Garrucha walk

This afternoon, I walked along the coast road to Garrucha. It was warm, sunny and clear with a wind that drew away some of the intensity of the heat, and made it pleasant to be out on that rather exposed road, with no shade from trees, as is the case along much of this coastline. Near the point where Mojacar and Garrucha municipalities meet, the sandy beach gives way to low lying rocky shoreline. There's a 20th century war time relic in the form of a small 'pill box' gun emplacement facing the sea. Given that Puerto Garrucha has been a place from which minerals and building materials have been shipped over the past century, it had strategic importance, and would have needed its observation posts and defensive installations.

A few hundred metres further along, just where the sandy beach resumes, is Garrucha's 18th century castle, built as a defence against Berber pirates raiding from North Africa. It's called El Castillo de Jesu Nazareno, but is also known as El Castilllo de San Ramon, and El Castillo de Escobetas. Each of these names tells part of the story of the place, but there's no information about the building in the public domain. It now serves as a museum of maritime history, but Tuesday is the one day it's closed, so I'll have to make a special expedition there, and hopefully find out more.

There's a kilometre long promenade called El Paseo de Malecon, with palm trees, children's play areas, attractive paving and white balustrades overlooking the beach, a couple of metres below. On the opposite side of the street, a line of bars and restaurants and some low rise hotels. There seem to be few visitors now, and the beach was almost deserted. A few hundred metres beyond a rocky breakwater is the south pointing port wall with a quay where a procession of delivery lorries deposit what I presume to be road stone, for loading into bulk carrying ships for transport.

I watched several small trawlers arrive, belonging to the fleet harboured here. The port has its own modern wholesale fish market, where catches are auctioned daily. There's also a marina for private leisure craft. The place is an interesting mixture of traditional and modern enterprise. Thankfully the industrial dimension of the port doesn't dominate and overshadow the beaches with ugly structures, as I have seen at Playa de la Araña near Malaga, or at the aptly named Playa Cementera, near Les Cases d'Alcanar in Catalunya.

Close to the port there's a Casa Consistorial (Law Court), which looks like a nineteenth century building and an Ajuntamiento (Town Hall), looking decidedly modern, next door. There's a large rather bare modern plaza with few trees. Beneath is an underground car park. May be this public space is still a work in progress. I also found nearby, with a remarkable gateway with a coloured tile roof at the top of a flight of steps, a Mercado de Abastos. This translates as 'supplies market'. I guess 'supplies' means meat, fish and vegetables are retailed here. But, on second thoughts, the word 'provisions' does better in English, as it's used in relation to food stuffs, whereas 'supplies' is used in a non-specific way. Other kinds of shops are advertised within, suggesting market use has been diversified. I couldn't find a church or an Ermita, but these may be further up the hill than I ventured on this occasion.

According to Google Maps, the round trip was 8.5km, five miles. It took me two hours and twenty minutes, but this includes stops for photography en route. At the first roundabout on the approach to Garrucha, there's a large wall which looks like the gable end of a big building, except that it isn't.

Behind it is a hundred metre long stone structure, twenty metres wide, which looks as if it might be the exterior of a roof vault, although at first it could be mistaken for a pile of rubble with vegetation growing from it, and on its north side runs a deep ditch. The site has no identity on the map, no name plate or interpretation panel in the real world. It's been there a long while, but what purpose it serves is a complete mystery. Must find out!

Data annoyance again

A nice slow start to the day, with a load of washing done and hung out to dry on the balcony after breakfast. Unfortunately a this time of year, the balcony is in shade all day, so drying things in the open air takes that much longer. It also explains why the apartment is equipped with a tumble drier, which I wouldn't use on principle. I have enough changes of clothes not to get that desperate.

After lunch I drove out to Pam and Alwyn's place, twenty minutes drive from Mojacar, up in the countryside near the autovia, for a meeting of worship team members, led by Fr Alan. Service planning from now until New Year was the business. It's is a necessity given the variation in availability on the part of lay worship leaders, of whom there are four, plus Fr Alan and whoever is the locum Chaplain. 

I had just another five weeks of assignments to take note of, but working out the schedule for others required give and take. All are volunteers fitting in their offering of service to the church with domestic routine, holidays and family commitments that are not local. The way they plan together is impressive. In addition, the meeting was finished. We parted company in just over an hour.

On my way back, I went to Lidl's in Garrucha to get a few things I'd missed on Saturday, and ran into a couple of church members out shopping. It's so nice to see familiar faces in a place that is generally such an anonymous environment.

On my return, I checked the spreadsheet I'd made for my duty assignments, using Google Sheets on my table. Modifications made offline at Pam and Alwyn's were visible, despite more than a dozen error messages because the file couldn't sync to the web. When viewed the device, once more attached to the internet, it displayed a dialogue which made no sense to me. On pressing what I thought was the correct response, I found I'd lost changes made at the meeting. I was furious.. All I needed to be asked to avoid losing work was the question: 'Do you want to save the changes you made while off line?'. Because this didn't happen, I had to rely on memory recall to reconstruct my list of duties. I hope what I remembered is correct.

Google will no doubt protest that I'd have been all right if I'd used their Gdocs format rather than  the Docx file format I used. Or not as the case may be. This is not the first time I have lost off-line work, because of Google's vain efforts to re-educate the universe to do things its way, rather than use a simple universal default common text file standard that can be saved and read on any device or operating system, preserving data input. To hell with fancy display formats and sophisticated shareable, re-editable add-ons and their protocols. This is a deep flaw in a system for everyday use that needs to be as simple as the basic needs of its users. Shame on you Google for not making this completely fool proof. Sabotaged by too many clever 'helpful' ideas, as ever.

It's lucky I can still rely on my memory, given that stuff like this can happen when you're out of internet reach. Well, just like the old days really. I'll be back to pen and paper before you know it.

   

Sunday at Mojacar and Aljambra

This morning, my first assignment to celebrate the Eucharist at the Ermita de San Pascual, some 6km from Mojacar Playa centre and 10km from where I'm staying. I got there in good time, and found already a dozen or more people were organising and getting ready to welcome people to the service. By eleven o'clock sixty people were gathered for worship, and some of them had come a long distance to pray together. The service was conventionally Anglican Common Worship, with hymns that were sung with enthusiasm.

Afterwards there were refreshments on the church terrace - there's no church hall, but there is an outside servery, nicely tiled, integrated with the exterior of the building, from where refreshments are served. It's an ingenious arrangement, and characteristic of what's possible in an environment where the sun shines and it's not too hot for most of the year. Anglicans have use of this Ermita, with the practical support of the local Alcadesa (Mayor) On occasions the place is used for Catholic celebrations, but maintained and run for Anglican services - a superb attractive community asset.

In the afternoon, I drove inland to Aljambra to officiate and preach at Evensong, leaving early enough to give myself half an hour to look around Albox, and take a few photos. I found the east side parish church of St Francisco, and talked in English  with two foreign visitors, who were looking for a place for Sunday worship, but was unable to help them, as it was impossible to  find a noticeboard with local Mass times. 

