www.lisaselvidge.com – lost or stolen?

About the middle of October 2013 I received an email from my father in Greece. ‘Happened to mention your website to friends here and saw that your site is now advertising male dysfunctional disorders …’ What?! My father must have hit the ouzo again. I looked online at my site (something I hadn’t done for a while) and, sure enough, there on the homepage was a link to buy Viagra. Hm, someone had clearly hacked my site and put that on. I remembered then that I hadn’t received emails from that account lisaselvidge.com since, I checked, July. I’d written to Streamline.net, my hosting service, about this but I had received an answer I hadn’t understood – something about needing to change the DNS…

I wasn’t too worried: I would just load up the homepage again. But I didn’t have time to do anything about it until I finished teaching in December. Then I spent a couple of days updating the site but I couldn’t load it up. Hm. I contacted Streamline.net again. And then began to unravel a sticky roll of strange events which I’m still ungluing. I discovered that my domain name, lisaselvidge.com had been due for renewal in August 2013. Unfortunately, I received no notification. In the past I had always renewed the domain through Direct Debit through, again, Streamline. I bought the domain from them almost ten years ago but the registrar was Tucows for some reason. Now it had passed to Hover and was being hosted by a Russian hosting service Echo-Host.com. It may have just been an admin error and I simply didn’t receive the notification for renewal but because I lost access to the email first I suspect my website was hacked, sold and moved to another hosting service. Apparently, once a hacker has the main email address (and they can easily ask for a new password) and you fail to renew your domain they can easily take control. When the domain is not renewed it will go to auction and be sold. Whatever happened no one will take responsibility and Hover have contacted the new owners of my site but they will not sell it back to me. I do not know who ‘they’ are.

Strange. It is/was such a personal and handmade site I can’t imagine that it would be good to anyone other than me. But I’d be interested to know how the Viagra sales go. Better than books?!

A warning to everyone – keep control of your domain and if anyone uses Streamline.net I would be very careful. In the meantime, I will try to get a new site up and running. It badly needed upgrading anyway so thanks to whoever did it and good luck with the Viagra sales.

Toddling in Tenerife, Xmas 2013

Volcano in Tenerife - 3,718m

Volcano in Tenerife – 3,718m

I refuse to give up travelling just because I have a toddler in tow but I admit going on a Safari in Kenya is pushing it. My friend, Paul, invited Leo and I to the desert in Morocco in March but I am realistic enough to know Paul would not cope. But I still wanted to go away for Xmas. Mainland Spain was a possibility but it can be cold during the winter and, besides, we were in Tarifa, Malaga and Jerez last year. Driving more than eight hours could result in Leo and I throwing tantrums. I often think that a camper van would be a good solution but Paul flatly refuses and I’m not very practical when it comes to changing the loo and putting up awnings. So, for now, that only leaves flying

Paul and I finally agreed on Tenerife – geographically Africa but socially and consumerly, Europe. I spent hours ploughing through Homeway and spain-holiday.com to find a child-friendly property. I found one in San Miguel – far enough, I reckoned, to not hear the last calls from the pubs in Playa das Americas but near enough to get baked beans if necessary. It had a cot, highchair, microwave, an enclosed courtyard with banana trees so Leo could feed himself as well as not escape. And they knew someone who could babysit. It was always hot in the Canary Islands. There were short flights from Seville. Perfect.

We kicked and screamed into north Tenerife, Leo loudly, me silently, Paul in German. Leo had managed to escape the seat belt and was somewhere between my legs and the floor. I apologised to everyone on the plane. Fortunately they were all Spanish so no one minded.

‘Ciao-ciao,’ Leo said to everyone, smiling, completely in denial that he was responsible for almost deafening the entire plane for two hours non-stop. He then promptly fell asleep as I carried him to the carousel to get the bags and pushchair.

