fish pond

Now, wombats, you or some of you requested a picture of the rockpool in the kitchen. Granny has tried taking a picture of it now, with little success. Its main occupant currently is a black crab which spends most of its time hiding among black rocks. You see the problem. There was one dramatically large fish - a blenny to those of you who know about such things - but he was very dozy and now has disappeared. We suspect the crab of having seized his chance and eaten him up. Certainly the crunched up snail shells have been fewer of late, suggesting el senor Congrejo had decided to vary his diet. There are snails and hermit crabs a-plenty, two or three sea anenomes, ditto sea urchins and a goby or two. But that's about it really, at the moment. It's still nice, but very hard to photograph in any way that makes sense - let alone a good picture.

Last year, on the other hand, we had this fine beast, known variously as a sea slug, a sea hare - or in Spanish - a sea rabbit. Take your pick. Under any name, he, or she, or he-she - it's a hermaphrodite - is a fine beast. The little ears by the way aren't ears at all they are more like noses or breathing holes. S/He departed to the aquarium up or down there quite a while back. Sometime we'll get another, but this requires perilous trails across rocks so while Beloved is so busy, it'll probably have to wait. Some of you will have seen the picture before - I first put it up last year; and maybe at some point I will add it to the heading with a picture of the view, which has disappeared for the last few days behind a haze of Saharan sand so can't be .














photographed. Granny will have to feel strong enough to fiddle with her template - again - too

The wind has dropped at last, thank god. Granny hardly went out for three days. When she did, the camels clog dancing on the roof turned out to be wooden shelter which had housed the boiler, now ripped to pieces and thrown all over the place. As for the mighty bang just above her head as if an elephant had joined them and fallen down, that was the television aerial, now adorning the garden. No more news in Spanish for Granny till it's fixed- not that she doesn't find it hard to understand still. Though the wind is still in the east and warmish, it's no longer full of dust. Probably there's none left. The whole Sahara seems to be covering surfaces in Granny and Beloved's house. Granny is about to be busy with a duster.

But at least she can do some washing. She was running out of clean knickers. Yes, there is an (unconnected) dryer, but in the interests of global warming (or rather not warming) she prefers never to use it. Hanging washing out was not an option while the gales were doing their worst. Even if she could have anchored them firmly enough not to join the merry dance of plastic bags which always takes place across her land when the gales start blowing from the east, tossed over from the landfill site on the other side of the island, they would have ended covered in dust. Granny likes deserts - she's been fascinated by them for years (one of her secret dreams, unlikely to be realised now - Beloved does not like travelling, and anyway it would probably cost too much - is to get herself to the Gobi). But the liking - or even fascination - does not extend to wanting to wear a desert on her person. Not this far away from one anyway.

Sand - flies

No pictures today. No islands. Beyond the immediate landscape all Granny can see sitting here at her desk, looking out of the window (if you want to know which window, it's the left hand one of the small windows between the two big ones in the picture above) all she can see is a hideous yellow fog; dust from the Sahara, plus dust/sand from this island, blown up, torn up, thrown in. A calima has arrived; an east wind, not hot like in the summer, or icy cold, like in the winter, something in between, but dry, dry, dry, distressing animals, people, plants, withering skin, hair, petals, fur, leaves - Granny's precious nasturtiums, leaves as well as flowers droop, their edges burnt - poor things, they're directly in line. Eyes smart, noses run, respiratory problems abound all over the island. Upstairs, above her head it sounds like a party of out-of-order people shrieking, yelling, banging around, making a nuisance of themselves.

This is the first serious day of it - there'll probably be two more at least. No warning either - for some reason the Sahara is sneaky, it never or rarely lets the weather forecast system know in advance. It creeps north makes a smash and grab raid on the wind and drags it round to the east. And there we are; desert in the air and on the ground. Birds blown about rather than flying. Animals staying undercover. The only creatures unfazed are the bloody flies. They should have gone by now, it's November for god's sake. But this year nothing diminishes them; rain, cold, heat, non-typhoon, calima. Here they still are crawling on everything. There's two on Granny's typing hands even now. Go away little black bastards. I'm not even sweating now it's all dried up; I'm no use to you. GO AWAY.' (Obviously they can read. They've gone. For the moment.)