In by brief walk, I found the place where there was a local mosque. There were two buildings on the site, one which was apparently the original, and another in front of it, a lot more imposing, representing a substantial funding investment. A social expression of confidence by the Muslim community, in this town whose development a millennium ago was due to the conquest of southern Spain by Arabs (Moors), but whose resurgence reflects immigration over the past quarter century.

At Aljambra I had the pleasure of officiating and preaching at an English Prayer Book Evensong. It's a long time since I last sang the English office in its entirely, though we did the Church in Wales edition in St John's City Parish Church most Sunday when I was Vicar. My guess is, that the last time I did a full BCP Evensong was September 2000 just before I left Geneva for my sabbatical in Jerusalem. I still relish speaking Prayer Book language. It's not a performance, like participating in a Shakespearean work of art. Memory and understanding connect heart and mind differently. These ingrained words date back to childhood, well before the Church in Wales started work on revising it, to create its own version. I'll be here, doing Evensong here again next month, and that'll be another pleasure to savour.

After the service, two thirds of the congregation went to a Chinese restaurant a few kilometres away for supper. It ranks as one of the busiest I ever recall visiting. We had to wait to occupy tables and then wait for over an hour to be served. Having had a big lunch I wasn't that hungry, but enjoyed the company. Sweet and sour aubergines with ham 'n egg flavoured rice was as much as I could manage to eat. It's the second time this week I've driven this road back to Mojcacar. It gets easier every time.

Saturday shopping

I got in late last night, then talked until even later to Ashley, who was still in the office in between making another walk around Cardiff city centre's night time economy to check that all's well with CBS radio users. As a result I got up late, did some writing after breakfast, then cooked a chicken and chick pea curry, making use of a couple of chicken legs I came home with from last night's social evening and the remainder of last week's veg purchases. That made a pleasant change. 

Then I drove to Garrucha to do the week's shopping for supplies at the bright shiny new Lidl's, one of the largest I've been in anywhere, either in Spain or Britain. I didn't notice much more of a variety of products on sale, but it seems to be able to accommodate more shoppers. However, mid-afternoon only one till was open and the queue was long. 

Garrucha is my next walking destination. It's a small town with around 8,500 inhabitants, plus holidaymakers. It has an industrial history as a mineral exporting port. Nowadays it is visited only by bulk carriers exporting building plaster, manufactured inland. It has a small fishing fleet, and a leisure marina. There's an 18th century castle to discover and on the road into town from Mojacar what looks like another of those fortified mansions, like one I saw last month outside Benajarafe near Velez Malaga.

It's good to get stocked up, so that if I run out of anything it's easier to walk to the shops and carry back a few items, with no need to use the car. In fact that's exactly what happened next. I realised as soon as I got back that I'd forgotten to buy milk. So, my evening paseo was a brisk 50 minute round trip walk to the Mercadona under an overcast sky containing some dark storm clouds. No sign of rain so far however. The evening is still warm (19C) and fragrant, with tree frogs chirruping not too far away and a few dried up leaves dropping. It's dark now by eight o'clock. The only thing missing to complete the autumnal feel is a whiff of wood smoke in the air.

Heavens, I've been here a week already! Time passes quickly with so many new places to explore.

  

Albox-Aljambra

Having received an invitation to attend a church social evening in the chapel at Aljambra, I didn't do much today apart from domestic chores, and made sure I was well rested, with the prospect of a return journey in the dark. I received excellent instructions from David, to help make sense of the maps I'd consulted. I needed to take the same route up the autovia, along the A334 to the turn off for Llanos, then go a further 20k west to Albox. It's a strategically placed town, with a population of nearly 12,000, developed by the Arabs from the eleventh century and fought over several times since the reconquista. Its name means 'The tower' in Arabic. This region is renowned for its marble and other minerals. Aljambra is a hamlet to the north east reached by passing through the east side of town and going north east a few kilometres. 

Arriving in Albox, I missed two key landmarks - the estadio de futbol with a Mercadona opposite. I ended on the west side of town negotiating narrow old streets, but soon got my bearings. I'd been looking mistakenly for an arena with tall floodlights, when the tall main entrance building is right there on the main street. I hadn't looked high enough to see the writing on the wall. Curiously, I was reminded of visiting Bilbao with my sister June back in April 2009. There, we stayed in an hotel with the Athletic Bilbao San Mamés stadium at the end of the street. Too big to miss. 

Aljambra is in open countryside riven with wide ramblas dry river beds channeling rainwater from the surrounding sierras - they are also called arroyos. It's not an area of high rainfall, but the sandy soil and friable bedrock hold enough moisture to permit orchards to grow. Occasionally a massive dump of rain happens so quickly that catastrophic floods occur. Floods as well as earthquakes plus wars have taken their toll of Albox over the past millennium, so it's been rebuilt several times.

The capilla is a single roomed building, used for community purposes, as well as worship. Its little sanctuary, with a niche containing an image of the Nuestra Señora de Saliente is in the north west corner, with a movable altar on a plinth in front of it. On this occasion, tables were introduced and the church benches re-deployed to make it possible for more than two dozen people to sit around and eat picnic suppers together. The evening's entertainment was two hours of listening to assorted classical music videos, projected on to a screen with music coming from a big hi-fi sound system, provided by church friends. A great idea. The highlight was a performance of Rachmaninov's Piano Concert no 2, a favourite with many people present. 

I'm not sure how old the present building is, but a banner on the exterior of the building proclaims the third centenary of association between Albox and Nuestra Señora de Saliente. 20km north in a mountain beauty spot is a substantial pilgrimage church, which houses an icon of our Lady, in the place where a local shepherd boy had a vision which he later identified from a painting of her which was mysteriously acquired and brought to Albox. This led to the building of the sanctuary to house the image, a good day's pilgrimage journey from the town. People speak highly of the beauty of the place. It certainly sounds like it's worth a visit.

It was gone half past ten when we finished and I started the three quarter hour journey back to the coast. The stars and a crescent moon were out, and the cool night air was scented with the aroma of herbs and flowers. Finding my way in the day with the sun in my face seemed to take a long time, whereas the return journey simple sped by. But that's perhaps because I now have a clear idea of the route and its landmarks - football stadium and all.

  

Walking to Mojácar Pueblo

A slow start to the day, and a morning spent on writing a second sermon for Sunday's Evensong for the congregation at Aljambra, a place I'll be visiting for a social event tomorrow.The first lesson on Sunday evening is Nehemiah 6, and noticing this reminded me of ideas I've had for a long time, but had few opportunities to work on in preaching. I've probably said it before, but in recent years I've found that Old Testament readings, properly interpreted, can be helpful in giving us a perspective on contemporary issues to be faced. I've preached more often on Old Testament texts in the last quarter of my ministry than in the first three quarters.