I was exhausted. I fell asleep with one foot on the trolley and the other on the pushchair while Paul spent a further two hours trying to find the hire car, then followed a further three hours stuck in traffic (traffic jams in Tenerife? An Ikea?) It was night time by the time we found San Miguel and another hour before we found the house.

‘Where’s the cot?’ I asked the housekeeper. ‘Para o bebe.’

She looked puzzled and shook her head. ‘No, no.’

‘No cot? But it said…’ I was about to launch an attack but realised I would get nowhere as it was not her property and she’d already told us that she hadn’t been paid and that the owner hadn’t been out for two years. There was no cot, no highchair, no microwave, no hairdryer, the TV didn’t work, there was no hot water in the kitchen, the most the fridge could manage was room temperature and there were rickety steps leading from the courtyard. And it was cold and damp. Only the thought of two hours on a plane kept me from flying home. So I simply cried, put two single beds together for myself and Leo, and left the milk bottles outside the bedroom door as I reckoned it was cold enough and the bedrooms were outside of the main house.

‘It will be better in the morning with the blue skies and sun,’ Paul said calmly, strangling a bottle of red wine as he tried to open it.

We woke to grey clouds. We climbed the rickety steps and found a terrace with a view to the sea – and a local dump. We went shopping – together with two thirds of the island on a pre-Xmas binge. But amongst the shoppers I found nappies, Puleva milk for Leo – even baked beans. And we bought a hairdryer in a Chinese shop. The sun came out. We had coffee in a marina. Things were looking better.

There are two main attractions in Tenerife: Loro Parque and the cable car up the volcano. On Xmas day we went up into the Natural Park and entered a black and burnt orange crunchy and sculptural landscape. Up and up. We left the clouds behind. 2000 metres and climbing. Snow glistened from the top of the Teide volcano.

‘Up! Up!’ cried Leo, pointing out the window.

We parked and toddled up a barren hill to look at the mountains, the rock formations and dusty ground. I sat waiting for hobbits to appear from over the rocks, a Gollum perhaps, but there was only the occasional tourist.

Leo in Teide              

The cable car was closed due to ice and/or Xmas – I wasn’t sure which due to two different notices. So, instead we went to Puerto de Santa Cruz, a west coast town with smooth black beaches and old buildings. I love black – and so I was at home in the black sand. The interminable journey round the mountains prevented us from ever going back to Puerto de Santa Cruz and the other main attraction, Loro Parque (an animal and marine zoo).

Leo coped well with the travelling. Eating was much trickier. Especially eating out. How do you eat out with a toddler? He’s too big for a high chair (and wouldn’t stay put anyway) and he won’t sit on a chair for longer than about 2.5 seconds. Fortunately in a way he was on hunger strike. I think the only thing I managed to get him to eat in a week were a few baked beans. The rest inevitably would go on the floor or over me. We did find a café in the village with a children’s room: brightly lit with a slide into a paddling pool of coloured balls, a push motorbike and some little dens. Paul and I managed to eat a pizza there one night – almost together. The rest of the time we had to eat in relays – while the other person took care of Leo. Eating at the house wasn’t much better as Leo had learned how to move a chair and could reach a whole new world that was forbidden. It was tiring.

I began dreaming of a restaurant with a crèche. Not for romantic couples but for couples with children who enjoy food and eating out. I imagine a large room with the central part matted and crash proof, lit up with colourful lighting and a supervised little fun island for youngsters to explore and then tables around the outside with dimmed lighting so that parents could observe but not have to chase around after the kids. And eat.

On the last day as I was heating up a pan of water to do the washing up, I said to Paul, ‘I have enjoyed it – despite difficulties.’ It was true. We hadn’t quite made it to the two main attractions but we had seen new things, different places, people. My senses felt refreshed – albeit the rest of me completely knackered.

‘Good,’ he replied and smiled.

On the plane as Leo was screaming again from the floor and even the Spanish were muttering beneath their breath, I began to think if this was really worth it?

