Ham slicing fiesta

It was quite humid when I woke up at half past six. After sunrise, the sky over the sierras was clear but there was a thick cloud of mist over the sea which took hours to disperse. After breakfast, I wrote another Sunday sermon, and edited next week's Thursday biblical reflection. Andrea sent me a copy of the baptism application form late last night and I sent it off immediately to the family requesting a christening on my final Sunday. This morning the form came back completed. The baptism will happen at my last service in Sotogrande.

With the need to think ahead and plan that last service so everyone knows what's going to happen, I started to think about preparing sermons. Most of the morning and afternoon I spent drafting sermons for the rest of my time here. This will mean I have more free time when Clare is with me. Glad I thought of it.

I walked across to the Paseo de Rada as it began to cool down early evening as far as Avenida Juan Carlos. This time I noticed that the promenade was lined with fiesta type booths, equipped to sell food or drink, but these there in the early stages of getting ready for later evening opening. When I read the publicity banners at the far end, I learned that time between the fiestas of the Transfiguration and the Assumption was dedicated to a special gastronomic event showcasing Spain's remarkable range of cured ham from its different region, an event that's been running for the past 70 years. I'm not sure if it's a trade fair or a nine day gourmet orgy, but it's part of Estepona's tradition of popular cultural. events, styled as a world ham slicing contest. You can take away with you freshly sliced ham off the bone in five euro bags, or you can eat it in an artisanal baker's fresh bread roll, washed down with a local beer. How about that?

The shore was very crowded, but there were fewer people in the water, as big waves had washed up a heap of seaweed, and people had installed themselves higher up the beach behind it. The local council isn't yet on top of this problem. Malaga apparently has an influx of jellyfish at the moment.

I watched an interesting documentary programme about the partition of India in 1947, featuring people whose parents had fled with their families to Britain, returning to look for the homes they had been driven out of. It contained some touching stories. This is a part of British colonial history about which little is known, full of violence and wickedness. Did it have to happen like that? It's a story that does nobody any credit, neither religious nor political leaders, nor the colonisers,