After siesta this afternoon, I went out, not knowing where I'd walk. I headed towards the Rio Agua nature reserve, and found a road past the football stadium which headed inland up the river valley. There's a straight road to the west, bounded by a dyke three metres high for more than a kilometre. This affords protection from the Rio Agua flooding after heavy rain - a necessity - for on the opposite side of the road is a series of industrial sites, from which cement and road-stone are distributed, plus a municipal vegetation dumping site.

As I walked inland, the surface waters of the coastal lagoon soon gave way to dry river bed, with trees, bushes and above all bamboo groves dominating along the underground watercourse. This is indeed arid land, except for the underground water that nurtures surface greenery in abundance. On this part of the route, the wind whipped up clouds of dust along the unmetalled road. I felt as if I was in a Western movie. Once I passed under the town's elevated by-pass, the terrain changed from semi-wilderness to olive groves and orchards of oranges and lemons. There were grenadines too, growing wild by the side of the road. Just wonderful.

Past the orchards, the path climbs steeply until it meets the main road, offering access to thel town uphill. In the lower reaches, the ancient water source is located, a traditional meeting place for everyone. Tradition has it that when the conquering forces of Ferdinand and Isabella arrived at the fuente, over five centuries ago, the loyalty of Jews Muslims and Christians was pledged to them by a town united, living together in peace, and this after decades of violent conflict.

I climbed to the highest point, bought a bottle of water and a lemon I needed for cooking later, as it was convenient. From the mirador, I saw the five fifteen hourly bus drive away. Rather than wait, I walked down to Mojacar Playa, visited Mercadona to buy some fish for supper, a second day in a row, and walked home. The round trip, with stops was two and a half hours, less then I thought. The achievement of this little 13km round trip on foot left me feeling quite exhilarated.

  

Mojácar Pueblo

I completed my Sunday Eucharist sermon for Mojacar this morning, nice and early. There'll also be an Evensong inland at Aljambra. With plenty of leisure to think, I'll prepare something different to suit the readings for this occasion.

I've been meaning to do it since I arrived, but finally this afternoon I drove up to Mojacar Pueblo, the hill town sitting 150 metres above the coastal plain, nestling on a promontory beneath jagged sierra peaks. The site's history of occupation dates back 4,000 years, but the present layout of the town, like so many other historic villages in Spain dates from 11th century Moorish occupation.

In the 19th and early 20th centuries its ancient prosperity diminished greatly, as did its population, but it was then 'rediscovered'. It became a centre for artists from the 1960s, and after that grew as a tourism destination, with the development of Mojacar Playa on the coastal plain, during the past thirty years. The old town has decent approach roads, modern parking facilities, several plazas and small retail areas equally modern, yet exploiting its steep hilly environment without detriment.

It was quiet, and there weren't many people about during siesta time on this autumn afternoon, but I could imagine the place welcoming large numbers of high season visitors. There are spectacular views over the plain to the north towards Vera and Garrucha, with a walkway following the line of the ancient town wall, no longer visible, showcasing the view.

The Parish Church of our Lady of the Rosary and St Augustine, dates from 1560. It stands at the edge of the upper plaza. It has a plain fortress-like exterior, and a squat bell tower. The interior is a simple high round arched unvaulted nave without apse or aisles. The west front is also plain with a single round arched entrance. Classic forms, but with no renaissance or baroque portal to boost its status as a church building post reconquista. It was built on the site where the mosque once stood. I wondered if the unadorned simplicity of this building bore witness to the town's history, in which Jews, Muslims and Christians had lived peacefully together, and won respect from Ferdinand and Isabella when citizens of all faiths united in pledging loyalty to the Crown without surrendering the status quo they'd developed.

Although it was siesta time, the church was open to visit, and a gentle stream of recorded plainsong offered a calming welcome to all who entered. There seems to be no Catholic place of worship in Mojacar Playa. There's an Assemblies of God missionary congregation, and the Anglican presence, but no Mass centre advertised to cater for visitors down on the seaside. I wonder why? This Friday is the patronal fiesta of Our Lady of the Rosary, so there'll be special events up in the old town, but not at a time when I can make it, unfortunately, as I have a prior engagement with the Anglican congregation out at Aljambra.

After a couple of hours up in the old town, I returned to the apartment, and then went out for my daily walk. This time to the Mercadona and back, eighty minutes exercise, and some fish for supper as a reward for the effort.

My photos you'll find here

  

Dawn delight

I woke at first light, aware that Clare would soon be on her way to the Heath hospital for day surgery eye appointment, thankfully with support from a good neighbour, with me so far away, and only able to message her good wishes. I couldn't get back to sleep, so with a little effort, I got up, dressed and made my way to the road bridge overlooking the nearby Rio Aguas nature reserve, to watch the sunrise, and anything else that might happen.

It seemed that there were even more coots out in the open waters of the lake than I saw last night, dozens of them, dabbling, fighting, calling to each other. Then there were bats on their odd jagged flight paths just over the water, with occasional intrusions from more elegantly aerobatic swifts. The big surprise was fish 20cm long jumping clean out of the water, several times in a row. Also insect hunting I wondered. A spectacular morning twilight dance. 

There were several kinds of birdsong unfamiliar to me coming from tall grasses either side of the lake. I caught sight of a reticent Purple Gallinule browsing for food among waterside reeds, then a few egrets appeared, then a few more, then a lot more as the sun appeared over the horizon. At first, they attached themselves to reeds or nearby trees, and roots for a while. Then without warning, groups of them would take to the air and fly west inland up the valley, to wherever they expected to find their next food. At a guess, there were several hundred birds hiding overnight in the surrounding reed beds. 

At this time of year reeds produce a white cotton like puffball on the stem. I think it may contain seed. At a distance in the half light, there could be no better hiding place for the egrets. Although larger than the puffball, they are equally as plain and white, clinging to a reed.

Just as I was about to leave, I spotted a group of six Mallards, and then tiny diving duck, probably a teal. I took a burred photo of this, plus a few more of Purple Gallinules feeding, and then, too quickly for me to react, the vivid blue flash of a Kingfisher, flying under the bridge, the length of the lake. Such a blessed morning hour. You can find my photos here

After breakfast I spent the rest of the morning editing and uploading photos, receiving and sending emails. I was ready for a siesta after lunch, but made the effort to walk later in the afternoon. This time I went south along the promenade, further than I went before, until I'd done 6-7 km or so. I was looking for a shop, well most probably a Chinese supermarket, selling cheap sun hats, as I'd left mine at home. I got lucky just as I was about to turn for home, and purchased a white sombrero, for 5€ a bit too small for my big head - it'll need stretching - but it's necessary. I've got used to wearing a hat this past few years, and even though the sun is less strong than it was last month, I won't risk over-exposure.

