False Alarm

Another night of broken sleep, and not enough of it, but at least the couch was more comfortable. After breakfast we packed our bags and stripped the beds. We were more or less ready to leave by nine thirty when there was a fire alarm test, like one we had last week, only this time the alarm didn't stop, and it was painfully loud. Fortunately we could remove our belongings from the apartment and leave as intended for the walk to the station. I had to walk around as much as possible with fingers in both ears, as the alarm was located in the corridor a metre above us and I didn't want to rupture an ear drum. Another loud alarm was ringing outside as well. Apartment residents gathered in the courtyard and waited. There was no sign of fire in the property. We had to leave and there was no indication that there would be any head count, but I rang Ann and left her a message to tell her what happened in case she had a call from someone asking for an account of the occupants of each apartment. After ten minute or so, a fire engine arrived, and we were told, as we were leaving that it had been a 'false alarm', presumably a fault in the alarm network revealed something wasn't working as intended.

Clare called for a taxi but found that none were available, so we walked to Tenby station - downhill most of the way thankfully. We had to walk over a footbridge to reach the eastbound platform, not easy with a heavy suitcase, then waited half an hour for a train. The weather was good and the view of the coast was equally lovely on the return trip. We had a picnic lunch and I was able to relax and unwind. Throughout the return journey I noticed many lighter shades of green in the variations of passing landscape. What a joy to behold!

After my conversation yesterday with Ann about connection timing, I timed the walk from getting off the train on platform zero to the ticket barrier accessing platform 1. Five minutes with a crowd of passengers, all needing to use the same lift. I'm sure there used to be stairs here. According to Google Maps this transit takes one minute. From ticket gate to platform 1, add another 2-3 minutes. Heaven help anyone with mobility issues or a pushchair for kiddies to manage. I must report this, as it seriously affects people expecting to use an eastbound fast connecting train. We took a taxi home and arrived at three.

Before unpacking, I went to the GP surgery to deliver A&E discharge documents ordering a blood test. Coincidentally a GP letter arrived in the morning mail asking me to book an appointment for a a blood test and blood pressure test. There was also a follow up letter about an appointment to fit me with a blood pressure measuring device for a week in the same batch of mail. I anticipate the outcome will be that I'll be prescribed another blood pressure reducing medication, adding to the misery I experienced previously. What I would most benefit from most would be a quieter less stressful life with fewer disruptions and distractions with more time to sort out my life. The past couple of weeks have exhausted me.

After a supper of savoury rice with salmon, I walked for half an hour in Llandaff Fields. The trees' leaf canopy is noticeably denser after two weeks away. Little light gets through the branches, and the trees appear a darker green. 

Breaking routine and getting to bed in the attic required a bit more organising than usual. Although we all retired at ten, I gave way to the others and was last. It took me an hour to organise myself, as I'd not yet unpacked my case. I hope I can settle in an unfamiliar room which I've not slept in since before the stroke.

Sad day of loss

We woke up to find the sky no longer overcast, the sun peering through clouds and almost no wind. not a continuation of yesterday's weather, as expected. After breakfast, we set out to walk to church with enough time to get to All Saints Oystermouth Parish church for the ten o'clock Eucharist, a walk of just under a mile to cover in twenty minutes. Google Maps took us along the coast path to Rotherslade cove, bur we were a uncertain about where the pedestrian route was meant to ascend to the main road. After checking we walked up the main street to the junction, which gave us a choice of roads. 

The layout of the digital map with a pedestrian route overlay was unclear and we missed a turning going in the right direction to start with, then got hopelessly lost. At quarter past ten we retraced our steps to the junction, having walked for three quarters of an hour, and missing the service altogether. I was, to say the least upset and angry with myself and with Google Maps which on this occasion was more of a hindrance than a help. Mumbles isn't good at way-marking pedestrian routes anyway, and the newer outskirts of the town are extensive streets of suburban housing which hide landscape features to navigate by.

