The Little Poppy: Diary of a Retiree

By Robert S. Pimm

The Author is a product of the Great Depression and the Second World War. He met and married Esther Campbell in Scotland. They live in Ottawa, Ontario. As an adult student at Atkinson College, York University, Toronto, he earned his B.A. (English). When he retired he and Esther planned on living in Europe. This they did for twelve years after which they returned to Canada. A second twelve years passed before he decided to write a book about their experiences in Spain, France and Portugal.

The book is called The Little Poppy, sub-titled, The Diary of a Retiree. The author has combined well developed powers of observation with practical analytical skills to produce a thoughtful diary style narrative which will keep you reading well past your bedtime.

From the vague thoughts of retiral, we are taken to the point, when after twelve years of retirement, he has decided that the time has come to retire. On the way his descriptions of people they met are illuminated by appropriate anecdotes, his descriptions of places visited will whet the appetite of anyone considering a visit, lists of flowers photographed (555 specimens) will be of interest to amateur field naturalists and to the ever growing group of conservationists.

All in all, a very useful, entertaining and at times light-hearted approach to retirement. It could be a guide for many a one of the oncoming Boomers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 20, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463455651

Robert S. Pimm

The Author is a product of the Great Depression and the Second World War. He met and married Esther Campbell in Scotland. They live in Ottawa, Ontario. As an adult student at Atkinson College, York University, Toronto, he earned his B.A. (English). When he retired he and Esther planned on living in Europe. This they did for twelve years after which they returned to Canada. A second twelve years passed before he decided to write a book about their experiences in Spain, France and Portugal.

Book preview

© 2005 Robert S. Pimm.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 03/16/05

ISBN: 1-4208-0838-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-5565-1 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

One

Bon Voyage

Two

Viaje Numero Uno - Portugal

Three

Granada - Malaga

Four

Death of a Dream

Five

Birth of a Dream

Six

Wandering

Seven

Stefan Batory

Eight

Six Fours les Plages

Nine

Pau

Ten

Brittany

Eleven

Switzerland

Twelve

Pont Latapie Part 1

Thirteen

Pont Latapie Part 2

Fourteen

Pont Latapie Part 3

Fifteen

Portugal

Sixteen

Fuchsia

Seventeen

Adieu mes Amies

Eighteen

Portugal, a Closer Look

Nineteen

Finisterre

Acknowlegements

Thank you to the following for their support and encouragement.

Esther, my wife and flower finder

Margaret, my daughter and constant encourager

Jean Robert, my grandson and computer expert

And to Tim and Nancy Lemoyre who typed my book.

I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and cry, T’ is all barren!

Lawrence Stern, 1713 – 1768

In the Street, Calais.

Introduction

How does one plan a retirement? In fact how does one retire? Some make detailed plans, some of which work out. Some let it happen and fall into it. In between there are many possibilities. An example of these is the following, which has been the route that we have taken.

One evening chatting after curling, one of the group announced that he would be retiring in a few months time. He was immediately questioned as to what he was going to do. We were all approaching the same milestone. He announced that he was going to photograph wildflowers. His wife would find the flowers and then he would photograph them. The seed had fallen but it was destined to lie dormant for another ten years. During this time we had decided that retirement in the sunny south of Spain would be a good idea. This would lead to what would be Part One of our travels while retired. I have called it Viajes durante Jubilacion. Part Two followed and has been named Voyages Durant Retraite. Our trips will end with Part Three, designated as Viajes durante Retiro. Between trips we spent a lot of time finding and photographing wild flowers. It all added up to a very good way to retire.