The south end of the promenade seems from its buildings to be the older part of Mojacar Playa, with many more smaller shops, restaurants and a few houses on the beach side of the road, and generally not looking as neat and tidy or as up-market as the northern reaches of the town. Around the junction of the road up to Mojacar's pueblo viejo is the most developed, with a shopping mall, some gardens, the Post Office, and some posh shops and bars. So, development seems to have extended a good 4km from the 'centre' to the north over the past few decades. Eventually, I guess, the entire sea front from Mojacar to the neighbouring mineral exporting port of Garrucha will be a built up area, but hopefully developed according to the same coherent planning concept that has made the north reaches of Mojacar Playa fairly pleasing to the eye.

Walking the streets this past few days, I've heard as much French spoken among holidaymakers as English. What I find puzzling is the large number of Italian themed eating houses, offering pasta or pizza. Few unashamedly English, French or Spanish for that matter, unless this exists as a default but isn't promoted. The built environment and landscape says 'Spain', but the cuisine less evidently so. I wonder what's the reason for this?

  

Beach surprise discovery

I had a meeting this morning with churchwarden Pam and Fr Alan, the retired priest who been living in Mojacar permanently for 12 years. He's acting as Interim Priest in Charge during the interregnum, to provide much needed continuity, as he is well known in all four worship centres, and throughout the widespread pastoral area the chaplaincy covers. If was good to hear them speaking about the many challenges and opportunities which present themselves, and in the privileged position of having my duties organised for me during my stay.

When we'd finished, I had some washing, and then, having located the nearest Mercadona some shopping to get done before lunch. It's necessary to drive to a supermarket, as it's almost half an hour's walk, too far to carry a full week's basic purchases in one go. Mojacar Playa is well spread out over six kilometres of sea shore. There are a handful of small convenience stores, the nearest is ten minutes from the apartment. The resort and all the satellite urbanizacions are planned around the presumption of car usage for the long term residents. I understand that in summer vehicle congestion is a terrible problem. A journey which now takes me five minutes can take four times as long.

There are, however, frequent busses along the coast road catering for visitors, or residents that are no longer able to drive. It will be necessary to use the car more than I'd prefer to, in order to perform all my duties, and look after myself. I don't mind at all, except that it will be vital to make sure that I get out and walk every day for an hour, as well as go places by car.

After lunch and a siesta, I decided to go and find the chapel where I'll be celebrating the Eucharist on Sunday next. The Ermita de San Pascual is not in Mojacar itself but 11km from the apartment, just off the coast road as it weaves though the mountains, in the hamlet of Agua de Enmedio overlooking one of the several golf courses in the area.

The west front of the building, which accommodates over sixty people, is tiled in large roughly hewn slate slabs with a silvery grey colour. This isn't typically local, but apparently an idea originating with the benefactor who had the chapel built, who'd lived and worked in South America, and imported this architectural feature, imitating capillas rurales in the Andes.

On the drive back, I stopped to look at Castillo Macenas a mid-eighteenth century coastal defence fortress which stands on a beach, fifty metres from the shore. There's a promontory a kilometre further south with a round watch tower, the Torre del Pirulico. The beach is several kilometres away from the conurbation, with unpaved parking areas between road and beach. On the sand beneath the fortress walls, goodness knows how many people had made small piles of stones, found laying about in the vicinity. I made one too. A spiral design, a peace sign and a yin-yang symbol were also laid out in a mosaic of white marble pebbles and black slate pieces on the sand.

The beach has an element of natural unkempt wildness about it, until you look back towards rising ground where there's a bend in the road. Here the concrete skeleton of long low rise building complex sits, looking neglected and ugly, a sad blight on the landscape. It's one of several large unfinished projects hereabouts, a legacy of the past decade of economic crisis. Good cheer arrived, however in a pair of lapwings, one of which sat quite still for long enough to allow me to take three good pictures, quite close up, before flying away.

Immediately after returning, I went out for that essential walk, this time, heading north on the beach towards Garrucha. A few hundred metres along there's a large area of reeds, bushes and trees that makes a huge green patch on the otherwise quite bare shoreline. It's where there's usually a dry river bed, an arroyo, with underground water seeping into the sea. Here, however, the sand has created a barrier over ages, so that instead of water spreading out and dispersing in the sandy subsoil, it has formed a shallow lake of brackish water, on which certain kinds of vegetation and wildlife thrive. 

The lake is about half a kilometre long, spanned by a road bridge. This is the outflow of the Rio Aguas, as the bridge signage informs the world. I walked back along the road to the bridge, and from there had a fine vantage point to take photos of an egret, some coots and a remarkable if shy wading bird with red legs and red cheeks and beak - a Purple Gallinule - my first sighting. There were other smaller birds as well, but they moved too quickly for me to identify.

Another man was on the bridge with camera and binoculars, another bird watcher. He approached me and we started chatting in Spanish, and comparing photos. He showed me an app on his smartphone which not only gave a photo of a bird, but its name in four languages. He was a visitor from Madrid, I think, and had only discovered this remarkable jewel of a conservation area, right in the middle of a major holiday resort in the previous week. A conversation about birds exclusively in Spanish plus the discovery of this place really made my day.

  

Llanos Harvest Festival and Sunday Lunch

Having gone to bed late, it was well after sunrise when I woke up, so there was no time to take a look outdoors or eat breakfast at a leisurely pace, but I was in the car and on my way to rendezvous with Alwyn and Pam at a commercial centre close to the autovia, about 15km from the apartment, so that we could travel together to the church at Llanos del Peral, where I was to celebrate at preach at eleven.

I took a wrong turning in Garrucha, the next town north along the coast, and went south west instead of north west. I realised the further I travelled that landmarks I'd noticed close to the road during last night's journey were not appearing, so I stopped and called Alwyn and was re-directed to the autovia, several junctions further south from where they were waiting for me. I made it to the agreed place only ten minutes late, and we proceeded to Llanos and arrived when we'd planned to.

It was a Harvest Festival celebration, and there were sixty people present, forty nine of whom received communion. The place was beautifully decorated, and all the foodbank offerings were arranged in a pleasing display before the altar. We even had a traditional wheatsheaf shaped Harvest Loaf, and some purple grapes on the altar. I just remembered my Jamaican bus driving non-stipendiary curate back in St Paul's Bristol using the very biblical descriptive word 'shewbread' in this context. 

The church building is a simple functional twentieth century 'mission church' design, with several rooms, used for educational and social purposes, with a kitchen and toilet, all behind a worship area accommodating sixty. There's a large patio on the south side, where tables and large umbrellas had been arranged for 'bring and share' lunch following the service. 

Llanos del Peral is a spread out rural village in rolling uplands with the sierras behind. It's grown in recent years as Brits have settled there, away from the coast, converting old farmhouses or building anew in the Andalusian arichtectural style. It's an area of orchards and horticulture. The dark green of the fruit trees contrasts with the pale yellow, if not white or grey sandy soils of the region. Ranks of mountains several hundred metres high seem to erupt from vast plains at intervals, not close enough to each other to form what may be considered valleys. I'm finding it difficult to estimate the scale of distances, as happens when travelling in the plains of East Anglia. It'll take a while to get the measure of this region, classed by low rainfall as 'semi-arid', and for that reason ecologically interesting.

