brambles rambling in my mind

A clean sheet of paper. The first in quite a long while: too long in fact. Where do I start? We all know that the weather in the UK is currently amazing, that night follows day, that, sigh, where am I heading here?

Joey. Dear little Joey...now even smaller as I’ve had him shaved for the summer [he is a dog by the way not an errant child or heaven forbid husband] can spin me into a complete stress. It’s been a good number of years since I had a dog around and never one adopted at 8 years of age. But Joey has his own pages in my head; such is his personality that he deserves his own space. But I am stressing over his blooming barking at other dogs. In fact I am just stressing.

Why though?

I think I was raised a worrier. My dad certainly was. He would come home from work every night and ruminate over the day’s events and talk them through with my mother. She would listen and let him get it off his chest and ask the right questions. She was his leveller.

A scrupulously fair man he would never do anything rash, everything was carefully thought through and justified and he took full responsibility for his actions and no doubt worried about them too! We were brought up to have respect and to have conviction in our actions, to stand up for ourselves if we believed in what we were saying even if we were a lone figure in a throng.

The responsibility of my actions weigh heavily on my own shoulders still; too heavy. But why? Why do I feel so responsible for things that are out of my control? Why do I worry that my words may hurt someone? We are all entitled to our own thoughts and opinions and rarely do I take anyone’s opinions personally. How daft am I?

               

I have just spent over a week worrying about the daftest thing; telling a guy I don’t want to see him again. The first guy in a long time that had seemed ‘normal’. We had a lot in common but there was no spark, no excitement, no nothing. I analysed every detail. Was I just running away because he was close to what I wanted? Would he be upset? Would he accept it? ‘He, he, he...’ was I worrying about me? No. I had to accept that I was getting so worked up about the whole thing that it was obviously not right to be with him and so I did the deed. He said ok, yes ok.

A weight had been lifted off my back. I had my space back. The weekends were once again mine to do what I wanted to do for me. Sounds selfish? No, not really. In my old fashioned married for 24 years head yes weekends were for being a couple but in the 7 year single head, weekends were my space to be me especially with the stress of work. Yes, there goes that word again.

What that short relationship did enforce in me was that there has to be a connection between two people for a relationship to work in my life. Also that I missed being out in the English countryside for the weekend as it does me the power of good. It invigorates and inspires me [lets ignore this year’s hay-fever development] and with the lack of a significant other to throw things around with, it is my leveller.

So, only yesterday, I bought a tent. Nothing too fancy and nothing too small either. Big enough to sleep in and sit in should I need to be inside but small enough to not give me too many issue to erect.

But then I’m off on my stress mission once more. Joey

Since I have only had him for 6 months, his personality keeps coming out and he is a definite bossy dog and use to having his own way. He hates not being by my side when I do anything. Washing the car on the drive he will bark constantly at the window. I just ignore him as telling him off does no good whatsoever. So is he going to be a pain in the butt whilst I am calmly trying to erect the tent watched by the googly eyes of other campers? Then there is his peer attitude. I’ve never known a dog so contrary. Walkies on one day and he can smile and greet other dogs or nonchalantly walk past them. On other days he will bark at every dog he sees, usually with tail wagging. What am I actually worrying about though?

 The barking will stop.

He’s on a lead so can be controlled.

It’s just a bit of noise.

What I should be thinking about is the first brew on the camping stove.

The sitting enjoying the view.

The sunset.

The first night under canvas for more years than I care to remember

 and the smell of bacon wafting across a field to wake me up in the morning and relaxing.

I need to remember what it felt like to sit on the big swings as a kid. Pump your legs getting the swing higher and higher to the point of where you get the slack in the chains. Your heart beating fast, swooping back to the ground, grazing the toe of your shoes on the earth. No one to catch you if you fall but not even thinking that. Just enjoying the rush of adrenalin that left you feeling giddy with laughter and pleasure.

Where do the days go?

Now Janet has given me a friendly nudge, it's good to kick myself into action.

Some of you will know a little about my house purchase in Spain and that i started a memoir; cathartic to a degree but it does need lightening up, characters added in and a whole new feel now that the wounds have healed. So here is a taster of how it all started...roll on the time to rewrite and get to include all the fantastic characters in the town!

PROLOGUE

As the clock strikes 9

Morning chill softens as the sun eases over Town Hall

spotlighting on protective silent cannon.

Martin crosses the main square with Jess and Ben,

tongues lolling after their morning adventures in the campo.

sniffing absently at the benches, weeless cocking habitually.

Martin nods at José, seated, leaning with gnarled

hands on the equally gnarled walking stick.

José’s mirror image seats himself next

coughing from smoking too much Pueblo.