Granny doesn't go out on such days, not if she can help it. At least she has the choice. Poor Beloved at the moment doesn't. He's been hi-jacked to teach at Mr Jonah's school. The biology master left at a moment's notice, leaving two A level groups without a teacher. So there he is, setting everyone by the ears. His pupils don't seem to know what's hit them. 'It's the first time anyone ever made them think,' says Mr Jonah's wife. (Possibly this is not a tactful statement, her husband being the headmaster.) 'They're all pig ignorant.' says Beloved 'God knows how they passed GCSE. They can't even name the classes of animals, and their defining characteristics.' (Nor can Granny actually, at least the latter; but let's let that pass. Did you know that the defining character of amphibians - think frog - is the capacity to breathe in the air, while breeding underwater? No? Or maybe you did know. Probably - you're all so very much better informed not to say cleverer than she is. Just like Beloved.)

Equally fazed is the person in charge of school supplies. Within the first two days Beloved had demanded: a fish tank; a hundred small plastic beakers; a recently dead rabbit. Actually the supply man seems quite intrigued - this is a livelier list than usual. The fish tank has arrived already. So have the plastic beakers. The newly dead rabbit is on its way. The chemistry teacher meanwhile, also short of supplies, is still waiting, or she complains. Evidently the odder your list the quicker the supply man jumps. Perhaps the chemistry teacher needs to turn her pupils into Harry Potters, doing witchy kinds of chemistry - whatever that is. Maybe that way she'd also get served more quickly.

Back home at the ranch - here - it means Granny is doing much more of the cooking; not that she minds. She likes it. Not least it means much more in the way of vegetables; and salad. (Beloved is not big on salad, not of the leafy kind.) It also means many fewer dirty saucepans: Beloved's cuisine involves almost every saucepan in the kitchen simmering away; - all too often boiling up prawn shells; one of Granny's least preferred smells this always drives her away, which maybe is Beloved's intention. She admires the way he uses up everything; he is an economical cook. She wishes he didn't forget all too often that he is cooking oddments up. Almost every saucepan has been burnt at some point, its bottom by now irredeemably coated; non-stick saucepans do not remain non-stick saucepans very long in this house. If he doesn't forget what he's cooking, he leaves it cooling on the stove- cooling at first, then just lurking. 'What's this?' asks Granny, eying some dubious mixture. 'Oh,' says Beloved. 'I forgot about that. I was making stock/a sauce/the beginnings of a stew. We'd better not eat it now, I'll give to the dogs - or the chickens.' It's another of his virtuous economies, saving left-over lettuce, vegetable cuttings, bones, cheese rinds, saucepan contents for the dogs or chickens. Granny is all for this. You could say it was his version of saving the planet. But she does wish he'd remember to cover the bowls and saucers and saucepans from time to time. Even if she doesn't love them the flies do. She goes round at intervals with saucepan lids, plates, wire covers and hides them.

As she also wishes he'd learn Spanish. A man who can remember and expound complex concepts and theories, Beloved is hopeless on words, language. (Poetry? Forget it.) He does try; but in Spanish his small amount of trying hasn't got him very far. Investigating the freezer Granny finds a packet which says (she can read Spanish, she is translating -roughly) Prawn pieces for fisherman. Not fit for human consumption. )

'Are you thinking of going fishing, Beloved?' she enquires.

'No? Why?'

'Then what have you bought this for?' She translate the message word for word.

'Oh' says Beloved. 'I thought it was very cheap when I bought it.'

Granny has an awful thought. The packet has been opened. 'You haven't been feeding us on it, have you?' she asks.

'No,' says Beloved. 'I had a bit once while you were away. It didn't do me any harm. I'll give the crab some. The chickens can have the rest.'

Please believe, possums, he is really a good cook. Just a bit absent-minded that's all. Just as well she's around to keep an eye on him.