I received such a warm welcome, and it's clear there's a lively sense of community spirit and pleasure at being a congregation among its members. Former Chaplain, Pauline Williams, ex-Llandaff diocese, was asked to create an opportunity for worship in this area two years ago, and once a gathering place had been found, people gathered in good numbers and the community has continued to grow in the twenty one months since they began. The time and place were clearly right, and it's to Pauline's credit for realising this. Needless to say, she is much missed.

It was gone two by the time we headed back towards the coast. After collecting the car on the road into Garrucha, I spotted a small 'open all hours' convenience store that was open, and was able to buy fruit and veg for an evening meal. This isn't a region where the supermarkets feel the need to stay open on Sundays, outside holiday high season. Once back at the apartment, a siesta had to be my priority after a long drink of water, then a walk into Mojacar and back, to learn about the neighbourhood.

The beach is a 50-100m deep. In some places there are houses along the edge, and in others there's an open area with a few restaurants, children's play parks and several beach sport recreational areas. The coast road runs along behind, and then, further back behind lawns, are hotels and holiday apartment blocks, but nothing higher than four storeys and mostly in the Andalusian architectural style. I guess that Mojacar developed later than other coastal resorts, and in a way where there's been more planning than in those areas where builders and landowners once competed to exploit lucrative space, producing tall, sometimes ugly urban sprawl right next to the beach promenade. Mojacar Playa has certainly grown a townscape that's more pleasing to the eye than most.

I began to walk up the road toward the old pueblo blanco, as the sun was setting behind the mountain that cradles the ancient hill village, and took some photos, but then turned back. I'd been walking for an hour. It was twilight by the time I reached the apartment, but the exercise did me good, and helped to make me feel grounded in my new abode, as did cooking supper in an excellent spacious kitchen, in a lovely house, in a quiet street. A good place to return to, given the distances needing to be travelled. I understand the pastoral area is roughly the size of Wales!

     

Destination Mojacar

Out of the house and waiting for a 61 bus just before eleven this morning, but having just missed one, I walked down to Cowbridge Road East and caught a 17, departing at the same time. The extra walk did me good, likewise the dash at the other end to catch the T9 airport shuttle bus. I needn't have worried, as the bus was stalled by the breakdown of its ticket machine. An engineer turned up shortly after I arrived at the bus stop, and by 11.30 we were on our way, arriving noon at the airport.

Not being as quite as early as usual checking in, there was a queue of fifty people for Vueling flights to Alicante and Malaga, but this quickly diminished. Within 35 minutes, my bag was checked in, I was through security clearance, and had an hour to wait for the departure gate to be announced.

The flight left roughly half an hour late, but arrived only ten minutes late. By half past six local time Pam and Alwyn found me, and we were on our way south to Mojacar, a journey south west of more than two hours on the A7. The setting sun was in our faces most of way, and by the time we left the autovia, for the last 20km to Mojacar, it was dark.

After dropping luggage off at the apartment, we went for a meal in an Italian restaurant, where I ate a huge plate of pasta, being very hungry after my flight and road trip. All is in darkness, so it's hard to imagine the place I've arrived in. Tomorrow will indeed be a day of discovery.

  

Unrestful days

A few precious days at home to savour, though not without a visit to the CBS office late yesterday, as this is a time of year when our business taxes are due. Getting the details correct is vital, and for me nerve wracking, as any error will only make hassles for others to sort out later.

Already today I am packing and re-organising my luggage to make sure I have everything I need. On my next trip I will need to take my own PC, as a printer is supplied there but not a computer. I'd rather use my own, as long as I don't have printer problems as a result. If only I could just take my Chromebook I'd be fine, but getting documents printed out from a Chromebook is an uncertain process, whatever is claimed by Google. Just take a Windows PC, no matter how much extra maintenance they demand, and at least getting a (fairly modern) printer attached is less of a problem. 

Given the uncertainties about printing, today I have completed and printed off a Harvest Sunday sermon text - blind - given that I have no idea of the kind of audience or context I'll face. At least I have a start point to work from. Also among my tasks to get done while home was making a CD of all files relating to St John's City Parish Church guidebook, produced under my editorial hand in 2009. Sarah the current Vicar wants to do another print run, or ideally a route to producing a revised edition. 

Thankfully, I have an archive of all the material, editable or finalised pages, relating to the production version, 180mb of 'stuff', which I'm now able to pass on to her and her team to work on. It wasn't hard to find the relevant file folder, as I'd left it in a place where it couldn't easily get wiped.

Despite much hunting around town, I was unable to find a new battery for my Blackberry Q10. How soon this basic commodity passes from being a regular item to a specilialized variety to be hunted for on the internet. Upgrading to a new phone could be less hassle, regardless that the phone I use is more than fit for purpose; i.e. it suits me and my work pattern just fine. But all the time we are being pressured to adopt new devices we neither need or want, in ordeer to keep the system going. Surely, there is something wrong here?

  

Tredegar House visited

Last night I went to bed early and slept a full nine hours, and woke up at first light. No lie-in for me as, at Clare's insistence, I needed to visit the GP surgery early to secure an appointment for today, rather than wait for one tomorrow booked weeks ago. The reaction I had to that wasp sting extended beyond a swollen hand to a body rash, uncomfortable and sometimes painful. I was fairly sure it was an allergic reaction to the sting, but she wanted to be sure it wasn't something worse.

Ashley texted to tell me about the double murder of a young couple on their way to work in Queen Street at six this morning. While I was waiting for my appointment in the surgery, I overheard someone saying that the culprit might have been a homeless person. I was thankful that the police very early on announced an arrest and went out of their way to state publicly, and with firmness that this was not a homeless person and not an act of terror or a random killing. 

Apparently, there's been a recent upsurge of new homeless people and new beggars on city centre streets. Despite the valiant efforts made by the city's social work homelessness team, and legions of volunteers, the problem persists. The willingness of gossips to suspect the worst of some of the poorest and most vulnerable people around reflects the fear, suspicion and resentment attached to their persistent presence. It's a shameful reflection on prevalent uncaring social attitudes. 

By half past ten, I was telling my story to the doctor, who confirmed that it was nothing worse than I'd expected, and prescribed me some anti-histamine tablets to help send the slowly diminishing rash on its way a little quicker. She also concluded my current hypertension review, scheduled for tomorrow and gave me this year's anti 'flu jab, all in fifteen minutes, which means I don't need to return for tomorrow's appointment. I then bought some croissants and a pain au raisin at the Co-op store nearby, and headed back home for Clare's birthday breakfast.

Later, we drove to Newport to visit its National Trust masterpiece, Tredegar House. We spent several hours exploring the remarkable stately home, once the house of Welsh landed gentry, the Morgan family. It buildings date from the late fifteenth to eighteenth century, and it's surrounded by beautiful gardens and well kept estate lands. Being landowners, the Morgans became wealthy during the industrial era because all goods transported through their properties were subject to charges, but times changed and family fortunes declined. Before being bought by Newport Council and handed to the National Trust for conservation and management, it had a spell as a Convent secondary school, as the family had become Catholic in the nineteenth century.