PART ONE

Viajes Durante Jubilacion

1a-Little%20Poppy.jpg

The little poppy

1b-Frigiliana.jpg

FrigilIana

One

Bon Voyage

1 Bon Voyage

My wife Esther, has long claimed that I started planning to retire the first day of my working life. She was wrong it was the second day. In any case I admit that it was more and more on my mind as time passed. About seven years before I was due to retire we noticed that ads were beginning to appear in the papers offering retirement properties for sale on the Costa del Sol in southern Spain. We were interested and went to a few meetings organized by various promoters. By the time that February had arrived in Toronto we contacted a Spanish Canadian company which offered to arrange flights and accommodation to anyone interested in their idea. This was to build a retirement community for Canadians in the south of Spain. The company had two partners, one Canadian, one Spanish. The only commitment on our part was to look at the place, if we liked it and offered to buy a villa there our trip would be paid for. If not, we would have had a week’s holiday at a reasonable rate. I must admit that the prospect of a holiday in the sun was uppermost on our minds when we agreed to make the trip. After all, I was seven years away from retirement. We left Toronto on a cold February day.

We landed in Malaga in the middle of February. The temperature 80° F., (a record for the day we found out later). The path to our transport was along a walkway lined with banana trees on one side and palm trees on the other. It seemed that Hibiscus and Bougainvillia were everywhere. En route to our right the Mediterranean was quiet and blue with the sun sparkling on the little waves. We were sold before we got there. Our destination was a community in the midst of construction. Some villas were completed with flowers growing all around them. It was called El Capistrano and was situated just outside the village of Nerja. We were introduced at the office and then driven to our hotel, a Parador, top of the line in Spain and operated by the government. Flowers were everywhere. A doorman opened the door for our little group, two couples, and brought us to the reception area.

The other couple went ahead of us and after checking in were led away to their room. This is the life we thought as we walked up to the desk. Then the balloon burst. We were informed there was no reservation for us and that there were no vacancies. Was this an omen? Our hosts and the hotel staff put their heads together and solved the problem. Our hosts had forgotten to reserve a room for us and the hotel for their part said that they would oblige such a good customer and we were given the suite usually reserved for visiting VIPs. Our doubts faded rapidly when we saw the bedroom. It was huge. The bathroom was a small suite in itself, two rooms, each one looking like a motel room. While we were adjusting to this unaccustomed luxury three little girls sailed in, armed with brooms and mops. Behind them came a Battleship. One bark from her was like a shot across the bow, and the girls went into action. The Battleship spoke up if one of the skirts moved up an inch or two. This was like a flashback to another era, no loud vacuums, Matrons looking after their charges. Our misgivings disappeared completely at dinner. It was a five course affair and excellent. The meal finished with a bowl of fruit being placed on the table. Our companions on the trip when finished eating picked up all the fruit in the bowl and carried it off. They were at a different table thankfully. The previous year this Parador had been awarded the prize for being the best in the country. The cost to us was 700 pesetas for the room and 350 pesetas per meal. At that time roughly $10.00 and $5.00 respectively per person. The prices were obviously for the room that we were supposed to have had. As well it was 1973 and inflation had not yet become a serious problem.

Breakfast was Spanish style, hot churros, rolls and jam, fruit cake and excellent coffee. On our first morning we were sitting a table or two away from an English couple. They looked as though this was to be their last day on earth. When the waitress arrived with their order the atmosphere changed completely, as if the sun had suddenly broken through the clouds after a rain shower at the Sunday School Picnic. The husband turned to his wife smiling happily and in a loud voice proclaimed, See I told you that I could get a boiled egg, toast and tea anywhere in the world. The French do say that The more things change the more they remain the same.

After breakfast we went back to the office where we were put in charge of a young lady whose job would be to drive us around and to acquaint us with the area while the other couple would be entertained with a sales talk. Nerja is on the Costa del Sol fifty kilometers east of Malaga. It was a former fishing village waiting for something to happen. In limbo one might say. The fishing was finished. There were no more fish. The sugar plantations were no more. Franco had broken them up. The small landholders, beneficiaries of Franco’s largesse were existing by hard work on poor soil. In the village were stores and a few small restaurants. A potato field filled the center of the village, of importance was a car rental business. To fill the gap a newcomer arrived, Tourism. Work was provided by the new construction. As the building progressed more and more tourists and retirement people arrived which made business for the stores and for the restaurants. A new era had been born. As a part of the new era we were being shown around, to help us become familiar and adjust. While exploring on our own we came across in a protected corner, a small flower, a solitary poppy. We did not realize that when I photographed the poppy that it was, small as it may have been, the first step in putting our retirement plan into effect.

