We decided to retire to Spain.

It was a disaster.

Oh Dear!

Oh Dear!

And I had actually lived there too.

The problem was that it really isn't the paradise which you see above.

For a start the supermarkets were very 1970s with lots of cheap stuff that made my wife cry.

Then there was Christmas where everyone went on holiday for three weeks and it was seriously boring.

Then there were the restaurants where we kept finding human hairs in our food.

Then there were the (excellent) neighbours who spoke to us v-e-r-y- s-l-o-w-l-y and k-i-n-d-l-y.

Then there were the expats who we saw at the Evergreen Club in the Greek Bar and we realised that we were just ordinary OAPs and not exciting young adventurers.

Then there was the tiny house with the English builders who sprayed pebble dash sort of stuff all over the place, including the floor, and stopped the a/c working for a whole month.

Stop moaning.

What was good? Well, the sunsets for one. The free art studio for another, where I painted the sunset every day, and chatting with Spaniards about times past was good too. And, in Holy Week when, out of the rain, came an entire band playing marches from the Civil War - and each was dressed as a Falangist in identical uniform and they were proud conquistadores for a brief moment, instead of rather sad little people who the world had long since forgotten!

And the Library, when I was the first English person to join. And get a tiny cardboad entrance card. In Spanish. And the Policeman from the National Guard who courteously waved me to my destination when I asked him the way. And all the walks through the town of Lo Pagan which I loved like my own home. And the bars with people who I could draw. And the beaches with the outstandingly lovely shop girls on the sandy beach who wore nothing but a tiny bikini bottom. And the bodega where I bought a litre of Jumilla wine for just one euro( = dollar).

What a place!

Wow!