It was a damp overcast day, during which it never quite rained properly. There were far more visitors for such a dull weekday than we'd expected. The car park was full, although some of the occupants may well have been commuters leaving their cars conveniently within walking distance of their work places in a nearby business park. Those with a National Trust car sticker don't have to Pay 'n Display like the rest, fortunately. We had very pleasant lunch in the restaurant created in the old estate brew house, in between looking at the house and wandering around the gardens. Work was just beginning on erecting scaffolding around the main house for work on renewing the roof which leaks badly. Some of the rooms had token displays only, rather than being entirely closed, and the guides freely talked about the project to make the place fully watertight again, and looking forward to re-opening after winter closure for the work to be completed.

Clare first visited Tredegar House for the National Eisteddfod a decade or so ago. My first visit was for a Visit Wales tourism promotional event, not long after starting at St John's about thirteen years ago. I was surprised at how much about the property and its lands I had forgotten, or not taken in at the time. It's one of those places I'm sure we'll be visiting again once the roof is fixed and all is back to normal. Having had this outing and lunch, Clare didn't want to go out for a birthday supper, so I cooked supper instead, and followed it up by giving her a long relaxing foot massage to finish the day.

  

Homeward bound

Monday was devoted to cleaning the apartment and packing, but I did manage my usual evening paseo before supper, then going to bed by nine. This was the only way to take the edge off a four thirty start from Rincon by taxi to get to the airport check-in by five. I didn't sleep well, and in the end, got up just after three, and pottered about until it was time to leave. At four exactly. Rosella gave me an alarm call - just in case. She'd been up watching the Clinton-Trump debate on TV. The  taxista she engaged to collect me was punctual, and amazingly cheerful for such an early hour. We chatted in Spanish throughout the twenty five minute ride, and I felt immensely pleased with myself for being able to function at all at this hour of the morning, and make myself understood, without possibility of falling back into English.

He dropped me off outside the main entrance. The Vueling check-in had just opened, and already a hundred or so people were queuing in one long straggly line impeding the travellers hunting for their respective desk. Within minutes, the cordoning system for compressing a queue into smaller area had been opened and was full to capacity. By that time, the queue was starting to move surprisingly fast. No fewer than seven Vueling desks were now open, and availability displayed on a screen which issued a distinctive odd sound every time a new desk number was called. It's the system I'd seen in use at Barcelona El Prat, when checking in for my return journey back at the end of July. Impressive.

A ten minute wait, twenty seconds dropping off my case, then the walk to the security clearance zone, hardly any waiting, despite scores of people being processed. Within twenty five minutes of being dropped off, I was in the departure shopping area, with an hour to wait before boarding. With hardly any shops open to browse in should I be so inclined, which I'm not. I preferred a leisurely stroll to the gate area where I was pretty certain our flight was docked. By the time I reached passport checkout, the gate had been confirmed, then there was only half an hour to wait before boarding, and enough time to sit and eat the picnic breakfast I brought with me.

We were bussed out to the aircraft. Passengers in the narrower seats at the rear were boarded first, but there were delays boarding the front group, perhaps because we were out on the tarmac, not docked. So we were twenty minutes late setting out. Despite the discomfort, I'd already dozed off before we started taxiing, and dozed for much of the flight. When the sun rose, just after eight, the terrain was obscured by intermittent cloud which grew thicker as we flew north. Only as we flew below a hundred metres into Rhoose from the West did land become visible again, so there wasn't much to stay awake for.

The benefit of such an early flight was arriving home just after ten, and having the whole day ahead of me to read mail, update computers, unpack, and catch up with Clare. In the afternoon I accompanied her to an appointment with her eye consultant at the UHW  Opthalmology department for an expert briefing before her next operation, three days after I return to Spain for my next tour of duty. It's unfortunate that we knew nothing of this prospect when my arrangements were made. Thankfully Owain is able to come over and support her

Singing in Velez and a reflection on the BCP

It was my last assignment of this tour of duty this morning, so I was out of the house and on my way by nine thirty for a celebration of the Eucharist at Velez Malaga, with a congregation of two dozen. I didn't have trouble with the route to my destination this time, although I did have to drive three times around the one way system in the side streets before I found a parking spot reasonably near. Some find it easier to use a parking area on the opposite side of the main dual carriageway into the town centre, and if you've come from the other side of the centre, this probably makes better sense anyway.

Rebecca and Jean were there, fresh from their pilgrimage, wearing their souvenir Camino de San Juan de Compostela teeshirts, showing specially stamped documents certifying completion of their 125km walk. And they had stories to tell. They looked calm and contented, pleased not to have sore feet at the end of their eight days of walking.

The congregation sang several rousing hymns with enthusiasm, even breaking into harmony several times. The last one 'To God be the Glory' was enjoyed so much there was applause when it was over. Then an impromptu verse of 'Thine be the Glory' was sung for a reprise. So relaxed and natural, it was a real delight to share, a nice memory to take away with me.

This was followed by coffee, a beer and a chat with several church members in the neighbouring bar. One Brit, who'd lived in Germany as well as Spain was lamenting the Brexit vote, as a rejection of all that's been worked for since the end of World War II, also the withdrawal of the franchise from non-resident passport holders with no UK address over the past fifteen years - hundreds of thousands of citizens whose votes could have made a difference to the referendum outcome.

We discussed the Book of Common Prayer a subject of affectionate regard for many brought up on it, even if they concede the need for more contemporary language, and accept this is nowadays the norm. When working with seminarians, I made a point of explaining why it is such a seminal social, cultural and spiritual document, to be taken seriously by all, whether or not they ever use it.

It's a text for a society with Christian roots, respecting the need for a stable orderly framework for hearing scripture systematically and celebrating the sacraments of the universal church. It describes what's most needed for spiritual development. Its theology is a hybrid of traditional and reformed teaching not to everyone's liking, but its life gives witness to an understanding that interpretation of scripture and debate about the meaning of the sacraments isn't closed.

Elizabeth I imposed the use of the BCP by law. Not a good idea, by our standards, but its use survived political upheavals and remained accepted by the majority of British citizens by Act of Parliament. In practice it was adapted and tinkered with, according to local custom and interpretation, but continued nevertheless to be used. Given its political origins as an accepted core text, its survival, and popular affection, is unique.

New insight into the BCP has emerged for me from being with the Malaga Chaplaincy, reading about its origins. The English Cemetery in Malaga was the fruit of decades of diplomatic activity by British Consul William Mark (1824-36). He wasn't ordained, but as a Crown official, took authority to read the Burial Office over protestant citizens who died hereabouts. His pastoral concern for the dead and bereaved led him to a campaign to acquire rights to burial land for non-catholics. He succeeded in 1831. Only in 1846 did the newly appointed first Bishop of Gibraltar come to Malaga to consecrate the cemetery. During that fifteen years, Mark read Sunday Matins and Evensong with Homily for a congregation at the Consulate. No Chaplain was appointed until 1850.