I had resisted taking the car, preferring to walk, not knowing if there'd be anywhere to leave it while we were in church, parking near a town centre without preliminary reconnaisance a risk not worth taking if you have a set time to be there, before rather than after the church bell stops ringing. Anyway, when we got back to the apartment, I took the car into the town centre, too late for church, but we needed fruit and bread. I'd seen a couple of supermarkets when we arrived yesterday and supposed they'd be open, so I was able to find parking in side street near Tesco's and buy what we needed.

Then I checked on Google Maps were I was in relation to All Sains' church and found it was only five minutes walk away, so I went to inspect. It sits just above the main coast road shopping street, visible from afar. As I entered a group of people were chatting with the priest celebrant over coffee in the area around the baptismal font. A lady welcomer greeted me and we chatted about the church. When she left for home another came and chatted with me. Both were proud of the church and spoke with affection of Archbishop Rowan, a local boy growing up as a choirboy and altar server there, and the beginnings of his call to be a priest and theologian.

The building is on an interesting site, occupied by a centurion's sea shore villa in Roman times, with a small church there from Norman times, built before Oystermouth castle to serve the fisher folk who lived and worked from the shore. This forms the south east Lady chapel of today's large handsome edifice dating from the early twentieth century. Obviously a lively outgoing congregation with strong links to the community it serves, and its holiday visitors. 

I may have missed Mass today, but I was glad to have had a glimpse into the life of a conventional parish congregation that still alive and well if, like most others diminished in number. It was interesting to see above the large west porch a modest suite of rooms had been constructed in restrained modern style bringing the church hall inside the building in effect. It's unusual, but imitates a feature often found in larger mediaeval churches, providing accomodation for the virger or sexton.

The weather was kind enough to enable us to eat lunch at an outdoor table on the sea facing terrace. Then we went for a walk on the coast path as far as the entry to Caswell Bay, stopping for tea at a brasserie on the beach. The further west we went on the undulating concrete cliff side path, the more windy it became, so we turned and retraced our steps.

A massage arrived from cousin Dianne to say that cousin Godfrey died yesterday, aged eighty five. Of the fifteen cousins, he's the fifth to die. All eight aunts and uncles who were Kimber siblings are gone too. Each loss is another sadness. Godfrey was the first of us to graduate with a degree. I followed his example in choosing Bristol University. He married a North Walian, Jean, and settled in Bethesda, learning Welsh and teaching Physics and Maths through the medium of Welsh. He was a committed socialist involving himself in local politics, and was a Labour County Councillor for Gwynedd well after retirement. He's had prostate cancer and his heart trouble meant surgery was too risky. He know this shortly after visiting us at home last year, when we had a lovely catch-up session after many years. He was active also in his local Welsh Baptist church. His religion and politics were inseparable and natural. There aren't many around these days to succeed him in life of public service lived as an outcome of his faith. May he rest in peace. 

After supper we watched 'Frozen Planet II' and then I watched the penultimate episode of 'Bloodlands'. Neither of them left much room for optimism about human nature or the future of the planet. Altogether a sad day of loss. 

Summoned for screening

Another grey drizzle day. I celebrated and preached at St Catherine's this morning with two dozen others. I think some of our congregation will be going instead to the Confirmation service this afternoon, if not the Ministry Area inaugural service at 'the Res' in Ely. It's been quite a while since I celebrated and preached at this service, and I have to admit that I was nervous. 

There's a difference between ministering to a group of eight, and three to five times that number, distributed throughout the church. How to ensure you don't miss out giving Communion to anyone is the key issue. It helps to maintain a habit of walking a set course around the church each time, so you relax into the routine, but remembering what you did several months ago isn't quite so easy, and that made me nervous. I've celebrated often enough on a weekday now to relax and take the right hygiene precautions automatically now, so most of the performance of the liturgy isn't problematic, it's 'feeding the multitudes' when there are multitudes that I find difficult.

Our special treat for Pentecost Sunday lunch was a large skate wing each, with a white wine mushroom and onion sauce and roasted veggies. The white wine was a Frascati from the Colli Romani spotted on tbe shelf in Tesco's the other day. This was one of the first local wines I ever became acquainted with, back in the late seventies, when for two summers we joined a local Roman Catholic holiday group for a week at Palazzola, the English College summer quarters in a former convent above Lago di Albano. Frascati is the nearby regional capital, and the name of the wine. 