Cut and paste the bench-of-two repeatedly around the square,

change the clothing colours and hue, the odd hat,

maybe a year or two and we have the remnants of the

Franco revolt, openly chatting in habitual defiance.

The women appear now steps are swept and plants watered,

across to the panaderia in housecoat and slippers.

Then back inside to do more chores and straighten antimacassars.

Children scamper and play, screams and giggles and fun

respectfully enjoy the space, safe in the company of elders.

Not a swear word to be heard as balls bounce across the road

niños chase after them.

The winter sun begins to set as

the litter picker silently collects the butts of the day.

The square, quiet once more.

As the clock strikes four.

Chapter One

I watched the builders arms display what his words were saying as we stood in the mule shed under my house. Eyes raised to the rafters, elbows raised to shoulder height, he was gesticulating to the carpenter, his hands dropping down to the floor. As with all Spanish people, his voice accentuated the urgency of his words. Then there was a shrug and an open handed gesture. I knew immediately what he was saying without understanding the words; the whole house was in danger of collapse. I felt sick.

Welcome to my new home. My retirement dream. Five years dreaming, three years planning. Two minutes to cast a lead weight into my belly.

 Chapter Two

I kept myself together; mentally stepped outside this beautiful little village in the Alpujarras and like a matador with a cape, drew it around me to cloak me from the news. It all should have been so perfect, but today everything was falling apart; my relationship with my boyfriend had run its course, the previous builder had not done as instructed and now this. The chestnut beams were rotten to the core, a concern I had raised but been dismissed by the previous guy who accompanied me when I viewed it, who said that that they had been treated and were ok. He had poked at them in places and to be fair, the holes were only surface deep. Gut instinct didn’t cut in at any time. Now this qualified builder was telling us that if the beams weren’t replaced immediately, the house was in danger of collapse. I turned my back and walked away as Carl tried to tell me what Miguel had said. ‘I was told two weeks ago that a couple needed doing and I thought they had been done before I got here’ I said; so much should have been completed before I arrived. ‘And how safe is the hole in the wall for the new double doors without acrow props to support it?’ all three of us looked towards the rear of the building at the gaping hole. No lintel. No temporary supports. I already knew the answer. What was above? Three more storeys of house, all reliant on these original chestnut beams and the back supporting wall. For the second time in as many minutes I felt sick. Carl and Miguel looked back at me with sadness in their eyes; it wasn’t looking good.

We locked up the mule shed and arranged for Miguel to quote for the work to be done as soon as possible. I went upstairs, slid open the lounge door and gazed out into the beautiful view of the Sierra Nevada. I could just see through the mountains to Morocco on my left and to my right the sweeping undulations of the Lujar. The sun was going down on what should have been another beautiful day in May but I felt like it was my last day on the planet. I couldn’t face clearing up the debris that surrounded me, I needed to run and escape what was happening. But I wasn’t at home. I couldn’t just call up a friend and escape into their lives with my tales of woe. I had to face this on my own. A drink was required and some company and light banter; time to let Fernando tell me his worst jokes.

The next morning, with no one to turn to, or so I thought at the time, I set to, cleaning up the mess in my Spanish home. The lounge had someone’s smelly work clothes perched next to the television and a pair of boots kicked into the corner. Old bedspreads acted as dustsheets over my couch. The lower terrace was covered in sawdust, no wonder I was coughing in the night, the dust had been blowing into the bedroom. The kitchen was what can only be described as a builder’s yard. Tile off cuts were on every work surface from where the builder had been cutting them whilst doing the bathroom, all my plates were stacked, filthy dirty amongst the debris and a grease laden frying pan; it was like someone had been living here whilst I was away. With the clothes in the lounge, maybe they had. The rubbish bag was in the same place it had been five weeks previously and was oozing something from the bottom onto the marble tiled floor. A line of wine bottles snaked its way around the base of one cupboard and for some reason, there was a gaping hole where the cooker should have been. This was down in the entrance way, snuggled up to the over laden mini skip, old door frames, breeze blocks and capa fina bags full of rubble. The neighbours rubber tree plants were coated in a thick layer of cement dust; she must have been cussing me since the day I moved in.

Being May, the weather was warm and sweeping and mopping had to be done at a steady pace not British pace; I was learning the tranquillo way of the Spanish. The only place you got by rushing was stressed and tired. At 11.30, sweaty and weary I decided to go down to the bar for a coffee. I looked down at myself; dusty from head to toe, I wasn’t going to get changed just to go for coffee, so I sauntered down town and seated myself in the sun. Cafe con leche and tostados, perfect. I leant back and absorbed the rays and began to relax and remember why I wanted to be here.