrims, there’ll be more of these than there used to be in autumn. If the climate is changing, perhaps October will be the new September. Or even November. Whatever, happens, it seems I’ll now have to go down to town earlier than ever before, to beat the rush.

MY YEAR IN THE SEYCHELLES

• Part 1: 12 September 2024: Why VSO?
• Part 2: 13 September 2024: The Leaving of Liverpool
• Part 3: 14 September 2024: An interlude: The Seychelles back then
• Part 4: 14 September 2024: Departure, Nairobi and Arrival
• Part 5: 15 September 2024: Arriving in Mombasa
• Part 6: 16 September 2024: The YCWA in Mombasa
• Part 7: 17 September 2024: The flight to Mahé
• Part 8: 18 September 2024: Our Arrival
• Part 9: 19 September 2024: Early Days
• Part 10: 20 September 2024: My Colleagues and Some Early Adventures
• Part 11: 21 September 2024: Mr Warren and Me
• Part 12: 22 September 2024: Chris Green
• Part 13: 23 September 2024 The Hotel des Seychelles

Episode 14: A Night to Remember

It was hardly surprising that Jerry reserved for others his own brand of ebullience and bonhomie. Martin and I, anyway, had always suspected him of being something other than the ex-RAF Englishman he made out. At our first meeting he had asked Martin where he came from and, on being told “Reading”, replied cryptically: “What a coincidence; I come from Bradford”.

Not that we disliked Jerry. Far from it. Even the laundry episode couldn’t prevent us deriving tremendous amusement from watching him stride through the grounds, taking steps 2 feet too long for a man of his medium height, and barking staccato orders in Creole to the servants.

Even more amusing were his efforts to be everything to all men. Like all good hotel owners, he moulded his image to suit his guests and, as we were there for so long, we were able to see just when he was doing it.

And like all supporters of UDI and the Rhodesian leader, Ian Smith – as he naturally was – he could be provoked into paroxysms of rage by indiscreet statements about fascist dictators unintentionally made in his presence.

But it was the blue-blooded and the famous brought out the best in Jerry. Noel Coward paid the Seychelles and the hotel a visit in November 1965 and Jerry had been beside himself since the previous September. As it happened, all his carefully laid plans for entertaining the great man came to nothing, as Mr Coward was laid up with amoebic dysentery shortly after he arrived and was not seen again until the day of his departure.

Even the weather conspired against Jerry on this occasion. The rain started to fall on the first day of the writer’s 4-week visit, continued day and night for 15 or 16 days, intermittently for the next 2 weeks and then stopped abruptly on the day he left. The Director of Tourism and Information even felt compelled to rush into print to counter any bad press Mr Coward might give the Seychelles.

Jerry, however, was to get another chance. Seven months later, we were visited by representatives of the English aristocracy. A real live Duke and Duchess and a couple of other notables.

Jerry’s first act was to issue an edict that I was not to play my guitar at any time during their stay. As his might disturb her Ladyship.

Poor Jerry had been forced to site her too close to me for comfort, as the best room in the hotel happened to be next to mine, in the row of 4 on stilts right on the beach. (Martin had left the hotel by this time.) For the duration of her stay I was subjected to semi-jocular remarks about noise and disturbing people and every time Jerry saw me making my way to my room, little beads of sweat would form on his brow.

One of the party was apparently an expert on ornithology and had arranged to give a lecture at the Seychelles College on the life and habits of the Sooty Tern, a bird which lives in great numbers on one of the many outlying islands in the Seychelles Group.

The interests of the local populace in birds extended only as far as eating them and so our ornithological friend couldn’t afford to be optimistic about the number of devotees he’d attract to his lecture. Jerry, however, seemed to feel that a poor show of hands would reflect on his capabilities as a hotel proprietor and consequently spent several hours rushing round the hotel and its environs offering every kind of inducement imaginable, in an effort to get a token crowd to the lecture. He even got me to go along, despite the fact that feathered birds had never interested me except in a roast condition.

As it happened, quite a few people turned up and the lecture was thoroughly enjoyable.

The high spot of the visit occurred one balmy night in July, just before our distinguished guests were due to leave. I’d been out visiting a Seychelloise girlfriend, Maryse, for most of the evening and, on my return, the sound of singing attracted me the hotel lounge.

The latter was usually a place of great tranquillity, frequented only by those wishing to read very old editions of English magazines or listen to the infernal piped music Jerry provided. On this particular night, it was a riot of sound. Things really started to happen just after I arrived.

Those present included all those hotel residents who didn’t retire before 9 o’clock, 3 New Zealanders from a catamaran anchored in the bay, Jerry and his wife, Anne, and last – but very certainly not least Duke Something-or-Other. His Lordship had clearly raised his drinking elbow once or twice too often and was very, very happy.

Jerry looked apprehensive – as well he might have done – for the Duke suddenly got it into his head that all the magazines and papers needed shredding. So, he proceeded to toss every piece of literature he could find into the large fan hanging from the ceiling. Jerry grimaced but said nothing.

Sighting the chink in his armour, the New Zealand lads, wild at the best of times, took the opportunity to start a mock fight in the centre of the room. Those of us who weren’t on the floor laughing at Jerry’s look of bewilderment took up our imaginary cudgels and in no time at all the lounge was a battlefield. Everyone against the Duke.

Jerry continued to suffer in silence, occasionally breaking into an embarrassed smile, as chairs, books, jugs of water, bottles and lamp-standards sailed from one side of the room to another. The carpet was rolled up and bazooka’d out of the window and every stick of furniture in the room was turned upside or just smashed to pieces. Still Jerry did nothing, presumably fearing an insult to his Lordship.

But it couldn’t go on for ever and the Duke suddenly decided it was time to stop. Murmuring something about “tidying up”, he collected together most of the paper he’d shredded through the fan, piled it in the centre of the floor and set fire to it. Far from stamping it out, Jerry – to everyone’s utter amazement – poured whisky on the flames. Anything to keep his Lordship smiling.

The VIPs departed the next day, while there was still some of the hotel still standing.

Postscript: Jerry later admitted that the Duchess had told him she’d enjoyed my attempts to accompany myself on the guitar to renditions of Lemon Tree and Jamaica Farewell. But possibly not my attempts to alter the lyrics of the latter, swapping the Seychelles for Jamaica and inserting a reference to Maryse.

My thanks to those readers who take the trouble to Like my posts, either after reading on line or in my FB group Thoughts from Galicia.

The Usual Links . . .

• You can get my posts by email as soon as they’re published. With the added bonus that they’ll contain the typos I’ll discover later. I believe there’s a box for this at the bottom of each post. If you do this but don’t read the posts, I will delete your subscription. So perhaps don’t bother if you have other reasons for subscribing . . .
• For new readers: If you’ve landed here looking for info on Galicia or Pontevedra, try here. If you’re passing through Pontevedra on the Camino, you’ll find a guide to the city there.
• For those thinking of moving to Spain:– This is an extremely comprehensive and accurate guide to the challenge, written by a Brit who lives in both the North and the South and who’s very involved in helping Camino walkers. And this is something on the so-called Beckham Rule, which is beneficial – tax-wise – for folk who want to work here. Finally, some advice on getting a mortgage. And this article ‘debunks claims re wealth and residency taxes’. Probably only relevant if you’re a HNWI. In which case, you’ll surely know what that stands for.

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