For a quarter of a century Anglican pastoral life here relied entirely on lay ministry, not authorised by the Church Established, but by the Crown and by means of the BCP, with which British citizens could identify, around which they would gather. It's the vehicle of Anglican compromise that matters here more than translatable content. As Anglicans, we seek a form of service to identify with, even if it call for an effort. No matter who bothers to offer a service to start with. Is it recognisable, part of our experience? This makes Prayer Book liturgy, in all its incarnations and translations, a church gathering resource, with or without a minister in charge. All that's needed is someone with pastoral heart and sense of mission to get things started, willing to do what the BCP and its modern interpretations allow.

Having started the train of thought expressed here, I returned to Rincon. Perhaps due to the weekend fiesta, streets and car parks were unusually full for a Sunday. I was relieved to find the last free space in my usual parking area.

Tuna steaks for lunch today, cooked with black olives, cherry tomatoes, loads of garlic and lemon. A small treat to mark my final Sunday duty. Now I have to set my mind to cleaning and tidying up, and packing my bags. I have a 4.30am start on Tuesday morning. Best to be well prepared a day ahead for such an early lift off.
   

Rincon relaxes

A quiet domestic sort of day today, not venturing far until early evening, when I went out for my daily paseo along the promenade. It was much busier than expected. On the beach outside the Tourist Office, a fiesta stage had been erected, and a band was setting up and doing sound tests. Backing to the Tourist Office opposite, another temporary structure house three comidas with bar, selling local specialities. Banners announced this event as the Fiesta de Boqueron Victoriana. 

It's a celebration of the anchovies harvested offshore around here and served in every eating place, cooked according to local recipes. The eponymous Boqueron Victoriana, I found when served in a restaurant menu, was crisply fried fish in a light breadcrumb coating. My preference is for boquereones pickled in and vinegar rather than cooked. The salted variety are OK as a garnish on a pizza occasionally, but are otherwise rather strong tasting.

I walked around for a while and took some photographs, before returning to the apartment. There were fireworks some time after midnight - I didn't check when, as I was in bed by then - and soon after the distant thump of amplified music gave way to silence.

The bulk of summer tourists have now departed, though not entirely, as the local surface car parks are as full as ever. I imagine this fiesta is more oriented towards local inhabitants than extranjeros. Some chirungitos on the beach have already closed and packed their tables away as demand dips. It was a pleasure to see many young families out with their children, gathering for the fiesta, socialising with friends over a beer on a warm evening. Maybe, after months of incessant hard work, this is a welcome time to relax and take a break, and enjoy being part of the host community. 

  

Malaga on foot III

I took the bus to Malaga today, fully intent on taking a ride on the Cercania 2 metro line, to Alora, up the Guadalhorce valley past Cartama.  As I waited at the nearest stop, first a MAPFRE branded maintenance van parked on the zig zag yellow lined exclusion zone for all but buses. No sooner than this went away an armoured cash in transit van occupied the same space, and two security personnel took several bags of money, into the Santander premises twenty metres away. It remained until five minutes after the bus arrived.

The bus had to park at an angle in the remainder of the space, and this was fine for the two dozen passengers getting on, except one. A woman with crutches and a small mobility scooter, of a size that could be taken on the bus if it had not been parked away from the kerb. The driver was patient and understanding. She honked the horn and only after several minutes more did the cash men emerge and depart, so that the bus could reposition itself for the lady to get on. Nobody on board seemed bothered by the delay. Kindness prevails thankfully.

Incidents like this can be an everyday occurrence wherever wheel chairs and mobility scooters are used. Urban bus stops are planned with access for disabled people in mind. It simply isn't fair that gun toting civilians with bags of cash, in armoured vans are not required to think twice before obstructing a stop. There is no reason why everyday secure route planning for deliveries shouldn't take this into account, rather than disrupt other people's travel, and make it difficult for a disabled traveller to be accommodated without causing needless embarrassment. No cash truck should ever be allowed to presume the privileges that all would naturally accord to an emergency services vehicle. But money influences how everyone behaves one way or another.

I went from the last bus stop in town to Maria Zambrano station, checked the Cercania timetable and realised I had forty minutes to wait. I walked over to the Larios shopping centre. It's huge and on three storeys with every posh designer brand imaginable selling their wares. I saw a demonstrator at a stall carefully flying a toy sized drone quadrocopter, making an effort to do so safely at a junction of the thoroughfare. Concentration immobilised her face in a stare. Her movements, such as they were, made her look robotic, drained of natural liveliness. Why are we doing these things to ourselves? I wondered.

The shopping centre is so big that I became disoriented and exited on the opposite side of the building. Then I had lost sight of the railway station, and by the time I had discovered where I was, there was not enough time to catch the train. Ah well, another couple of hours on foot in Malaga finding new places would do instead.

I walked back to the old town's Atarazanas market, busy with stall holders and others chatting animatedly, eating and drinking after the majority had ceased trading for the day. A marvellous buzz of conviviality around the bars and eateries open. I settled for a tuna and tomato empanadilla from a stall I've bought from before. Delicious.

From there, I wove me way through a collection of narrow streets with shops at the base of five storey buildings in a rich mix of decorative styles. I discovered a Parish Church dedicated to St John Baptist dating from the 1487 reconquista of Malaga, but rebuilt after the 17th century earthquake. It has a tall brick tower, and it's such a surprise to round a street corner and see a few hundred yards away down a winding narrow street this tall edifice illuminated by the afternoon sun.

A curious feature of this church is to be seen on the west wall of the church adjacent to the porch. Five differently coloured hemispheres, each about the size of a cannon ball arranged in a cruciform pattern. No single explanation for this has gained currency, but the symbol is found in Aztec and in far Eastern cultures. There's an interesting article about it here.

A few blocks away, I found another large brick built church in a narrow street. A walk around the block revealed this to be part of a large school complex behind the shops and apartments, a religious community foundation no doubt at least once upon a time, but how old it's hard to tell. Neither church was open during siesta. The Cathedral can be visited 10.00 till 20.00 (€5.00) and a nearby church is open for perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. Others open for morning and evening Masses for the most part. A really good church crawl would rely on being out and about early or late, rather than during the day. Maybe another time.

Another good city walkabout, then back on the bus to Rincon by five, to purchase some frozen fish to see me through the weekend and my last few evening meals before heading back home to Cardiff.

   

Another St Matthew's day remembered

This morning, drove into Malaga to celebrate the midweek Eucharist in honour of St Matthew the Apostle, thankful that the traffic was light. I opened the church and got everything ready, welcomed a couple of Spanish visitors as best I could in Spanish, and then waited for a congregation to arrive. just as I was due to start, Rosella came and saved me from disappointment, bless her.