More changes

Changes? The changes in this case are those between Granny as she was then - aged 19, taken in a university tutorial, and Granny now. She has just seen herself in a film made by a student filmmaker in which - out of the kindness of her (very kind, of course) heart - she agreed to take part; and now, seeing the result - no, not the film, that's excellent, justifiably it earned its director a first - seeing her indubitably aged self, she rather wishes she hadn't. In the light of that distressing experience she can promise you wouldn't recognise her now. She doesn't wish to be recognised - her blog is, for various reasones, anonymous - but showing you this will not blow her cover. Oh no. Oh no. Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear.

More changes; or envisaged ones. She went to the village threatened with extinction today. Sat playing dominoes with the Attic Woman, watching an as-ever fish-gutting cook with his entourage of evil seagulls. Things are shifting a little. A photograph has been found from 1985, three years before the Ley de Costas was passed showing the village not much different from the way it is now - and showing, almost certainly, Beloved's own house. This is helpful. It means the land to be taken is now most likely just the 20 metres back from the shore. The restaurants - most of them - would remain. But the Ministry is still demanding not only the removal of the houses on the the shore sides of the road, but also the terraces alongside the sea, made by the still legitimate restaurants on the other; including the nice terrace on which Granny and the AW were sitting, shaded by umbrellas, shielded by a glass screen from the prevailing north winds. Nothing wrong with it at all, or any of them. An amenity for those eating, drinking, no more. What idiocy. Part of the problem, it turns out, is that the Canarian government failed to register the area correctly at the right time - labelling it 'suelo rustico' rather than 'urbanistico' , but by oversight rather than intention. The law doesn't recognise oversight. It's just called 'tant pis'. Or too bad, to you. TOO BAD.

The island, of course, has its own conspiracy theories. 1) That Costas is here trying to get at the local mayor, because they can't get at him for the way he has expanded - against all embargos - the main resort. 2) That it is all designed to get rid of the little people and set up an exclusive tourist resort on behalf of the usual suspects. Granny herself thinks this is a little far-fetched even for here. There are only black, stony beaches on this side of the islands. The sea is dangerous, full of lethal currents. Drowning tourists would not on the whole be good for business. Also Costas is supposed to be getting rid of such resorts except those that pre-dated the law and that have the right paperwork.

But, who knows. Whoever knows anything here. El Pais did yesterday list 42 sites throughout Spain which Costas wishes to see removed including the dire Valencian-built hotel on this island - but the village was not among them. This may mean simply that El Pais got things wrong. On the other hand it might not. El Pais also headlined - a very rare event - the national media rarely recognises that the Canaries exist - a major -MAJOR - scandal in this Canarian province. On the big island, every PP councillor from the ruling group on one council (the PP is roughly the equivalent of the Tories), bar one, has been arrested for corruption - relating to land development, real estate, of course, how did you guess. Even the daughter of the chief culprit has been taken in, for laundering the money from her mother's ill-gotten gains. The Canarian government, rather washing its hands of things, has requested the national government takes the matter in hand; it will dissolve the whole council most likely, rule the district from Madrid. Just in like Marbella. Granny seems to have heard it all before. (Is Putin watching this time too?)

Granny will not apologise for quoting again - if she did before - the 1880's travel writer, Olivia Stone, who said - of the Canaries - it is strange how everyone here wants to be the mayor. Nothing changes in the town - but all the mayors end up with fuller pockets. This is one area where NOTHING seems to change.

More about Beloved's - genuine - changes, tomorrow. Really.

Changes

Granny you see has altered things slightly. But she is still Granny p. And the rockpool is still a rockpool. Full of snails at the moment, takeaway dinners for the black crab. They do not care for this designation. If Granny fails to block up the hole in the tank top, Beloved finds snails all over the kitchen when he comes down in the morning. (He always comes down first.)

