You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October, 2007.
Having bought a chilli plant from the new farmers market at Trapiche last spring, I was delighted that the early ones to ripen were nice and added a lovely zing to my cooking and the second flowering resulted in me being blessed with a harvest of red shiny chillis in excesss of two dozen! This second batch seemed much hotter, with only a half of one being needed for quite a kick. However, life in the fridge wasn’t suiting them, so armed with advice from the trusty internet, I proceeded to preserve them, especially so my chilli loving sons and sister could experience my first Spanish crop. As I had no white vinegar to use the pickling option, I decided to dry half and freeze the other half, both processes requiring washing and deseeding. As can be seen on the photograph, I had the brainwave of hanging them in the sunshine using a kebab stick and coat hanger, the frozen ones were easier to accommodate in a tub in the freezer.
Standing back admiring my work, despite having washed my hands, I must have touched my face because all of a sudden I felt as if I was being branded with a hot iron on my cheek and forehead, then my eyelid began to sting and as I foolishly rubbed it, I realised what was happening. As my face reddened, the pain increased, not eased by a thorough washing with liquid soap, cold flanned, nivea, or fanning. Just before smoke started to bellow from my ears I plunged my face into a bowl of cold water and felt as though you could hear it “hiss”. Unfortunately, I had to breathe, so the next half an hour saw me developing a techinque to maximise my time underwater and minimise my breathing time. Happily, after about half an hour, I was able to manage with just a soaked cloth.
Not so for my hands! Throughout the night I woke with them on fire! Bedding was uncomfortable, air was uncomfortable, cream was painful, grandmother’s blessings were absolute curses and it was only after rubbing in brufen gel and having painkillers that I was able to get some sleep.
Sadly, a trip to the loo at 7.46 resulted in the transference of the burning agents to where such antagonistic chemicals are more sensitive even than the face!! Only by spending a very long time in a luke warm bath was I able to resume normal respiratory function! It has taken nearly 48 hours for my finger tips to feel normal again – a painful measure of the intensity of a fruit which now has my upmost respect.
Stresa was a much more touristy place than Arona, English was understood more and it had been more cosmetically maintained. The big hotel on the front looked as if it had been zapped out of a Jane Austin novel, even down to the wrought iron table and chairs on each little veranda with cloths and cushions. There is a ski lift type gondola which I bravely agreed to ride to the top of a beautiful mountain where I was able to enjoy a stiff brandy to calm my nerves. Sitting there enjoying the clear air and the views, I was suddenly addressed from behind by this slow American drawl, enquiring if I was English. One glance at Alex’s expression transported me to the Fawlty Towers sketch! In my unwilling role of Sybil I attended to their tales of travel with interest feeling my level of discomfort rising as they started to relate their itinery for the next day on their tour which included a trip to Switzerland, returning to Stresa to visit two Islands, then getting ready for dinner to travel to the third island (isola). Alex’s contribution to the conversation finally emerged with an exclamation of how that was all far too much, in true Basilesque, until he finally noted my disapproving stare!
After our hectic summer, then me working sessions in UK and two years of holidaying here at our home we decided to indulge ourselves with a break in Italy, one of the few foreign holiday destinations available from Malaga airport within our budget.
Guffawing like a pair of pre-adolescents, our arrival at Milan Malpensa airport saw us searching for a shuttle bus to our hotel Spagna (well we thought it sounded like smegma anyway!). However, once spoken by the driver we realised it is pronounced spanya (like in lasagne of course!!) and it took us a few days before it dawned on us that this is the Italian word for Spain – a coincidence which amused us anyway!
Anyway, Arona is an old little town with many of its buildings dating back to the 16th and 17th centuries, tiny little streets, windows with shutters, Romeo balconies and churches with towers (and not so tuneful but very early morning bells!). The first thing that stuck us was how neglected the buildings seemed, with crumbling walls, peeling or absent paint and splintered woodwork, leading us to the assumption that the inhabitants must be quite poor. The amount of graffiti was reminiscent of Salford subways and whilst I was unable to read it, some of the pictures were graphic in a multi-lingual way! Inside the hotel, the dowdy theme continued but it was very clean, the staff were friendly and cheerful and we had a lovely view of the new eye hospital!
Wearing our usual Spanish attire of shorts and t-shirts we set off to get our bearings only to find ourselves constantly stared at, heads turning everywhere we went with Alex blushing as his legs were appraised! Returning the scrutiny, however, made us realise that the locals were all immaculately groomed and dressed in autumn/winter clothing of very high quality, including some in scarves, despite the warm sunshine. As you know, we are fairly low observers of fashion hierarchies and when we are trying our best we wear our holiday “George” or “Primark” gear with pride! However, closer examination of the shop windows revealed the reason for the lack of house maintenance! The clothes and shoe prices were phenomenal! I struggled to see a pair of shoes less than 100 euros, coats were several hundreds of euros, even underwear, nightwear and children’s wear were in the high 70s upwards! A red sock in their whites wash must be catastrophic! Even though we ditched our shorts, we felt like eccentric hoboes for the remainder of the holiday, but it was a fun role with our Spanglish attempts at Italian. It was an interesting and different socialogical concept to observe such neatness and poise of individuals, even on the boats or working in the shops and I felt they were as sorry for me and my clothes as I was for them and their buildings.
The lake and surroundings were really beautiful and the villages look picturesque from a distance. We went on trips on the lake most days so I will have to do different blog entries for different days as I struggle getting pictures onto each.
Alcaucin is a village 5 kilometers by road from our village and is where our town hall is situated. The road is windy with no pavements and to get to the car park involves driving through the village which is only one car wide and makes my knuckles very white as a passenger! The view of the village when approaching from the road is marred by some large developments of apartment blocks and therefore doesn’t seem to be very picturesque. We have always believed it would be possible to walk there, so one September day when the weather had cooled to the high 20s we decided to give it a try.
The hill behind our house looks like it just goes on up towards the mountain and we had always planned to go exploring. My endeavours to obtain a good walking map, or indeed any map of the area, despite importing a military map at great expense from USA, proved completely unsuccessful at detailing any footpaths or routes.
However, having successfully found our route via the dirt tracks to Vinuela post office, we were hopeful that we would reach our destination. As from the photographs above, not only was it possible but it was absolutely spectacular. The track climbs steeply behind us then goes round a bend to reveal a hidden, deep valley, which even in September when there has been no rainfall since May, seemed green and for here, lush! The only sounds audible are those of occasional birdsong, and our own footfall on the dusty track. We passed a couple of Spanish homes where their dogs alerted the owners to our passing and they came out and peered at us as though we were completely bonkers, but still nodded buenas dias!
After the steep climb with the valley to the left, we turned a bend to see the main valley opening up infront of us with the “horseshoe” or “saddle” pass. The path continued to climb and apart from one dip, we seemed to be getting higher and higher. After a final turn, there it was, just to our left – the village. As I walked along, a round object seemed to roll for no reason down a little embankment, then scurrying after it a large beetle caught it up and continued to roll it along (as above). We watched it in fascination for a few minutes (later confirmed as a dung beetle of the “roller” variety by Wikipedia) before continuing on to Alcaucin. Our arrival there was a lovely treat as the view of the village when approached from above is very welcoming and rustic. The little houses and lanes lined with plants seductively led us to a village centre bar and much needed refreshment, having consumed our 2 litres of water on route.
There is a chestnut fair there on 30th October so we are going to go and see what that entails, walking again, weather permitting!
Recent Comments