‘Never again,’ Paul said.

Camper van?

Lisa and Leo

In the park of the Pyramids of Guimar.

In the park of the Pyramids of Guimar.

 

Life in West Berlin, Moscow and the Monchique Mountains – an interview with Catrin George for Kulturpunkt, Monchique, November 2013

Kulturpunkt Interview: Catrin George with the English author and editor, Lisa Selvidge, Montanha Books, Algarve, published on http://catringeorge.blogspot.pt/2013/11/lisa-selvidge-author-tutor-editor.html

 

–       Lisa, you are an author, editor and tutor. Therefore, books, literature, writing, tutoring, editing, publishing, distributing, all this makes the major part of your professional life. Would you call the World of Books and Literature also your major passion?

–       I am passionate about the telling of stories – not only in the written form but also in film and theatre, so not exclusively books. I am passionate about stories because they are ultimately the way we share experiences, gain understanding and insight and, hopefully, laugh, learn, see new places, meet characters we recognise and perhaps cry a little on the way. Stories not only provide entertainment but they often reassure us that we are not alone.

–       One pen, one book, one teacher, can change the world, said Malala Yousafzai some weeks ago when nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. Literature is indeed a strong medium, always was, always will be. Do you believe so too? Why?

–       When a book or a paragraph or a spoken sentence resonates with something in your life or touches you in some way it can have the most profound effect. Words are our means of communicating and stories are our way of showing that we are made of the same stuff – only the little cultural things differ. I’m not sure that one writer, one book or one teacher can change the world but it can certainly have an impact. What writers do is mirror the world that is around them to show to the rest of the world. That is what I believe is the writer’s job.

–       Your first degree was in Russian Language and Literature with Portuguese as a subsidiary. What fascinated you most about Russian Literature?

–       I sat up one night freezing cold alone in an apartment in Dankelmannstr in West Berlin in 1984 and read Crime and Punishment. There were uncanny resemblances between Saint Petersburg and Berlin and the question resonated: was Raskolnikov right to murder the pawnbroker? Words of Brecht echoed in my ears, ‘What meanness would you not commit if at last you could change the world?’ West Berlin in the eighties was full of anarchists, artists, musicians, writers, pacifists, hippies, freaks, punks, Brits, Americans, French, Turkish, many of them wanting to change the world. Then just over the Wall there existed another world – a world without pawnbrokers. But then there was the problem of the innocent Lisaveta who he has to murder along with the pawnbroker and the fact that Raskolnikov couldn’t live with the guilt. The story resonated – with my life and with the world I lived in. Dostoevsky had mirrored the society of his time – and it was and is still relevant. I became fascinated with Dostoevsky and Russia, as well as the whole Communism versus Capitalism debate. The Russian affair was sealed when I took the Trans-Siberian train from Beijing to Berlin five years later in the winter of 1988. It was a scene from Doctor Zhivago – even the wolves seemed to howl at night in the tundra and the soldiers marched through the carriages and shook us awake demanding to see identity.

–       Having lived in Russia and Berlin, at historical moments in history, you have experienced the difference between daily life in the presence of the iron curtain, and later with the lightness of spring air of Perestroika. Can you tell us some of your significant memories of that time?

I stayed in the Soviet Union and the in-between country when no one seemed to know what was happening between 1988 and 1993. But there was never spring in the air. One time I stayed for months in one of the Soviet pre-fabricated cardboard apartment blocks that the Muscovites used to joke that they would fall over if you leaned too hard against them. It was misery. I even spent hours trying to get into the apartment I lived and only realised I was in the wrong block when a babushka started shouting at me. A bottle of Russian Brut champagne was cheaper than a tomato. The average Soviet citizen could afford almost nothing which was just as well as the State shops were empty anyway. Within months of the collapse of the Soviet Union a new Mafia was born and began to carve up one of the richest organisations of the world. Crime rose. I was on the Metro one night when I saw young men strategically line up along the platform. When the train pulled in I didn’t get on but I saw the men pull out knives. I don’t know what happened then. It was never reported.

