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

Although things are not as bad as they were 20 years ago, Spain still has a major unemployment problem, particularly among the young – in Spain 18-35. According to Eurostat, it has the highest unemployment rate in the EU at 12%, followed by Greece at 10% and Finland at 8%. And yet the PM has said he wants more immigrants, possibly to do the jobs Spaniards can’t be persuaded to do. And he’s regularising the situation of many thousands of illegal immigrants already in the country. ‘Doing a Mrs Merkel’, as I recently called it.

It’s all a bit of a conundrum. To stay in power, the PM has to appease the Far Left elements of his coalition – and there’s more than one – but this might not be the major factor behind him taking a very different approach from any other European leader. It doesn’t go down well with right-of-centre politicians and commentators, of course, and here’s one that came up today in my Spain feed, from a Spanish commentator.

That article cites the number of state employees in Spain. I might have already said that I read that a landmark had recently been reached, with some relevant percentage figure passing 50%. This can’t be the public sector percentage of the total in Spain, as the official number is 17%, compared with 18% in the UK. It’s possibly the percentage of new jobs being created by a (socialist) government whose stated policy is to significantly increase public sector employees at national, regional and municipal levels. Incidentally, the highest national percentages are Oman: 79%, Cuba: 77%, Seychelles: 44%, Russia: 41% and Liberia: 40%. And the lowest are: Mali: 2%; Singapore: 3%; Bangladesh: 3%; India: 4%; Tanzania: 5S%

A few months ago, the pony of the EU President was killed by a wolf. And now Brussels is proposing to reduce relevant protective measures. Can there be a connection? Anyway, Spain has made the EU aware that its strongly against this

Renfe: I think I forgot to mention that the worst thing to happen is to go, several times, through the process – choosing and reserve trains and seats, confirming payment details – only to be then told ‘We’re sorry. We can’t deal with your request right now. Try later.’ A friend has confirmed to me today that she long gave up o n the site and goes straight to the station, as I’ve decided to do henceforth.

Walking to an Indian restaurant for lunch yesterday, we passed a Galician bar and restaurant. Checking their wine-list outside, I noted they had Ribeiro and, of course, Albariño white wines but none of the Godello grape, my favourite. I was tempted to go inside and remonstrate with them. But restrained myself.

One of those cases which probably affect our car insurance premiums – the local police arrested a drunken 17 year old driving an uninsured car, with his father beside him. Also drunk. At 8am. . .

More local news . . . Another major haul of heroin in Pontevedra, doubtless from our friends in South America.

The UK

Oooh , , A resigning Labour MP denounces the new PM for his various sins . . .

A separate relevant comment. That might well be valid . . . There is no rush about installing a new Tory leader. Labour are doing an excellent job of demolishing their own credibility without any distraction from an official Opposition. If anything, this whole process might as well be done at the slowest possible pace so as not to create any distraction from the shambles that Sir Keir Starmer has managed to create in such a breathtakingly short time.

And another one, from someone else . . . Welfare to work is the next storm approaching. Get it wrong and the slow burning crisis of joblessness, mental stress and economic degradation will continue. Starmer, who has so far shown the political sure-footedness of an hour old lamb, will see his approval ratings fall even further.

Germany

Germany has been too slow to adapt to the modern world – and is now paying the price: The sick man of Europe is suffering from an over-reliance on legacy industries.

Quote of the Day

Something from Rod Liddle in The Sunday Times on a Spanish animal matter, but bulls rather than wolves . . . Spain is affording human rights to gorillas, orangutans and chimpanzees. These creatures can no longer be exploited for human gain. A spokesbull for the Spanish Bovine Resistance League (RBLE) said wryly: “I am looking out of my pen and, incredibly, I can’t see a single gorilla or orangutan in the vicinity. Nor indeed anywhere from Barcelona to Cádiz. Not even a marmoset. It would impress me more if the government had outlawed cruelty to animals that actually live in Spain. And stopped camply dressed flouncing idiots trying to spear animals like me with their swords while shouting histrionically. And also ceased pushing donkeys off buildings to see if they bounce. Call me back when that legislation is passed. Gorillas, my arse.”