Palazzola has a wine cellar many centuries old with huge barrels of the local brew installed for serving in jugs at meal tables. In those days sulphur fuses were burned in the side opening of the barrel to sterilize the air that was let in during de-canting wine for the day. The wine itself was thin, lemonish with a hint of sulphur in taste, though not, not from sterilizing fumes, it was said, but a legacy of the volcanic soil in which the vines grew. The quality of the wine forty years on is much improved - fuller bodied with a richer citrus taste. It gives Pinot Grigio a run for its money any day, and is great for making a sauce with!

I slept for two hours after lunch and then went out for a walk down to the river. While I was standing on Blackweir Bridge I felt my phone buzz beneath the layers of waterproof and jacket. I wasn't quick enough to catch the call, from the ubiquitous 'Private Number' - it could have been Ashley, but rarely if ever on a Sunday afternoon, so I concluded it was from the hospital about my covid test. When I got home, Clare had fielded another call for me on the landline. 

I am summoned for the pre-op PCR test at a Public Health Screening drive through centre at Whitchurch Hospital Tuesday mid-morning. I'd expected an appointment on Monday given the three days quarantine requirement, but when I thought about it, the quarantine time is essentially a waiting time until the PCR test has been processed. The test wouldn't proceed if I had any covid symptoms, and self isolation is the front line defence against accidental infection meanwhile.

I wanted to know  exactly where the test site entrance is located. I googled Whitchurch Hospital and found that the hospital is marked 'Permanently Closed', and the test centre isn't tagged on the map. Disconcerting to say the least. Google same up with a year old news item relating to the opening of a screening centre on the old hospital site, which was reassuring. It's supposed to well signposted, but only when you get there, if you've gone to the right road to start with. The directions Clare received could have been a more helpful as the call handler presumed your acquaintance with the place. Something specific like a post code for the current site entrance or a street name would have been helpful. It's funny the way people tend to assume you know a place, without checking how familiar you actually are with the area.

This evening my sister June alerted us to a music documentary programme on BBC Four about guitarist John Williams. It was showing while we were eating supper, so we watched it on iPlayer following this week's episode of 'Call the Midwife'. It followed him from his emergence as a teenage classical virtuoso, just about the time I started grammar school, right through to a recent interview for the documentary. He turned eighty last month. 

In old film and video footage it portrayed his career as the consummate classical recitalist, recalling his phase of duetting with Julian Bream, his exploration of Jazz with John Dankworth and Cleo Lane and his fusion super-group Sky in the seventies, whose first LP album we bought in those days. Perhaps the best footage in the programme was a hilarious duet in which he played straight man with comedian Eric Sykes. They don't make them like that any more. 

Williams was an inspiration to me when I was a youngster trying to teach myself classical guitar. I regret not having the determination and persistence, even more than the opportunity to learn properly the music I loved. There were so many other demands and challenges to be faced when I was young. Guitar playing was always part of my life and used during my ministry in many different settings. I play rarely now that my hands and wrists are stiff and rheumaticky, but just holding my guitar brings back so many memories.

Dis-Appointment and Shopping disoerientation

The cleaners came early Monday, and Clare went off to the gym. After they departed, I went out, and did the week's grocery shopping, then cooked lunch.

A letter arrived in the post from the NHS, advising me of a pre-surgical assessment appointment on the 23rd January, two months from now. Mrs Cornish did warn me that it would be a three month wait before surgery when we last met, but I was slow to react, as it seems I inevitably am. Now facts are taking shape the sense of disappointment surfaces, couple with the worry the next three months are going to be a time of growing discomfort and pain, much as I had before op number three, due to over-granulation of the wound, during the long delay between appointments. The signs are it's going to happen again with another three month wait, with the prospect that a second Christmas is ruined for me. November-January, the same period of anxious waiting misery as last year. It's a scandal when I'm as fit and well and ready for the op right now. It I were prepared to pay, I could get it done. The family say I should. Perhaps for their sake I should.

I keep on thinking of snippets of information which didn't get recorded in my Sarajevo travel diary, so as well as writing a preface today, I had to return to the text and insert a few significant memories in the right place. Eventually, I thought it was fit enough to send off to Daniel, hoping that he finds this of use to give him an outsider's perspective on the aftermath of the Bosnian war.