Our stay was so pleasant compared to what we had left in Toronto that without further thought we signed a contract for a villa, on the spot, with construction to begin immediately. Payment was to be made on receipt of progress reports, one quarter when the foundation had been completed and so on. Before returning to Canada we walked past the site of our future home. We saw a gang of men spreading lime on the ground in a more or less rectangular plan. Was this the architect’s plan and if so, well it was too late now, the contract had been signed. Later on we realized that this was a ploy to show that work had been started. As soon as the car taking us to the plane was off the lot we surmised, correctly it turned out, that the gang went back to the work they had been doing. Once more a sense of misgiving passed over us. It did warn us to be watchful and this proved to be very important.

Shortly after arriving back home we received a call from the Toronto office asking for the first payment. Esther who had taken the call replied that as we had not received a progress report we could not make a payment. This procedure was repeated often enough that Esther was on friendly speaking terms with the caller who turned out to be the Canadian partner’s wife. Once they understood each other there were no problems. Later on we met people who had come over after making all the payments to find the house partially completed. In one notorious case when the owners arrived complete with bag and baggage the house had not been started. Work, in another extreme case, was only started when a cable was received announcing the imminent arrival of the owners.

In the interval between completion of the villa and our move in, the company was to rent the property and credit our account with the proceeds less expenses and when we came over we could draw this money to finance our stay. The sales pitch had led us to expect a return of 8% to 10%. We ended up with 2% which did pay for all our winter holidays. The neatness of the affair made most of us suspicious, but none of us got the whole picture until we had moved in permanently when we had more contact with those who were living there full time. For example the people who lived across the street from us had been watching and reported to us that our villa had been occupied almost full time and we must be happy with all the money. We promptly checked our statements and found out the difference between 2% and 8% had been lost in the bookkeeping. Enron was nothing new. A few years later, after we had left in fact, it was rumoured that the manager at the time, was now in jail, currency problems plus water problems. Currency regulations were being abused and in the case of water the development was taking more than its share. You could keep the politicians in line with bribes but with water it was a universal, everyone was affected and the whole population would turn against you.

On our annual holiday trips we rented a car and explored the countryside. We could walk to the beach and the best store in the village. We were beginning to learn a little Spanish which enabled us to get to know the local people whose country we had invaded. The first place we had visited was Frigiliana, a village in the foothills of the Sierra Alpujara. We had been taken there earlier by one of the company staff as part of the sales promotion plan. It had become a showplace for the area, a place to see how the people lived in Andalusia. It could be called a Frontera village being on the edge of the rapidly developing coastal region. The streets were narrow and steep. Only one could be used by small cars and that was the street leading to the village square. Others were terraced, presumably for easier passage by man and beast. The housewives in most of the houses did their cooking on the equivalent of a BBQ which was taken out to the street where a fire was lit under it and the meal cooked. One can see another reason here to account for the absence of cars on the streets! Not many of the houses had stoves or chimneys - a notable exception being the village baker. We had assumed that washing machines were non-existent because we had watched the village women scrubbing their clothes on the stones beside the irrigation canal. The canal was also the wash tub. Most of the able bodied men worked the land, market gardeners in essence growing tomatoes and zucchini, etc., on the outskirts of the village. A few houses had the front room made into a store where they sold staples such as flour, oil, sugar and soap. A goat or two would be kept in the village herd, with a goatherd in charge. They provided milk for the owners and when unable to do that any longer they provided the only meat that a family had. On our walks through the gulleys and small valleys, looking for flowers, we saw quite a few of these herds, one reason no doubt, that we didn’t find too many flowers. In the village, chickens ran all over the place, up and down the streets, in and out of the houses. They all seemed to know their own homes and gathered there at meal times. The owners, for their part, seemed to know where their hens laid their eggs. Once a week everyone who could be spared went to the market in Nerja. Here they sold any surplus garden produce and any extra eggs. In turn, they bought any necessaries required from the gypsies who travelled from place to place for the village market day. Sunday everybody went to church, albeit, the men stood outside gossiping while the Mass went on inside. It was a centuries old way of life, changed a bit and changing a lot under Franco. We were glad to have seen it and in a way, to have watched it changing. No doubt all systems have good points but by the nature of things they evolve and are replaced by new. I am reminded of the little poppy we had found and wonder what it was like ten thousand years ago. More to the point, it was time for a change in our way of life. I was about to retire.