Did you know?

Rome’s famous Spanish Steps aren’t Spanish at all.

Finally . . .

MY YEAR IN THE SEYCHELLES

• Episode 1: 12 September 2024: Why VSO?
• Episode 2: 13 September 2024: The Leaving of Liverpool
• Episode 3: 14 September 2024: An interlude: The Seychelles back then
• Episode 4: 14 September 2024: Departure, Nairobi and Arrival
• Episode 5: 15 September 2024: Arriving in Mombasa
• Episode 6: 16 September 2024: The YCWA in Mombasa
• Episode 7: 17 September 2024: The flight to Mahé
• Episode 8: 18 September 2024: Our Arrival
• Episode 9: 19 September 2024: Early Days
• Episode 10: 20 September 2024: My Colleagues and Some Early Adventures
• Episode 11: 21 September 2024: Mr Warren and Me
• Episode 12: 22 September 2024: Chris Green
• Episode 13: 23 September 2024 The Hotel des Seychelles
• Episode 14: 24 September 2024: A Night to Remember
• Episode 15: 25 September 2024: Visitors
• Episode 16: 26 September 2024: Dr McGregor and Me
• Episode 17: 26 September 2024: Dr McGregor and Me 2
• Episode 18: 27 September 2024: Teaching Duties

Episode 19: The Watch

This was a stainless steel Omega chronometer.

Shortly after arriving on Mahé, I saw it sitting, enticingly, on a pad of what looked like red silk, in its own little red box in the window of an Indian merchant’s store in Victoria – near a small, ugly clock tower in the middle of the tiny ‘square’ which served as the centre of town. Like most of the buildings in the capital, the shop was single storey, wooden affair, with a rusty corrugated-iron roof.

The watch captivated me and I decided then and there I’d take advantage of the chance to buy it tax free and that I’d finance the purchase by making savings out of my wages over the next 11 or 12 months.

This presented me with a challenge, as the watch was priced at £32 and I was set to earn only £1.50 a week. In a word, I’d have to save at least two thirds of my wages.

But this I duly did, checking each week that the precious watch was still in the shop window and going in occasionally to confirm with the shopkeeper our deal, under which I would pick it up and pay for it on the day of my departure.

Among the many savings I made was confining myself to one glass of just lemonade a night. And I was helped by the friendly bar staff, who – as I’ve said – took pity on me and sometimes didn’t charge me.

I can’t recall where I kept the precious cash but it must have been somewhere pretty secure.

When the big day arrived, I finally took possession of the timepiece shortly after boarding the boat that would take me and Martin to Mombasa on the first leg of our trip back home. This was because the shopkeeper had to be sure I was off the island before selling the watch to me duty-free. To my horror, the gentleman in question took advantage of the situation to raise the price from 32 to 35 pounds – a not inconsiderable sum in those days.

Somehow or other – probably a loan from Martin – I got the money together and bid the merchant a distinctly cool farewell. Scarcely had he got off the boat when a hand fell on my shoulder and somebody rather official-looking asked me to accompany him to a nearby office. There he said he believed I was smuggling a valuable timepiece out of the islands. Stomach churning, I said that I did indeed have an Omega watch but that I’d purchased it legitimately, though admittedly tax free.

I must have looked desperate, as the official took pity on me and, unable to maintain the pretence, collapsed laughing and confessed I’d been set up by one of my friends. Which one, I never found out.

From Mombasa, Martin and I took a train to Nairobi and from there we caught a plane to London. As we approached the UK, I began to wonder how to get the watch through Customs without paying any duty on it. For one thing, I didn’t have any cash to pay it. For another, I didn’t want to.

So, I took the watch out of its fancy box and, with sadness, dumped the latter in the pocket of the seat in front of me. Then I moved the strap to its widest position and shoved the watch up my (admittedly) skinny arm.

