The seasons have definitely changed here.  We have taken delivery of a trailer-full of olive tree wood and have stacked it in my superbly built* woodshed and have used it for a few weekends now.

*please treat the word “superbly” with caution

The change was, unfortunately, brought to vivid life in the disaster that befell the provinces surrounding the city of Valencia where over 300 people perished in unprecedented floods.  And countless animals too of course.  And businesses ruined, naturally.  And thousands of lives upended for the worse.

The mayor of Valencia wasn’t to blame that the city was somewhat unprepared.  It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t direct his local disaster agency to issue flood warnings until it was hours and hours too late  (the power to do this is with the regional government and not the national government).  It wasn’t his fault that he posted a video at noon saying that the rains were going away (despite all the national government agencies saying the opposite).  It wasn’t his fault that he went on a three hour boozy lunch with his favourite journalist whilst the floodwaters were wiping away lives and livelihoods.  It wasn’t his fault that he turned up pissed to an emergency conclave late in the evening after the damage had been done.

Obviously it isn’t his fault that he’s a self-serving scumbag of the highest order nor that he operates in a culture that permeates this idea that taking personal responsibility for mistakes is something that members, especially male members, of corporate and political  Spain should never do. 

And he’s still clinging onto his job. The bastard. 

The disaster obviously rocked the whole of Spain.  More rains came a week later and it was noticeable just how much more attention was given to them by the media and by local governments. 

It was also good to see how local communities within the Valencia region and beyond were spurred into action with donations of critical goods and machinery to help clear up.  It’s just a pity that it takes a tragedy to bring people together.

There was a collection of what was considered essential items at our school which, I have to say, was very generously contributed to given the small size of the place.  This kind of reflects my initial impressions of the school, that it is populated by generally nice people which is a huge contrast with the last school that we worked in together in Madrid.

And it is a nice school.  Sure, like every school, it has its issues.  All schools do.  But this school does stuff like organise a weekly late evening football game with staff and year 12 boys.  And like the fool I am, I join in.

Thus every Tuesday evening I drive back to a neighbouring posh school’s pitch to play against 16 year old very fit very able and very good lads who are also very respectful of the staff that play alongside them in a mixed team or, on one occasion, against them as a purely staff team.  There are no dirty challenges (apart from the PE teacher who can get rather competitive) and no snorts of derision at mistakes made. 

Nor do they revolt when the also fiercely competitive headteacher announces that there is an unbelievably dodgy  last-minute penalty awared to the Teacher Team that will win the game.  These lads aren’t stupid.   They might be lazy and selfish but they aren’t idiots. 

I genuinely never thought I would be playing at the age of 55 and especially against teenage Spaniards who are rather good.  And, yes, I know I’m a bit crap but I am so enjoying it. 

Not enjoying it so much the day after of course but the students are getting used to me limping around the place on the midweek.

Our life here in El Higueron has changed along with the weather as the rains turn this flood plain into a bit of, well, a flood plain.  There’s a lot of mud.  And we can’t use the pool which seems a waste. 

In truth we can’t quite get a handle on El Higueron.  Yes, it’s a dump.  But it’s also a community that we see in Sunday road and rubbish clearance projects and the enthusiastic use of the local football pitches where we see kids being coached every evening. 

And yes, it is the home of a large army base that is quite scary but with soldiers who happily say hello as they pass on their daily jogs and it has neighbours who greet you as though you are part of the place. 

And, yes, there is little in the way of anything resembling sophisticated culture here and it is looked down upon by residents of Cordoba city but there is a thirst for knowledge shown in the high number of students waiting at the train station in the mornings as they make their way to the well-regarded university in town. 

My feeling is that you should not judge an area solely on the paucity of funds that its people have to work with but also include the ambitions that its people have to improve their lives.  I reckon that El Higueron does okay on that scale. 

And let us not forget that this author comes from an area far outside the big city that is considered a dumping ground for the poor and the worthless.  And look how he turned out! 

Okay, maybe not the best example.  But you get my point.

One of the big disadvantages of El Higueron is the lack of campo for Luna to run around in.  It was always going to be the case.  It was the same in Morocco, Lisbon and Madrid.  We cannot live in the middle of nowhere and work in a school so access to unending countryside is going to be difficult.

We have tried various places.  The local mud road next to the high speed rail line to Sevilla is okay until other dogs appear.  And they do appear.  And they definitely do not like Luna.  The other side of the tracks means crossing a shitty bridge and has open railway lines that trains can suddenly appear on and will obviously crush your dog without warning, especially inquisitive dogs like Luna.

We tried the local hill but it has cattle and Luna, after being good a few times, decided to annoy the shit out of a herd of large cows the other night.  By law if the farmer had shot her then we would have had no complaint and would even have been fined for her being a nuisance.  We won’t be going back there. 

So we have to go to the local abandoned future retail and factory park (there are loads of them in Spain following the financial disaster of 2018 when so many speculators went crazy).

It’s fairly open and quiet.  The roads are wide and empty.  Except, of course, for gay men cruising in their cars for the opportunity to engage in consensual sexual activity away from the prying eyes of friends/colleagues/wives. 

We have no idea why they have chosen this area to exercise their natural urges as we exercise our dogs but it is, putting it lightly, really really weird. Luna loves it, obviously. Us, less so but also grateful that men cruising around for other men in their cars travel very slowly which means even Bindi, who has the road sense of a tomato, can escape injury.

What else can we do?  Driving  for miles after work just to find a place for Luna to run is just never going to happen so we need to use local places.  That this place is the safest for Luna is paramount despite feeling a teeny bit uncomfortable when I’m on my own without Sonalee to vouch for my orientation.

“Ach”, as my stepfather used to say, meaning it is what it is.  What to do? 

Well, indeed.  One of those things to do is to be a part of a Cordoba English Book Club that meets every so often to offer opinions on some rather esoteric books and which, despite myself, I am rather fond of.  It’s really nice to hear what others think of words.

Because words matter.  They’ve always mattered.  I have become, at a late stage in my life, a teacher of what words mean.  This is not how I meant my life to turn out since my dream was to be an astronaut who would land triumphantly on the Moon.  But I reckon that the 12 year old Paul who had those dreams would be okay with how he turned out after all. 

I have to say that I am enjoying this part of my descent into an inevitable dotage.  I get to kick teenage boys in the name of sport once a week and get away with it because I’m old.    I hope it lasts for a long time.

Ayubowan

Hasta Luego, inshallah

Ciao

Paul

PS.  It’s 80’s all the way at a local radio station that speaks Spanish but plays English.  We love it.