Another twilight walk, then an evening in front of the telly to relax. but my attention is now veering back towards my long story, I'm trying to sketch out mentally the rest of his main character's journey before he goes home to die. I need to make some notes and check the timeline. It's a story which spans thirty years, plus or minus. That's the problem. I didn't start with any plan. It's just evolved that way, and that's been a fun surprise.

Yesterday, Clare told me she'd seen knee length rain-wear at a bargain price in Mountain Warehouse opposite the Castle. Just what I need. So I went into town to check this out. No, not really that long, but long enough to cover a longish jacket, and that's what matters. So now I have an olive green mack with a hood, just as my 20 year old 'standard' length one is getting leaky at the seams.

I also bought myself a pair of Ecco winter shoes. I had forgotten that the shop is now relocated for the third time in several years in the new St David's shopping centre, and searched for it on my phone. Google maps gave me the address but the mapped location was so vague as to be confusing and useless. The St David's centre store finding display panels were useless, having not been updated even though the store has been in its present locations for six months. One of the security staff was able to tell me easily enough, but didn't know the store finder device was unable to deliver the goods. The tech' is great, but only as good as those who keep the data up to date.

We joined the Fountain choir for supper at Calabrisella. I was very tired from walking around town and shopping, somewhat in pain, having sat for a long time writing earlier constructing time line annotations for my long story. After eating a big dish of penne amatriciana, I made an excuse and left to got to bed early. Enough is enough, and today I did did and a half miles worth of walking.

  

Digital discovery

Yesterday I had a call from Doreen about a bereavement in Nerja and a funeral in Velez Malaga on Saturday, which Fr Nigel couldn't do, due to his existing commitments. I agreed to do this, which meant a journey there by car this morning to meet the family.

I was given an address, for which Google Maps provided me with a one location when in fact there were two, answering to the same search key word, within half a kilometre of each other in different urbanizaciones in different hilly locations. Consequently, I went to the wrong one first. As I sought to extricate myself from a complex internal one way system, the car signalled that it was running out of petrol, and although it may have had enough fuel, I couldn't take the risk of the engine conking out somewhere on a steep gradient, so I had to divert and get petrol first, making me even later than planned. Not that this was of concern to those waiting for me, as time seems to stand still when you have just lost someone unexpectedly.

Anyway, eventually I arrived. It was already four days since the sudden death. The funeral director had been engaged, but finding an English speaking priest had taken longer than usual. This is one of the unforeseen hazards of expat life, until it happens close to you. It turned out that one of the three daughter-in-laws works as a church administrator back in Britain, used to preparing funeral orders of service. This proved to be very helpful in these circumstances, and she was keen to offer her services in honour of her father-in-law.

As I was in Nerja, I went to Maro and had a pub lunch with Judith, formerly churchwarden of Nerja, who'd seen the chaplaincy there through a demanding two year interregnum, and then after stepping down at the end of an eight year term of office, needed a hip replacement operation, from which she is now recovering well, and in good spirits. Over the course of the Nerja interregnum, I was locum chaplain there for several months in a couple of stints. Judith is one of those people who have a gift for making friends, a memorable church welcomer with a reputation far and wide. It was good to see her face free from lines of pain caused by coping with a deteriorating hip joint. It won't be that long before she's walking again without a stick.

After my return to Malaga, I was sent the agreed draft funeral service order for final scrutiny. Then, half an hour after approving this, a panic call to say that due to a lack of ink, printing was proving impossible. The chaplaincy office printer wasn't up to the job, but it occurred to me that further down the same block in the street is a digital print shop. I went out to check opening hours, and it was still open.

Under instruction from the shop assistant who dealt with me, I emailed the print ready file from my phone to the print shop address, and returned to the apartment ten minutes later with the forty copies requested. The ease and simplicity of this astounded me, as I am prone to getting into a mess when working on rendering a document file into a booklet. It's been possible to achieve this degree of accuracy and simplicity where documents are concerned for the past decade at least, where there are compatible systems. But, with the advent of new mobile technologies, what matters most is that files can be reproduced accurately on any system. Add to this the potential of mobile phones and tablets to work in exactly as desktop computers have done for much longer and you have the latest kind of revolution. I don't need a printer in my workspace for sophisticated tasks any more. I just need a suitably equipped print shop near to where I live or work.
 