And this, the lead story in El Pais - the best Spanish newspaper, its equivalent of the Guardian - on Sunday: about a newly uncovered Al Quaeda cell whose aim is to 'liberate' the Andalucian cities of Ceuta and Medilla. Bin Laden himself, of course, has muttered about bringing 'Andalus' back into the Muslim fold, but this is the first time that Granny is aware that anyone has seriously set about addressing the problem. And what a problem. Even more than the rest of Spain, the entire culture, economy, agriculture, society, social life, gastronomy of Andalucia - when it's not at the bullfight that is, or getting drunk at some fiesta - is based on the pig; on these rather - very - sweet black animals routing round for acorns under the cork oaks. And very delicious they are too; especially to an Andalucian. Granny was in a Sierra Morena tapas bar once where the long list of available dishes chalked up consisted entirely of different parts of the said beast. The belief that every Spaniard in such large swathe of land can be 'liberated' into a culture in which pork - and the pig - is taboo is even more far-fetched than the hopes of Sharia law in our own dear British land of pubs and clubs; so far-fetched, so utterly impractical, it's almost sweet. Such faith, such impractical beliefs are often rather sweet, even if the methods used to impose them are anything but. You might as well believe in Father Christmas really, or fairies - hullo Tinkerbell, don't go away - as believe in pigless Spain, as in people all loving each other or in Iraqi Sunnis and Shias forgetting their mutual loathing and shaking hands as Saddam Hussein of all people begged them to do today. (The unlikelihood of such latter aspirations is a shame; but there you go.) You might as well tell the black crab to forget about liking snails.

And no Granny is not anti-Islam, not in its better manifestations. The Kingdom of Granada under its Islamic rulers was one of the most civilised there's ever been; you only have to visit Granada to know. But that's not the point. Granada was a long time ago and now is now and the pig? - well the pig is the PIG. Sooner imagine Islam here - where they like pigs too. But where they are not such a cultural icon. If there's any cultural icon on Granny's island it's the rabbit; or even that much less taboo animal the goat. Though probably not.

(Talking of goats, it turns out that Granny now has a dairy for cheese-making in what she mistakenly alluded to in Mr Handsome from Blackburn's hearing as his 'shed.' 'My workshop you mean,' he said indignantly. Goats then are still in the offing. Fortunately - another change - Beloved is rather otherwise occupied these days; which may delay things - she hopes will delay things - still further. More on that next time.)

Cheep cheep. Cluck cluck

Well here they are, mother and (some of the babies.) Granny is sorry the pictures aren't just a bit better. But taking them within their coop isn't easy; with sun there's too much shade, without sun the light's not really good enough. Excuses, excuses. But she did her best. And you get the idea.

All five babies are doing fine; somewhat to Beloved's surprise. The viability of chicks, he says depends on the extent to which the embryo grows round the yolk. The yolk is what they feed on in the shell. Those who get too little - there are often one or two who get too little - don't survive. But all these evidently did get enough: they do.

The chicks are not only getting bigger, they are growing wing feathers. They are developing 'Chicken Behaviour Patterns' according to Beloved, who knows about such things - he is a biologist after all. And a raiser of chickens. And he sits and watches them. Beloved likes watching chickens: so does Granny as a matter of fact, but not quite so much as she likes watching people. Beloved is not interested in watching people, even in foreign places. They do just the same as people do anywhere else, he says dismissively. Granny doesn't like to point out that a chicken anywhere does what a chicken does; that's what interest him about 'Chicken Behaviour Patterns.' Isn't it? CBP's among other things, if you're interested, consist in grabbing up a piece of food and taking it away to eat alone. Or making scratching movements just like their mothers. Or preening themselves; or stretching like grown-up birds. Cheep cheep, cluck cluck.

This may well be more than any of you want to know about chickens; but it’s what you get reading someone who lives with a biologist like Beloved. She is happy to be able to assure you that his knowledge on biological matters is not just limited to the birds (or the bees). That his knowledge of humans in the necessary respects is more than satisfactory. Nor does he call that kind of functioning 'human behaviour patterns', either. Or at least not out loud. He wouldn't dare.

