Clare's last day yesterday was quiet and uneventful. The usual swim, lunch at La Salina, our nearest restaurant down the road from here, siesta, walk along the beach and promenade to Torreblanca, and tea/coffee and cake at Granier, before turning in early, her Vueling flight departure being at seven fifteen in the morning.
We were both out of bed by four thirty and on the road to the airport by five under the light of an almost full moon. She was checked in and on her way through security by ten past five. As it was still dark when I got back, I went to bed again and slept until nine. At ten I had a text message to say she'd landed in Wales, and by eleven she was at home in Cardiff again. So easy, so convenient, apart from the early start.
I thought it was about time I booked my home leave flight for October, a month from now. That will also involve an early start. Unfortunately the first train arrives in the airport just as the flight begins to board, allowing no time to pass through security and walk to the departure gate so that rules out the best option. I'm contemplating going to the airport on a late train and camping out, as in some ways a disturbed night's sleep is no worse than having to waken from a deep sleep to get going, and it would save someone having to get up early to ferry me. Such is the cost of airport parking, I wouldn't contemplate taking the car and leaving it there for five days. If only the flight left an hour later!
Next task was to set about preparing my part in the funeral service being planned for this Thursday. Sid Wright, the man who died at 93, was a well known musician and entertainer, who'd been a band leader in London's West End clubs for forty years, starting during the blitz. Retiring here at sixty he went on to have second career pioneering the development of musical entertainment for British expats. He was a founder member of Fuengirola's English language Little Theatre, and one time St Andrew's church organist, who'd helped raise funds to establish the chaplaincy. Accommodating the family's wishes meant first reading through fascinating biographical material and press cuttings of some of his interviews, and tailoring my usual contribution to fit the occasion.
Once that was completed, there was an article to draft for the next edition of the Diocesan prize winning Chaplaincy magazine 'Outreach', ahead of next week's production deadline. It kept me busy for most of the day. It was only when I woke up from my siesta wondering where Clare was, thinking she was downstairs, that I realised I'm here now on my own. For several weeks in the Spring we were the first occupants of the house, and this has been a repeat. I shall miss her, no doubt, and it'll take longer than usual to get used to being here without her. Just as well I have plenty do to at the moment.
As I sat down outside in the shade to enjoy an afternoon cuppa, I heard light aircraft and helicopters busy in the area. There was a column of smoke rising on the western outskirts of the town. What at first I thought was an unusual film cloud clinging to the face of the Sierra de Mijas above and behind was smoke from a fire. This was confirmed when the helicopter appeared trailing a large bucket of water to dump at the site. After a hot summer, everything is tinder dry and the Protection Civil teams have to be vigilant to prevent brush fires getting out of control close to the suburbs. The column of smoke transformed into a column of steam, but long after the mountain looked clear again, the smell of wood smoke hung, not unpleasant on the evening air.
Around the urbanizacion in which this house is set, there are still acres of empty building land which await development. Since we've been here, on several occasions small teams of men have been out with strimmers cutting down and removing all dry brushwood in the vicinity. How tidy, I thought then. Now I realise how safety conscious people have to be in a crowded, arid urban area.
Once that was completed, there was an article to draft for the next edition of the Diocesan prize winning Chaplaincy magazine 'Outreach', ahead of next week's production deadline. It kept me busy for most of the day. It was only when I woke up from my siesta wondering where Clare was, thinking she was downstairs, that I realised I'm here now on my own. For several weeks in the Spring we were the first occupants of the house, and this has been a repeat. I shall miss her, no doubt, and it'll take longer than usual to get used to being here without her. Just as well I have plenty do to at the moment.
As I sat down outside in the shade to enjoy an afternoon cuppa, I heard light aircraft and helicopters busy in the area. There was a column of smoke rising on the western outskirts of the town. What at first I thought was an unusual film cloud clinging to the face of the Sierra de Mijas above and behind was smoke from a fire. This was confirmed when the helicopter appeared trailing a large bucket of water to dump at the site. After a hot summer, everything is tinder dry and the Protection Civil teams have to be vigilant to prevent brush fires getting out of control close to the suburbs. The column of smoke transformed into a column of steam, but long after the mountain looked clear again, the smell of wood smoke hung, not unpleasant on the evening air.
Around the urbanizacion in which this house is set, there are still acres of empty building land which await development. Since we've been here, on several occasions small teams of men have been out with strimmers cutting down and removing all dry brushwood in the vicinity. How tidy, I thought then. Now I realise how safety conscious people have to be in a crowded, arid urban area.
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