House hunting in the dark

I had most of today free, as Rhiannon was out socialising with her friends, and was invited for a pizza supper. It meant I was free to take a long walk into the countryside, across Abbey Fields and beyond the castle, further along on the Millennium footpath we took for our Christmas family outing. On the way I took some photos of little gulls and moorhens contending with the ice at one end of the lake, and got a good close up of the heron on guard in the same position as I snapped it seven weeks ago. 

On the return leg, I followed a metalled country lane back to the edge of Kenilworth. In a couple of places the periodic sound of gunshot issue from woodland, but particularly on the approach to the main road, as there are several coppices overlooking a ponds. Beaters with gun dogs were at work, with a few hunters pursuing wildfowl. One dog was dragging a Canada Goose away to cover, with a young handler struggling to wrestle away the dead bird. So strange, all this within a couple of hundred metres of suburban houses. 

I had some shopping to do before returning and walked into town. Altogether I walked five and a half miles. My knee was fine, but my ankle hurt more than expected. Recovering from the one seems to have highlighted a problem with the other. I cooked and ate lunch eventually at four. At five, Kath rang to say they were on their way back from Stockton on Tees and should arrive by eight. She accepted my offer to prepare a meal for them, so I cooked again.

At six I had a message summoning me to collect Rhiannon. I found the street without difficulty, but then found it hard to identify the house, if they had house numbers. The number sequence, seemed erratic. I called Rhiannon to explain, but she didn't answer. Then Kath rang, worried because Rhiannon texted her to say I hadn't arrived. After explaining to Kath, I texted Rhiannon to explain. She sent a message describing where the house was, but her identifying landmark feature wasn't visible in the dark. Then she phoned me and I spoke to her friend's Dad. 

Fortunately, I'd stopped just 50m down, over the road from the house, within range of the postcode indicator on Google maps. Despite street lights, it was in shadow. By this time, her friend's dad saw my car stopped, but couldn't initially identify it from afar, as orange sodium street lamps mask some colours. He walked her across the road and were soon on our way home, half an hour late. If only street name panels with numbers and direction indicators were the norm here in the UK, as they are in some European countries. 

Kath and Anto were fortunate to have a clear home run and arrived earlier than  expected. After a bad night in a Premier Inn with faulty heating unit noises all night and scarcity of towels, both were tired and went to bed early, just after Rhiannon.

Another Windows troubleshooting mission

An early start today, with the alarm going off just after six, and after a suitable breakfast, out of the house by twenty to seven, walking to the National Express coach station in Sophia Gardens for the seven fifteen coach to London to see my sister June and fix her computer. On my way down Cathedral Road, with relatively little traffic around, I was delighted to hear singing, first a wren, then a robin, then a blackbird, then a starling, and then thrush. All in the trees and garden bushes along one of Cardiff's main arterial roads into the city centre. What a lovely surprise to start the day!

The coach fleet has been upgraded since I last took the journey a year ago. Seats are better upholstered, if a bit narrow for me, and there's more legroom. Best of all, there's free wi-fi, which allows one to receive and send emails, also to surf the net, though not to use social media apps, it appears, probably because they gobble up too much data. Some video streaming is possible via a Sky app, and e-magazines are available to read, but not much to interest me. 

I slept on and off, and browsed a little, and the journey seemed to go much quicker than usual, despite arriving about forty minutes late because of traffic congestion around Newport and beyond the Severn bridge on the approach to North Bristol. Google kept issuing notifications of traffic delays throughout the journey, and it was possible to follow the trip on the Maps app in 'real time'. If you're not driving, this is quite interesting as you get to put names to the hamlets and villages along the M4 corridor which do not appear in motorway exit signage. Then if you're curious, you can Google further info about them. This time last year, on a trip like this, I would have been struggling to do office tasks on my Blackberry in response to a crisis phone call from Ashley, or prepare a document draft on a policy change. This was a much more relaxing and leisurely an outing.