Granny you can see has been playing with her template. Not her favourite activity. With many curses she did manage finally to get the picture of her house to head her blog. The photo was taken at the driest time when the land was totally dry. It is not always so desert-like. It is, for instance, greening up now after the rain, the beginning of the yearly miracle. Less usual is that now the wind has died, what there is of it remains from the south. The air is still hot.

After the first rains, the weather cooled down, granny got out her jeans, Beloved lit the fire at night. Winter seemed on its way. But since the not-typhoon she is back in her knee pants. They eat their meals outside; last night they even ate dinner outside, not a normal possibility at any time of year here; something that may surprise those of you from more northerly places. But it's true; the wind is too often cold. As it's also true that the glassy sea of the last few days, mirroring the sky in places, is an equally rare event. Another nice one. Back in London it's dark and getting cold. Here Granny plays at summer. She doesn't complain.

Oh and thanks to all you nice people who wrote about her blog on Guardian Abroad. As they say in Tesco ads, 'every little helps.' Blessing on each and every reader; on those who just want to read her too. She likes to please.

The typhoon that wasn't: or the Day of the Dead

It's weather yet again, friends. So sorry.

Granny came home from shopping on the other side of the island yesterday to find an anxious Beloved awaiting her. 'I'm glad you're back,' he said. 'There's a typhoon warning. All the schoolchildren have to be home by three o'clock.' (It was after three then.) It did feel strange too. Unnaturally still, even with a slight wind, gloomy, the air hot. What is meant, she thinks, by the calm before the storm. She went searching on the internet, thinking he must mean 'hurricane'. But there were no hurricane warnings in either east or west Atlantic. So what then? The weather felt sinister still.

They waited all evening. The wind got up a bit, from the south east. Air and wind were hot hot hot. They went to bed. 'Don't think it's coming,' said Beloved. They slept - or Granny did; Beloved claims to have had a bad night. She woke in the morning to furious rain, hot wind still, leaks in the sitting-room via the glass roof - a normal autumn and winter occurrence here; sofa's - luckily they are light bamboo ones - have to be moved around. No typhoon though. But there has been a typhoon - Typhoon Cimaron - it's bashing the Philippines right now, poor things. Quite how anyone could think it would cross the Pacific, the whole of Africa from South East to Northish West and arrive here she can't quite understand. Maybe with the rain and hot wind the island has the farthest fringes of it; but no more.

A typhoon, of course, is the Pacific version of a hurricane. And there was (almost) a hurricane here last year- though unreported in the UK. The Spanish Meteo totally failed to pick it up and issue warnings. Only the American systems did; that was how Granny found out what exactly they were in for, searching the internet at ten o'clock at night as the winds grew ever more furious. Obviously this year, Meteo weren't going to be caught napping, and warned everyone, just in case. Granny is glad they got it wrong - again. Hurricanes are not nice.

She now has a working camera - and has to admit she maligned Beloved unduly. She found her re-chargeable batteries in the charger. Still she now has two spare sets, so can keep them by her for when the ones in the camera fade. Good. Sorry, dear Beloved. Sorry.

She still can't take pictures of the chicks though. With the (hot and wet) wind blowing straight at them they are huddled in the corner of the coop so impossible to see. She will try again tomorrow. She is sure (?) that you can't wait.

Oh and today of course, is the feast of All Saints. A holiday. Though, thank god, there is no Halloween here, no trick and trick, though it is not like Mexico's Day of the Dead - there are no dressed-up bones in sight - people do troop off to the cemetaries to put flowers on the tombs of their dead. Granny approves of this. Her significant dead are in Kent (her mum and dad) in Oxfordshire (her twin sister) in West Somerset (the father of her children). It would be hard to honour all these scattered graves, even if she was back home in the UK. From here, she can only honour any of them virtually; thought lilies, carnations, chrysanthemums; what else?

It's so hard to think of those you love as skeletons - the beloveds are all skeletons now. But the flowers help flesh them out; still more memory fleshes them out. She sends plenty of both from her heart, blown by the not-typhoon wind, blowing in the right direction today - what luck - to reach them. She sends them with love. Of course.