I have written about some of my experiences in the Soviet Union during this time in a novel, The Extraordinary Tale of Comrade Rublov, but it has only ever been published as an ebook.

– Your novel, The Last Dance over the Berlin Wall, published in 2009. tells the story of a young artistic dancer, Johnny East, who is looking for a new direction in dance. He finds his inspiration in East Berlin at the circus. Where did you get the inspiration from? 

–       I had a friend in West Berlin with an apartment that overlooked the Wall in Neukoln. I often found myself gazing across. It was a narrow part of the Wall. The building on the other side was bricked up on the first floor but the rest of the apartment block was lived in. Then in the East I made friends with a guy who also lived near the wall (a little like Bodo in the novel) and he really did give me an old Bakelite phone telling me he’d been waiting ten years for it to be connected. We usually had to talk over music as he was sure his apartment was bugged – which given the Stasi revelations it probably was. These images were strong in my mind when I started planning the novel. It needed to be extraordinary like Berlin at that time. I have always been interested in dance and one of my best friends in Berlin at that time was a dancer. I started thinking about the possibility of a high-wire crossing of the Wall. I began my research. It was possible. Philippe Petit had crossed the Twin Towers on a high wire. When the Wall first went up it had been done. What’s more: the apartment block near the Wall that I chose was later that year demolished. So I had my story. A love story in a time when the two sides were not allowed to meet and a daring escape.

Image

–       You lived in Berlin 1984/1985. You describe Berlin as a very special place in a very special time. Have you ever been to Berlin since then, and if yes, how do you look at Berlin today?

I went back twice while researching the novel. Of course the city has changed but I can still feel the old Berlin in the back streets of Kreuzberg – and in the parks and open spaces. It is as if Berlin is wearing a different dress and lots of make-up: one that is much finer and fancier but take off the dress and the city is not so different. It is perhaps the only city I would go back to live in.

–       You chose to live in Portugal around ten years ago. What made you choose the mountains of Monchique, the other side of the mountains as people here say, instead of living at the coast?

My father came to visit me when we first moved here. I took him to a party down the road. There was live music, people warming their hands and wine around fires in oil drums, other people smoking, someone reciting poetry. They were anarchists, artists, musicians, writers, pacifists, hippies, freaks, punks, Brits, Americans, French, Germans, Portuguese, Americans, Dutch, Brazilians, Angolans. My father looked around, held up his Sagres and said, ‘I don’t bloody believe it! This is Berlin. Twenty years on.’ Of course it wasn’t. But he had a point. Like Berlin at that time, the mountains do attract a different type of people – people who want to live a slightly different life – away from the mainstream. The coast is more conservative and, of course, more expensive.

–       Does the “Serra” inspire you? Why?

The way of life of the people here and the people themselves inspire me. It is a world which is fastly disappearing. Many of my neighbours belong to the last generation who will cultivate the land, keep donkeys, chickens, pigs, make medronho. Most are illiterate and yet they have such an impressive knowledge of the land passed down from generation to generation – without books but with lots of stories. When I came here there were four such families living like this in the hamlet I live in. Now there is one – a couple who farm the land, make medronho, sell their produce at the market in Monchique. They don’t drive, don’t read, don’t write. They are the last of a kind.

–       In 2008 you edited and published a collection of stories from seventeen authors living in the Algarve, or who had some connection with the Algarve, called Summer Times in the Algarve. Then in 2010 you wrote, edited and published a collection called Beyond the Sea, Stories from the Algarve, which includes several interlinking stories about people living in the Algarve, both locals and foreigners. Beyond the Sea is translated and edited in German as well as in Portuguese with Montanha Books. What made you decide to initiate an editing and publishing service?