I arrived at June's place at half past midday, having done some shopping for her on my way from coach to Victoria train station. June's laptop is identical to Kath's, and as soon as I switched it on and examined it, the same problem problem presented itself. A broken network configuration, meant that there had been no updates since 9th November, and the anti-virus software was also out of date. It was a matter of re-setting the network software from the command prompt window, with the recommended single line of code, rebooting the machine and forcing it to update everything immediately, a process that took about an hour, all told. 

This was a lot more straightforward than with Kath's machine, as in her case the update mechanism was broken, and it took ages just to find out how to repair it. Would I have been able to remember how I did the full repair two weeks later? Glad I didn't have to put that to the test.  Being risk averse, I'd brought with me the little Acer Aspire E11 I bought recently, to leave for June's use, while I took the other one back home to sort out. But that wasn't necessary. After lunch, I spent some more time, removing some of the useless redundant software, installing and using CCleaner to keep her Acer ES1-521 running as well as it can. So, hopefully there'll be no more problems, unless Microsoft does something equally as stupid and dangerous to render its flagship software system unfit for purpose again. I wonder how many millions of hours have been wasted and money expended by individuals and businesses unable to sort out critical technical problems forced upon them for themselves?

My sister starting using a home computer of her own fifteen years after retirement, and that was ten years ago this year. She gets along reasonably well with surfing, emailing, writing and printing off letters, scanning documents, shifting photos from camera to computer, but finds changes in the user interface, layout and terminology imposed by Windows quite baffling and dis-empowering. I wish that I had introduced her to Linux at the outset, where it is possible to choose your own user interface and modify layout until you get it the way you want it, then stick to it through all the necessary updating processes that improve the work the software needed to do in the background, to keep users safe and stable. Too late for that now however! 

I am pleased, however, that she gets on well with Libre Office, as I never put MS Word on her first laptop. So, she has benefited from having basically the same user interface throughout the decade, as its appearance changes have been cosmetic and minor. I'm glad to see reports that the next Libre Office will replicate the ribbon tool bar familiar with many users of recent iterations of MS Word, and that it will be optional - if only Microsoft would make optional appearances available easily, without fuss and palaver.

My trip home took just three hours and ten minutes, as the traffic on the streets of West London was relatively light, so it only took about half an hour to get as far as Heston services, when it can take twice as long when things are really busy. Despite spending seven hours of the way in coach seats, my gammy leg didn't stiffen up too much, so the twenty minute walk home wasn't an effort. With 'mission accomplished' I arrived with a sense of modest satisfaction, and devoured the welcome late supper Clare had left for me. She retired to bed early, in anticipation of early rising tomorrow to attend the Heath Hospital for her next eye operation. 

    

Side roads in Valle Almanzora

On the basis of the directions I received yesterday, I drove to Arboleas, but couldn't find a sign that directed my to Los Corrascos. I knew it was on the south side of the town, out past the Municipal Thanatorio, but how far I wasn't sure. I did a tour of part of the town due to a missed turning, but second time around, found the Thanatoro, predictably, next to the cemetery, took the wrong turning but quickly realised my error. The correct turning took me a couple of kilometres out of town over a hill and into a valley parallel to Valle Almanzora. There was no sign for the village I was looking for until I reached the sign announcing that I had arrived.  

I drove through Los Corrascos wondering where my right turning would be, and spotted a rather worn Correos posting box on a right hand corner, which I'd noticed in the Google Street View photo that didn't reveal the extent of the street beyond. I turned, and then immediately before me saw the shiny new street name plate I was looking for. Apparently this housing area acquired street name plates for the first time only recently, after a wait of more than a dozen years. No doubt Google Maps will catch up in due course.

After an hour of planning funeral service arrangements for Wednesday, I headed back down the Valle Almanzora, but instead of taking the autovia, I followed the winding country road east, on the opposite side of the valley leading to Zurgena. The road climbs up and out of the valley through a gap in the south side of the valley. Zurgena's houses are distributed on the slopes and floor of this gap, and is in effect a hill village. I didn't want to stop, as I was determined to return and complete my preparation for the funeral while my memory was still fresh, as I was asked deliver a tribute. The drive through, showed me that it's worth stopping to take a look around next time.

