Diary of a Downshifter – Part 8 Downshifting to Spain
I’d never done any plumbing before but I did have that book – The Readers’ Digest Book of DIY and so armed with this I set about re-plumbing the entire house whilst Annabel knocked down false walls with hideous arches, revealing the beautiful and original eucalyptus beams that held the house together. Within a week we were able to test the plumbing. I had sore, stained fingers from the flux, burnt clothes from the blow torch and I was totally fed up with the whole thing and vowed never to do this again. The test was an abject failure. Water shot out from every joint – some of them inside walls and the shower head shot off with such force that it cracked the porcelain and I knew that I had to start all over again – but first I needed a drink or two and headed for the bar on the road to Benamargosa. I drew in and bumped straight into the car in front of me smashing his bumper. After announcing this in the bar, a worried Spaniard rushed out to see the damage but was back in minutes wholly unconcerned. ‘You hit the bumper seňor, that’s what they’re for,’ and he returned to his drink. I grabbed my beer and wondered for the millionth time about the mind of the Spanish. If I had even slightly scratched his car door there would have been hell to pay, but smashing a bumper? He was right. That is what they’re for! Soon the barman had found out that I was the English beekeeper up at la Peňa and announced that he too was a beekeeper, but he pitied me. His bees were near orange groves where nectar abounded whereas mine only had scraggy little wild flowers to forage off. His only trouble was he claimed ‘the disease’. His bees died from it every year and other beekeepers suffered from it in the area. Did my bees get the disease he asked? I told him that my bees didn’t suffer from this particular problem because they weren’t near crops such as oranges which were sprayed with insecticide each year. No one bothered to spray ‘scraggy little wild flowers.’ He hit his forehead and exclaimed,’ the spray! You think it’s the spray. The one that kills insects? You’re right, you’re right, bees are insects. It must be the spray. You seňor must be a professor; you must come and look at my bees immediately– but no. First you must have a drink to fortify your brain. He poured a generous measure of the local mosto and handed it to me. Mosto* is a deadly brew and within minutes the whole bar was engaged in a discussion about the effects of sprays on bees and as is usual in Spain, everyone had something to say about the subject. Very much later and with some difficulty I made my way home. I never did look at his bees but I did eventually finish the plumbing, Annabel mended the large hole in the wall in the bathroom with mud and stones and we set to building up our bee stocks.
*There are two types of ‘mosto’ in Andalucia. The first is the local ‘homemade’ wine, deadly and wholesome, but there is also the grape juice variety which is sweet and free of alcohol! Be careful which you choose.
