What they don't tell you when you hire a car online

We booked a hire car online for our trip to Spain. If you are over 75, you apparently cannot drive in Europe, but you can nominate a driver. That was me. I duly got the required international driver's licence and Dad hires the car. On arrival at Madrid airport, we produced the credit card and the driver's licence. But no, the credit card and the driver's licence must have the same name, they tell us. But he isn't allowed to drive, so I am the designated driver. That is too bad, they say, preparing to serve the next customer. Dad digs in his bag and finds a copy of his temporary licence which he happened to have collected on the morning we left. It's nothing but a piece of paper. However, they are very happy to have it and say he can drive! No problem that he's 83 and doesn't have an IDL. As long as they can swipe that card. Who knows what we would have done if he hadn't had that temporary licence on him? And who knows what the rules really are? It seems that they depend on who's working that day.

So, keys in hand, we head off for a strong espresso to brace ourselves for our foray onto the unknown highways of Spain. We then go out to the immense car park where the hire cars are kept and walk for about 500m to, typically, the last row in the corner. The other thing they don't tell you is the size of the boot. The car, a Seat, took 2 large and 1 small suitcase, and assorted hand luggage. If there had been 4 of us, at least one suitcase would have been left in the parking lot.

We hired a Garmin, thinking that we would need it to find our way through Spain. It cost 14 euros per day, and the other thing the car hire company doesn't tell you is that it doesn't work very well in Spain. Due to extensive national roadworks, the instructions are outdated and you can find yourself going in circles while the woman berates you for not taking the third exit on the left when there isn't one. We gave it back after two days and found the signage more than adequate to get us to Marbella without too much trouble, but more about that another time.

(Mother's diary records this interlude as follows:  The car hire place was near the luggage pick-up and, after a nice cup of coffee, we were on our way!)

Feathered friends

There is an ancient illegal alien next door. (No, not an old refugee - a spider gum tree!) The half that faces us is dead, and provides an excellent platform for all the birds to roost and rest and for us to observe them without leaves getting in the way. Today I have been lucky enough to have a Spotted Eagle Owl sitting out in the open all day, despite torrential rain, and he has been preening most of the time. Unusual to be awake and exposed. I hope he decides to stay. I've collected owl statues since I was a teenager, but I don't know why -   just something I do.

An assortment of doves roost around the owl quite comfortably despite sometimes being on the menu. They occasionally find themselves perched next to a frequent visitor to the tree, a Black Sparrowhawk, and it's a source of great amusement to see their reaction when they look at their neighbour on the branch and hurtle away in a panic. The Sparrowhawk has twice made a successful kill of a dove over my house, once against a window which created rather a mess. You won't believe how many feathers a dove has - they floated from the roof for days.

A beautiful but very vain Pintailed Whydah often flits between the tree and my windows, where he admires his plumage in the reflection. The poor female is rather drab in comparison but he nevertheless seems desperate to gain her favour with his energetic display.

I'm sure I'll be sad when the tree eventually disappears, even though it does block my sea view. I can always take a short stroll down to the rocks for that.

Definitely lost in translation!

Arcos de la Frontera, Spain, May 2012

Spent 4 nights in this jewel of the Spanish hilltop towns, in La Casa Grande, an ancient house precariously situated on the edge, and I mean the edge, of a 180m sheer drop to a river below. The barrier between me and the drop was a rather inadequate thigh-high wall and if you leant out to look down, the updraught would take a wig off. I comforted myself with the notion that if I fell, I would be lifted back up on the thermals like the hundreds of birds hovering around me.

On our first night, we went off in search of tapas for supper and found a cosy bar, Cafe St Marco, where we were the only patrons, it being just 8.30 and far too early for the locals to eat. No Spanish from us and no English from the welcoming and cheerful young owners, but sign language seemed to work and we were soon enjoying a really good gazpacho with chopped veg, goat's cheese melted on crostini with raspberry jam and chopped almonds (mmm!), cold rice with onion, crabsticks, peppers, corn and tomatoes, and fish fritters. Then a small problem with translating the menu - pork loin in butter.

A plate laden with a mound of what looked like mashed potato with shreds of meat in it was placed on the table. I ventured to taste it and was surprised to find a) it was ice cold b) it was lard (rendering of pork fat for those who have never been exposed to this). All I could think of was a very clogged artery and so we valiantly scraped all the 'butter' (the lost in translation bit) off the meat, which was actually delicious. A waitress arrived on duty who had a smattering of English and we had a good laugh as she explained that this was considered a treat, while we considered it a health hazard. Apparently they eat it on bread (hence the butter) with fresh tomato sauce.

With two triple bypasses at the table, we passed.

Winter ramblings

There's something about winter that brings out my enthusiasm for activity. The call of the sea is very strong and I feel compelled to go down to the rocks to watch the waves crashing ashore, filling the air with invigorating ozone. The sight of so much natural power on display never fails to lift my mood, even when Nadal crashed out of Wimbledon. That's another of winter's highlights. I love watching tennis, but it lost its lustre with his early departure and I haven't needed to spend 5 hours a day sitting on the edge of my seat. It's given me time to cook supper, do a painting or two and even work on my paying job, proofreading.

But what I really feel like doing in winter is jigsaw puzzles. There's something very satisfying about scratching around in a box of little pieces of cardboard, trying to fit them together to form a beautiful picture. Jigsaws have always been my favourite form of relaxation. I did my first when I was 2 years old - 8 pieces! The trouble with jigsaws is that once I have started, I can sit up all night working on them. I can work on it for 2 days and am happy to let the housework slide (never need an excuse for that!). Anything less than 1 000 pieces is not very interesting to me and I never start the inside until all four sides are intact. And woe betide anyone who dares to put in a piece when I'm not looking! My family do their best to find jigsaws that are 60% shadows in a garden or some such eye-watering challenge and then I have to go by the shape rather than the colours, an entertainment in a league of its own.

I hear a box rattling in the cupboard, calling me to open it! Speak to you later.

Avian antics

The hadedahs have become firmly established in the Cape Peninsula – an unwelcome species with their raucous shouts startling you as they come in to land on your lawn or roost in a nearby tree. Even worse, they emit vast quantities of poop which splatters on the walls of the house, leaving it looking like the revenge of the kids who didn’t get sweets at Halloween.

They remind me of the dodos in that endearing movie, Ice Age, perhaps because of the senseless squawking when they’re gathered together. A small flock has now established a breeding site in the milkwoods nearby. They are cousins of the elegant and infinitely quieter sacred ibis, who fly over my house twice a day.

This evening as I took my customary walk along the seafront, the swoosh of wings made me look up as a small group of sacred ibis passed overhead. I was astonished to see a hadedah third from the front on the left-hand side. Being a bigger bird, he soon overtook the others and found himself in the front. I can only imagine what went through his mind: “Hey, guys! Look at me! I’m in front! Where are we going?”

Suddenly, you could see confusion in the ranks. The ibises wanted to go right and the hadedah wanted to go left. He had just remembered that he lived in Kommetjie and didn’t have to fly over the bay to his night roost. The v-formation collapsed in disarray as their erstwhile leader took a short left, then gave themselves a visible shake before regrouping into organised lines and resuming the homeward flight.

What an amazing thing to witness, even more so because hadedahs don’t fly in v-formation. He must have been sucked into the slipstream when they passed him by.