The road ascends from the village on to a rolling plain, green with citrous orchards, and ringed by jagged peaks formed by volcanic action and soil erosion. So the pale yellow soil is rich and fertile in what can be grown there with suitable modern irrigation techniques. In fact, it's surprising just how much green is visible in an area of very low rainfall.

The road from Zurgena looks relatively new, and was probably built or upgraded to provide a direct link to the A7 autovia. It runs outside rather than through Concepción, the next village on a ridge overlooking Valle Almanzora. From there, it's just a couple of kilometres to the next junction down from where I usually turn off the A7 to drive to Aljambra and Llanos. On the last stretch to the coast, I diverted to do some shopping to the large Mercadona just off the road at the edge of an urbanizacion a  couple of kilometres outside the coastal resort of Puerto Rey, in between Playa Vera and Garrucha. I must make an effort to drive north and explore the coast road. It has an industrial history due to mining before modern tourism made its mark.

In the afternoon, I completed preparations for Wednesday's service, and only after supper, when it was dark did I go out for a walk, and phoned Clare and Rhiannon, who's staying with her for half term, from the sea shore, so they could hear the sound of the waves and the tree frogs chirping in the moist warm night air. Tomorrow promises to be warmer.

   

Street view navigation

Today's Bible Sunday service took me again to Llanos where there were over thirty people for the Eucharist. Many regulars are away at this time, I understand. The weather was comfortably mild, even with a wind, much to the relief of many present, as it was unnecessary to use fans to keep cool. We began the service, in consequence, with a few minutes of delicious silence. I told a little of the story of the Bible Society's world wide work, and afterwards found there were some who are familiar with it. I felt a little like I did back in to eighties when I was often out and about preaching 'world mission' sermons and telling stories about the work of church agencies at home and abroad.

While I was just about to eat lunch on returning, I had the exchange of calls about the funeral on Wednesday which I'd been expecting last night, and then made arrangements to visit the widow, who lives just up the valley from Arboleas. She gave me clear instructions, which I tried to follow on Google maps with little success. Putting the address into the search bar produced nothing. So I tried using Microsoft's Bing map search engine. That produced no result and the area map was far inferior. Using Google Street View again, as I did yesterday, I followed the main road towards the house to the point at which there was meant to be a right turn. Indeed there was, but there was no view of a street, only a view of tarmac'd stretch of road without houses. This convinced me that neither map nor Street View have been recently updated.

It's not uncommon here for streets in new housing developments to remain un-named for several years after houses are built and occupied - they are simply known by the original developer's plot numbers. Keeping street maps up to date is by no means an easy task when there are so many new developments to cover all over the world. 

When Street View was first came to Cardiff city centre, it showed pictures of the redevelopment work well in progress, from late 2008. Earlier still, Google Earth had shown aerial photos of the city centre dated October 2006, the week when demolition began. You could even see a huge yellow machine that eats old buildings parked on a flattened site. It would be another five years before this aerial view was updated. I lost track of when Street View caught up with the place transformed, but do know it was a year or so after the work was completed in summer 2009. I pitied foreign visitors using these services, having heard about the wonders of the new shopping centre and finding images of a building site instead. Not good for tourism! My protests yielded nothing, but that was in the days before I could complain publicly on Twitter.

A couple of weeks ago, I broke my HSBC code generating device, used for CBS business internet banking. I didn't feel I could throw it away intact, so I reduced it to pieces to throw away, and extracted the tiny lithium battery for safe disposal. It's always a challenge to find a battery disposal unit at home and abroad. Here in Mojacar however, there's a collection point facility I've not seen elsewhere. There are tall advertising panels at certain points along the street, and built in to the base of some is a safe disposal unit. Ingenious. I must have walked past one nearest to the apartment a dozen times without remembering to drop off the battery. Tonight, on my evening paseo, I finally remembered, musing to myself that sometimes you can overlook doing the right thing, even when it's possible and right in front of you.
       