Passing through Customs like this was a bit of a trial, as nerves got the better of me and deprived my mouth of the saliva it needed to function. When the agent asked me if I had anything to declare, nothing came out by way of a Yes or a No. At least, not until I tried a second time. Or possibly a suspicion-arousing third time.

But, safely through, I adjourned to the nearest toilets and moved the watch down to my wrist – only to realise I’d left a walking stick bought as a gift on the far side of the Customs desk. So back went the watch up my arm and back I went into the Customs area to retrieve the stick. The state of my guts at this point can easily be imagined.

Back home with my watch, I became utterly obsessive about its accuracy. The literature that came with it had assured me it wouldn’t gain or lose more than a second a day. Which is what entitled it to be called a chronometer. So I called the ‘speaking clock’ at least once a day – it was free back then – to satisfy myself that my money had been well spent.

Once at university in London, I made the chance discovery that Omega’s main service centre was more or less around the corner from King’s College, in Chancery Lane. I made full use of this, taking the watch in for calibration each time it began to gain or lose more than the guaranteed second a day. They must have loved me. They certainly recognised me. And normally just took the watch in silence, giving me the appropriate slip of paper.

During my first year at King’s, I made friends with an American from New Orleans who’d recently come into possession of a Rolex Oyster, a far sportier looking thing than my simple (but classic-looking) Omega Constellation. And the main competition in the chronometer stakes. I can’t say our rivalry on this matter did our friendship any harm – we’re still regularly in touch. But I can still recall him telling me one day that his watch had a characteristic tick, which distinguished it from mine. In a superior sort of way, I felt he meant.

As part of my 21st birthday present, my parents bought me a stainless steel strap for the watch – presenting it to me in the hotel in London in which they were staying for some corporate do my father was attending. Along with a black Anglepoise lamp and a Peterson pipe that I then smoked for a month or two. Or possibly only a week.

In 1973, my wife and I moved to Iran for 3 years and our first flat had its own swimming pool. Getting out of it one day, I was horrified to see that, notwithstanding its claim to be at least watertight if not waterproof, the watch had shipped water and ceased to function. So I sent it off to Geneva and, in due course, back it came, fully operational. Good people the Omega folk.

Some time after that, my wife bought me the first in a succession of new watches and the Omega, slipping out of my life, found a place in my bedside table, from which it never moved until a few years ago. This is when I decided to abandon all the other timepieces and have the Constellation serviced and repaired. This was done, for quite a tidy sum, in Vigo and the watch was scarcely been off my wrist after that. It was, for me, a thing of great beauty and sentimental value, as every glance at it brought back memories galore. Certainly one of my best ever purchases and worth the deprivations I’d inflicted on myself all those years ago.

As both I and the watch grew older, it began to lose more than a second a day and the guarantee ran out, as they do. But I matured and ceased to care about such trivia. I was just happy to wear something I’d invested so much time and effort in.

There is a sad postscript to this little tale . . . After cutting the hedge at the bottom of my garden, I realised that the watch had slipped off my wrist. Having not found it among the branches or on the ground, I feared it had fallen between the earth and the concrete wall going down from my garden to the communal facility. So, I bought a small but very strong magnet to drop down the narrow gap. On the end of a cord, of course. But this didn’t produce results. Likewise the metal detector I then bought. There was metal fence right behind my hedge, on top of the concrete wall, and I couldn’t get rid of this. So, the detector pinged every time it came close to the hedge and the gap below it.

I live in hope that my watch will re-appear one day. Preferably before I pop my clogs. You might think this is mad but it’s exactly what happened with my wedding ring after I’d lost it in the same way. After a storm, it appeared on the path of the communal gardens, right below my hedge.

But, in a neat touch, I lost it again when pruning the bougainvillea outside my bedroom window, when throwing the cuttings – avec ring – towards my lawn.

The metal detector has found several odd things in said lawn but not the ring.

So . . . A second reason for living in hope. Even for someone who’s too much of a cynic to be a natural optimist.

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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.