Feeling the Heat

It’s hot. It’s bloody hot. Again. We’ve been through two heatwaves in the past month and now we’re into a mini-heatwave where the afternoon temperatures only reach 40 degrees. If there is anybody left in the world who could deny climate change, please come here for a week in July and August.

Climate change in happening and it’s happening now. Some part of me thought it might not affect us until we had passed this mortal coil but that was a forlorn hope, I guess. And each time that we buy some plastic-covered essential piece of consumerism or put petrol in the car or fly somewhere nice, Sonalee and I are contributing to it. We all are. It really has taken our time in Spain to realise this or at least to hammer it home to us.

For all that our morning walks are lovely and invigorating, we can see that the drought that this area is undergoing will soon become normal. And sooner than we thought.

What to do? Well, we try to minimise our heavy footprints upon this earth. The recycling that goes on here is quite good and has become a part of our normal life – for a tiny village, Fuente Tojar sure does have a ton of explicitly labelled recycling bins. We try to buy local when we can, which actually isn’t too difficult given that we live in the campo (countryside). We could use the van less – we finally got it back last week – but it is difficult since there is literally no public transport available to us out here in the Middle Of Nowhere.

In amongst this sadness about what we, as adults, are doing to our planet I do have some hope, a lot of which is invested in the remarkable Greta Thunberg. So calm, so measured, so matter of fact. Kids like her give me hope, as kids always should do. It is a reminder to the both of us of what we do as educators and how privileged we are to be such people. The ‘it is a privilege to be a teacher’ trope is always trotted out during interviews or when you’re trying to mount that high moral horse but there are times when you meet a kid, teach a kid and realise that, actually, it really is true.

Sonalee and I are going back into that school environment and it is terrifying. And exciting. And scary. And full of promise. And all of the emotions in between. We’re leaving The Middle of Nowhere to live in Rabat! Rabat, baby! Bring it on! Yeah!

Or, help! What are we doing?

It is fair to say that our feelings oscillate frequently between those two extremes.

Sonalee and I are about to live in our third continent, as are three of our dogs! Sonalee is about to live in her 6^th country, me in my 4^th. Luna, who only joined us a year ago is about to ‘do’ her 2^nd continent and 3^rd country! Get us, the intercontinental elite!

We are fortunate to be leaving just after the huge Fiesta for our village. It should be a blast, as it was last year when we stumbled in at some ungodly hour or, as it is known around here, the normal time. This weekend is the fiesta for a hamlet up the road. It is literally seven houses, a tiny parking area and a small shrine but they have to have a fiesta. Of course they do.

It’s a really cool part of living in Andalusia, this determination to keep traditions alive and to have a good time doing so. Last week here in Fuente Tojar was the Cultural Week where each night was a different type of event down in the well-attended village square. Sonalee and I witnessed the Magic Show, which was awful, and the Dance Show, which was a Spanish village version of Strictly Come Dancing.

It is easy to mock these things as so amateurish and lacking in class. That misses the point though. These events are put on and participated in by people who care about their local culture and who want to keep it alive in the face of the unrelenting pressure from the outside world. Yes, the dancing wasn’t brilliant and, yes, you could see much better on youtube or Instagram or whatever but you wouldn’t have seen that surrounded by your fellow villagers, friends and family or moaned about the fact that the kiosk bar ran out of beer – a terrible scandal to be sure – at midnight on a hot summer’s evening when the world just seemed to be a happier place because of the enthusiasm of the performers.

Upon our return from Rabat (baby!) next summer, one of the things that we will be looking forward to is smiling at one of these events that the village works so hard to continue.

But, anyway, we need to pack. Seriously, we need to pack. We have to stuff four dogs, one annoyed cat and all of our stuff into a van in preparation for living in a place that we’ve not seen or experienced properly – I was there 20 years ago and had unbelievable food-poisoning so spent three days on the toilet so that doesn’t count. We also need to eat the contents of the fridge and freezer, if you’ve ever moved house you know what I mean.

But, and I know that you will not quite comprehend this, the very quickly approaching move to Morocco isn’t the big news of the Abeyawardene-Byatt household. Hold your breath…

I have now been fully ordained as a minister. It has meant rigorous application and hard work but I have finally been recognised as a man of the cloth. I haven’t decided on my full title yet, I’m going with Reverend for the time being but you’ll be glad to know that I have ruled out ‘His Holiness’. It gives me great pleasure to announce, therefore, that should you require any spiritual advice I am here for you. Truly. I know that you will all now be overjoyed to know that I will be able to officiate at your wedding!

I know, eh? Me, marrying you and your loved one! I can’t quite believe it myself!

But, really, spiritual guidance – just call me. You know it makes sense.

Ten Days to Go

Hasta Luego

The Reverend Paul

PS: You know when you get that moment when you revisit a musician, you say to yourself “Well slap my thigh and call me George, I’d forgotten just how amazing this person was”? Here’s David Bowie at Live Aid.

PPS: More ‘arty shots’ from our morning walks, I’m afraid…