–       As a writer I’m very interested in place. It is one of my first inspirations. There seemed to be a gap in the market for books about Portugal and, in particular, the Algarve. At least books written in English – other than Monika Ali’s evocative Alentejo Blue there are not – or there weren’t in 2008 – that many books that opened a window onto the province. I thought it was a gap that needed to be filled. I wanted to show the Algarve as being much more than a tourist destination for golfers and sun, sea and sand seekers. I also thought that as an independent writer/publisher it would be easier to control distribution.

–       Amazon is a huge distributor. Is it difficult to enter this kind of market for a single publishing author? What are your experiences with big and small distributers?

–       Amazon is fantastic. Anyone can publish and sell on Amazon. It has opened many doors for writers. It has provided an equal playing field – almost. It still helps to invest money in getting reviews and marketing in general so those with money are able to make more of a splash. Nevertheless it has given writers a chance – particularly with Kindle. Sadly, most of the independent bookstores in the Algarve have closed down and it is almost impossible to get into the big stores such as Bertrand’s or FNAC – unless you are a publishing company with a turnover of 20,000 plus pounds/euros.

–       Apart from being an author and tutor teaching Creative Writing Online courses for the continuing Education Departments of the University of East Anglia, University of York, and Oxford University, you do occasionally edit and publish authors who live or write about Portugal/Algarve under Montanha Books. Your newest publication is Janice Russell’s An Algarve Affair, which will be presented soon, on December 17th, at Quinta dos Vales in Estombar. Without telling too much about the story, what made you decide that this was a book you wanted to edit and publish by Montanha Books?

–       I’ve workshopped with Janice for many years and I knew this was a good book, a very good book and one which I believed in. It has everything: a stunning setting and a very convincing and humorous protagonist – a woman, Izzie Child’s who’s spent her life studying feminism and women’s studies, has done courses in counselling, is now approaching fifty and yet finds herself worrying about her looks and lusting after a man who cleans the pool of her villa while on holiday in the Algarve. It is intelligent, witty, assertive and hilarious. It has been a great pleasure to edit.

–       Last question, dear Lisa, tell us about your plans as author and editor. How can an interested author get in touch with you with her/his book-project about Portugal/Algarve?

I’m happy to consider editorial and possibly publishing projects if anyone is interested – and we also have editors in German and Portuguese. We cannot take on too many projects due to other commitments but if you have something you think will be of interest then do contact me: lisa.selvidge@sapo.pt

As a writer I hope to publish a novel called Twelve Steps to Separation which is about a thirties Portuguese woman living in London, an alcoholic who hits bottom when she shags her boss, crashes her car and has conversations with an imaginary friend, Gordon. She contacts AA and embarks on a journey without alcohol to lose Gordon and find a new life. Initially she is influenced by her partner, Mark, who is a teacher turned environmentalist whose mission is to save the planet. But on a trip to the Algarve, at an AA meeting, Ana decides to leave Mark and embark on a journey to save herself.

       Thank you very much for the Interview, dear Lisa!

Social Insecurity/Insegurança Social, Monchique, October 2013

I was just wondering what to blog about this month when my phone rang. It was Mario again. He was gasping each word as if someone had stabbed him in the stomach.

‘Did you pay your segurança social?’ he said.

‘You know I did,’ I replied, confused. ‘Why?’

‘They’ve frozen my account,’ he hissed.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your name is still on my account and they’ve frozen over 1000 euros.’

‘It’s not possible. I paid it. You know that.’

I had gone to the Segurança Social (Social Security) with Leo in the beginning of September as – hands up – I hadn’t paid my National Insurance contributions since November 2012 as 124 euros a month when earning approximately 6,000 euros a year (500 a month) is, quite simply, outrageous. But I believe in a welfare system and I do live here so I decided I would pay out of my savings (rather than declare bankruptcy like most people in Portugal). Leo was in a somber mood that day and looked at the woman attending us with his dark-eyed saudades look. She fell for it.