Journey into the Andalusian interior

I arranged to visit Doreen, the Chaplaincy Curate this morning, and take a tour of the area she's lived in for the past thirteen years, just two o them, since she was ordained. We arranged to meet at the village of Salinas. Google maps confidently showed me this was just to the north of the conurbation of Málaga quite close to the autovia in the commuter town of Puerto de la Torre. I was under the impression that my destination was much further away, and set out harbouring an uncertain feeling. I arrived in good time, but could find no signage to Salinas anywhere. Mystified, I phoned Doreen who confirmed my worst fear. She didn't even know where I was!

Salinas is a common enough place name, referring to the salt industry that's part of its history. Our rendezvous has Salinas Granada as an address although it's actually in Málaga province. The village is in an area where Granada Cordoba and Malaga provincial boundaries intersect. It's like Mulhouse outside Basel, where France, Germany and Switzerland have shared borders, and an airport. It's known as the 'Dreieck' - the three corners. This meant I had another three quarters of an hour's drive, once I had Doreen's instructions.

Fortunately, I was only five minutes drive away from the junction for the Granada autovia. The correct Salinas was easy to find and I arrived but an hour late. We had a coffee and a village bar and then went to see the Ermita, where Anglican services are held. It can accommodate fifty people, and there's an adjacent suite of rooms for social use. This one is I believe dedicated to San Isidro Laborador, patron saint of landless peasants.

It's an early 20th century building in traditional style. It has a suite of church rooms attached to the chapel's south side, originally this housed the first village school, but now, social events. It's the same pattern as many mission churches built in South Wales in the early years of the coal mining boom, to meet the pastoral needs of families migrating to the valleys from rural areas. A useful sort of building to have in a newly developing area.

From another village several kilometres away Doreen drove us and talked about people and villages, the locals and the expat settlers she knew. We did a big circuit of half the Embalse de Iznagar a 35km flooded valley providing both water and hydroelectric power. But four years of drought have dropped the water level by 50-60 metres, exposing a barren shore line, drowned farmhouses and even a handsome brick built road bridge down in the valley below the modern one. There's a huge shallow sloping area of exposed land called 'La Playa', and treated as a beach when waters are low. It's great birdwatching terrain, although in the heat of the day there was little to see and snap.

The hill town of Iznagar with its prominent church and castillo is perched impressively on a high promontory overlooking both halves of the lake. Apparently many Brits have settled there. We went to the hamlet of La Parilla where Doreen lives and had a beer and tapas lunch on a table in the narrow street. Doreen comes here often at lunchtime and meets her neighbours and friends as they pass by.

We visited the local Ermita de Nuestra Señora de Socorro, which last week celebrated its 300th anniversary. The local kids are now bussed out to their classes, but the church has an annexe once used as a school and a couple of back rooms kitted out with beds. For travellers? 'Hospedia' over the door suggests a lodging place provided by the faithful for visitors, maybe itinerant labourers. The hamlet is too small to have its own inn. Impressive to see this remnant of another age, in this once poor region, I suspect, not so long ago.

This is solidly an olive growing region. Andalusia is one of the world's major olive oil producers. There was evidence of many new trees being planted. Spain is benefiting from the drop in production due to war in the Middle East and a nasty olive tree plague hitting Italian and Greek crops. Spain is said now to export to other olive oil producers who then re-badge and sell on as their own produce, provided it is stored in the host country for long enough. Thus a measure of unexpected new prosperity comes to a region that has previously lagged behind more industrialised places.

While stopping for refreshments we saw a spotted flycatcher, and a long tailed tit. Also a spotless starling. At one point we get a great view of a honey buzzard patrolling the thermals above us on the mountainside. But that was all. No hoopoes or bee eaters, or kites or other more exotic locals like the blue rock thrush and azure magpie, but never mind, we has a great day of conversation, which was most enjoyable.

The only misfortune was a wasp sting on my ring finger. I took off the ring and sucked out the venom, then transferred ring to the little finger of the other hand. I found this most uncomfortable and eventually transferred it back, as my finger hadn't swollen.

When I returned there were three documents to send out for the BCRP board meeting for reading before Monday. This normally give minute task took five hours or trial and error due to network congestion. A pretty rotten way to end an amazing beautiful day discovering inland Spain.