The great day arrived. We had shipped three large boxes by sea to Nerja via Valencia. We had a cage for Marie our dog who was coming with us in spite of the vet who considered her too old for air travel. We had bought the cage from Air Canada, at a bargain price. When we were picking it up we were asked for our Air Canada flight number. We had none as we were flying by Iberia. Oh my, the man said, I shouldn’t have sold it to you, but you have it now so have a good trip. We changed planes in Madrid and walked over to the Domestic Terminal going through Customs and Immigration on the way. We passed by the baggage conveyor and there sitting in her cage, sailing along serenely and unworried, was Marie. Everything seemed in order until we had to pick up our baggage and start looking for Marie. She was nowhere to be seen. A kind soul who had been watching us asked what the problem was. He said that she was probably back at the International Terminal because that was where the animal control was. He was right and when we walked back there was Marie sitting in her cage outside the building. After checking that she was alive, we picked her up, placed her in a comfortable position in the taxi and left without any more ceremony. She was an illegal immigrant but no one seemed to mind. The three of us drove off in regal splendor to begin our new life in the Old World. Now all that was left to do was to wait for our boxes which should have been in Valencia by now. They were not in Valencia because the dock workers were on strike! A few weeks later they arrived by truck from Barcelona. Obviously life was not going to be as easy as we had supposed. We hoped that the worst was over and began unpacking the boxes.

Each villa was walled in with a gate to the little street (pathway) at the front door. Cars had to be parked on the road outside the perimeter of the community. We had chosen an outside lot and therefore could park almost at the front door. All maintenance problems were handled by the company staff. Gardeners came in and did everything, changing the plants seasonally, cultivating and weeding the beds and mowing the lawn. They also looked after the flowering trees and shrubs which lined the little streets. We could have been in a park, near us for example were two poinsettias each about twenty feet tall. We were used to ones less than two feet high.

We had two olive trees in the back garden. When the fruit was ready the gardeners came in, spread plastic sheeting on the ground and began beating the branches with long poles. The olives were then gathered up from the plastic sheets. They usually kept all the olives so I tried out my Spanish and succeeded to the point that I was allowed to keep some of my olives and was also given the recipe for preserving them. They turned out to be very good eating. The recipe is as follows, quite simple:

1. Put olives in a pot of salt water and garlic and let soak for twenty-one days.

2. Skim off the scum and bottle in the remaining clear liquid, as required.

3. The amount of salt used determines the level of bitterness.

4. Start in October, very good the following December/January.

The community had a large room for meetings, dances, bridge or whatever. There was a swimming pool, a small library, a restaurant and a bar. We patronized all four to some extent, but liked to meet for a sherry (Tio Pepe) and dinner at Pepe Rico’s (he was Austrian, the sherry was Spanish). Pepe was a more experienced restauranteur. There were other restaurants, one of which served fried herring which had not been cleaned, at another we got pork hocks with huge bones, the menu said suckling pig. We still don’t know if they thought that we didn’t know the difference or if they didn’t know. Perhaps they just hoped that no one would notice. There was another restaurant that when they got to know you would produce a very good wine which was much appreciated. It was on a side street and was patronized mostly by the local people, our crowd found it a little on the dull side. We found the food good. The staff were friendly and helpful. We did not consider this dull at all.

We spent a lot of time at the beach getting a nice tan. We did not want to look like weekenders. It was at the beach that we met people. Every new arrival went to the beach their first stop. One of the earliest arrivals at the community was called Happy. He was a bit extroverted and acted as what I called Beach Master. He was at the beach every day and every incomer was met by him, introduced to himself and everyone