This day is the 46th anniversary of the first time I presided at a celebration of the Eucharist at the Parish Communion in St Andrew's Penyrheol Caerphilly, where I served my first curacy. It's hard to recall that first occasion well. I think my father came along, not sure about my mother. Neither of them were really well at the time and within a couple of years, both would be dead. It was a normal parochial service, rather than a solemn celebration with all attention on cheering on a new priest. That was what I wanted, simply to take my place in the ranks of those who serve God's people as priests to their communities.

For me, beginning priestly ministry at a Parish Eucharist was 'special' enough as an expression of priesthood. Being given the trust of people, inside and outside the church, to help them find a voice for themselves in God's presence, in an era when others were  rejecting the church and distrusting its ministers, was a humbling privilege and responsibility. It still is. The older I get, the more I appreciate the privilege granted, in a world where the faith I represent occupies such an uncertain place in the guidance of humankind.

I went for another two hour walk this afternoon, eastwards this time, to Playa del Rubio, the far side of Benagalbón from Rincon. Conservation measures are in place on this stretch of beach to protect the unique plant life that grows at the point where the sand gives way to the footpath. Some sections are fenced off, and contain indigenous flowers and grasses. 

Notably along this beach, I saw half a dozen swallows and heard a flock of starlings whistling and chattering in a large tree. There are houses with gardens all along this stretch. More greenery means more insects for food, and additional bird species. I've seen fewer swallows and starlings in Rincon, as it's more built up along the shoreline the habitats are less varied. Gulls, sparrows, pigeons and parakeets, are the most frequently visible species, plus the pair of blackbirds in the garden below, this apartment.

   

Getting there

Today is the anniversary of my ordination to the Diaconate forty seven years ago. It remains for me a key day in my life, receiving authority from the Church to proclaim God's Word and preach the Gospel. I'm still at it, and still look forward to the challenge scripture presents each week, to relate what's said in the readings to what's happening around us in the world. For me it's still a pleasure and privilege for which I am most grateful to God, and to the Church for putting up with me for so long.

The weather was warm, but pleasant enough for walking, so as well as going out to get some batteries, I walked the main street and the promenade before lunch. Again, after siesta, I went out for a much longer walk along the coast path, the full length of La Cala del Moral, and on to La Araña, the next and much smaller bay hosting the cement works. That's roughly half the distance to Málaga.

The N340a main road runs through La Cala del Moral about 200 metres inland. There are houses, some with gardens, down to the beach promenade, which runs roughly where the old railway line used to be. It's a good hundred metres from the promenade to the shore, and close to the promenade are some grassy areas palm trees and an asortment of beach restaurants. It's less built up and more spacious than Rincon, and that's more congenial.

La Araña, the next cove is such a contrast. Here the four lane highway cuts the heart of the original coastal village, from top to bottom. There are houses right on the beach, then the rest of the village is across this busy noisy road. The entire place is dominated by the cement factory, looming in the background. It's now owned and worked by a Chinese company. The village looks tired and drab, perhaps because of pollution from traffic and from the cement works. There were just a few people on the beach, but now it's no longer peak holiday season, and thee are more congenial places nearby for recreation. It felt like rather a sad place ruined by industry and not benefiting from it.

I'd been walking for nearly two hours by the time I got back, and really felt the benefit of a longer walk than usual - in all, eight kilometres.

  

Sunrise at the beach

Having woken at first light, I was too restless to doze for another hour, so I went out and walked eastwards along the beach towards Benalgobion. The sky was rich with red orange and yellow clouds,  precursor to an overcast day, but most spectacular as it changed.

The beach is oriented east southeast, so the sun emerging on the horizon at eight wasn't visible, but to be glimpsed through trees half an hour later. Already there were scores of walkers and joggers out enjoying the cool still fresh morning air.

Sand on the foreshore, up as far as the parasols and sun loungers, had been flattened by a plough similar to those used for making snow pistes. I guess it's a good way of trawling for rubbish, especially broken glass and cans, as well as giving a fresh impression to holidaymakers, although numbers are now starting to dwindle as high season finishes.

Offshore, half a dozen small fishing boats were out, either laying their pots or casting their nets or hauling them in. It was hard to tell in low light a hundred metres away. It was still too early for gulls and pigeons to be active when I set out, but on my way back, the starlings, sparrows, blackbirds and even noisy flocks of parakeets were on the move. There wee few signs of life in the restaurants or shops too. Most tend to open after nine, except the panaderos.

It was a delightful way to start the day.

After breakfast I looked at the photos taken earlier and edited them ready for upload when I next go to St George's, but not today. I have often started thinking about next Sunday's sermon on a Monday, and the discovery of a Common Worship app called Sunday Worship, which delivers just next Sunday's Anglican readings and collects is proving to be an asset, as you don't have to mess around with lectionaries, the necessary text is right there for you to ponder on. So, yet again this week, I'd made an early first draft before lunch.

The preliminary to this was searching for a stand alone Chromebook app which would enable me to do word processing and save files in a useable format without ever needing to be on line. Google Docs apps work well, albeit in a rather convoluted way with different file formats, offline as well as online, with the rigmarole of syncing between the two governed always by connection speed and reliability. But often I want to write and save a text to a flash drive not to the device or the web. This process is not straightforward enough, and I have lost material accidentally in doing so. An app that sits on the device and does offline only what you ask of it is desirable. But how to find the right one?

I wasted an hour trying apps called Writer and Ain't with no satisfaction and in the end resorted to performing the simple task of sermon writing on the office Windows 7 laptop. It's got a nag to update to Windows 10, but now it's too late. The connection speed is too low even to enable it to do Toshiba system updates, apart from pop up reminders. 'Everybody ought to have fast enough internet to run our software' is hardly a realistic design requirement. Consequently, there's a gulf between marketing expectation and mundane reality. Such foolishness.

I wondered what using just my beloved Chromebook for a month might be like, aware there might be risks of poor connectivity. Now I wish I'd brought the spare MS Surface RT along as well. Despite its many software limits, this works better offline. Even better would be a small portable with Linux Mint installed. That would cover my travel needs for offline work. Maybe I can find a second hand machine for a reasonable price, and convert it for another tour of duty.

Lunch, siesta, evening walk under an overcast sky, quite cool really. A surfing class going on down the end of the beach near Nuestra Señora del Carmen. Children youngsters and adults all wearing Malaga Bahia matching sweatshirts, out jogging, dozens of them, spread out over a kilometer of the paseo maritimo, with men on bikes at either end of the group shepherding them. Old people chatting with friends, strolling at a leisurely pace or sitting together in bars or on benches. Fewer visitors now, more space for locals to socialise, and enjoy the coming of autumn.

I have taken an old pair of dark blue 'cargo' shorts acquired a few years ago in Vinaros and now looking very tired, and soaked them in bleach overnight. The result is a rather interesting shade of red. Certainly a revival of fortunes for them. It's better than throwing them away. They are taking a long time to dry in this weather. I look forward to wearing them in their new guise.