‘I would wait until November,’ the very kind woman advised me. ‘Bring in your tax returns. It may be that you won’t need to pay if you haven’t worked much since having the baby,’ she said.

‘But I won’t be fined for not paying?’ She looked again on the computer and shook her head.

I went back a couple of weeks later with my tax returns. She wasn’t there and Leo was being less dark-eyed and more wriggly and punchy. The man who attended us told me the tax returns wouldn’t make any difference. He advised me to pay. I did. 1295 euros. Ouch. But at least I didn’t feel guilty about the plants Leo had uprooted from during the hour we were there.

‘It’s possible,’ gasped Mario. ‘I can’t get the money out. Check your …’

At that moment I lost him. My phone’s not the same since Leo posted it into the water tank. But Mario has a tendency towards drama. How could they have frozen money in his account?

But they had. And in mine. Apparently my case had gone to court. Without my knowledge. Without a letter, a phone call, an email… This happened last Friday. I had no time to sort it out before the weekend. Fortunately, I had a little more than 1000 euros in my account so I was able to go shopping.

And it cost me 40 euros to unfreeze it. Pure theft. Outrageous.

I want to complain but I can’t see a way of making a complaint on the Segurança Social website – there is a phone line but that doesn’t help me with my phone – so I will write a letter to the president. It will go something like this:

Caro Primeiro Ministro Coelho,

Sou residente de Monchique e tenho um filho com 15 meses. Vivo numa aldeia antiga que era um aldeia viva mas quase todos foram para outros paises ou sitios para ganhar uma vida. Nos ultimos anos vieram mais pessoas que querem fazer agricultura e viver uma vida mais simples conjuncto com a natureza – então não estamos completamente sozinhos. Mesmo assim a nossa aldeia ainda nao tem agua de rede – só o penico de deus, como dizem. Eu ensino cursos online para universidades na Inglaterra part-time e faço workshops e vendo alguns livros – mas não muitos porque nos ultimos anos todas as livrarias pequenas cairam a falencia e os grandes não nos deixam entrar.

Mas nao é isso que quero dizer. Eu quero dizer que não está certo que o custo de Segurança Social é tão alto – quatro vezes mais do que na Inglaterra por exemplo. Parece que voçe não compreende que as pessoas não podem trabalhar quando eles ganham 500-600 euros por mês e pagam 124 euros por mês. Não pensou que está a causar as pessoas ou trabalhar ilegalmente ou simplesmente não trabalhar?

Quanto a levar os cidadões para o tribunal sem informa-los (e quando eles já tinham pago tudo) acho, para dizer a verdade, uma vergonha. E o facto que voçes tem o poder congelar o dinheiro nas contas das pessoas sem avisa-las, acho, francamente, criminal. E que eles tem de pagar para descongelar o dinheiro é escandaloso.

Gosto muito de viver em Portugal, Senhor Primeiro Ministro, mas isso faz me zangada. Com troika ou sem troika isso não é uma maneira para tratar dos cidadões – senão quer que eles vão a procura outros paises onde eles podem trabalhar. E isso seria uma pena – quando, finalmente, temos alguns vizinhos.

Melhores cumprimentos,

Lisa Selvidge

Which very roughly translates as:

Dear Prime Minister Rabbit,

I am a resident of Monchique and I have a 15 month-old son. We live in what used to be a thriving mountain village before it was abandoned by people who scurried off to other lands to seek their fortunes. Recently, more people have settled here –in search of a more simple life – so we’re not completely alone. But our village has no mains water – just God’s gussunder, as the locals say. I teach online courses for universities in the UK and run occasional workshops and sell a few books but not many as most of the book shops have closed down in recent years and the big ones aren’t interested in selling from independent writers.

But that’s not what I want to tell you. I want to tell you that it is wrong that the cost of Social Security is so high – at least four times more than in the UK. Do you not realise that it is putting off so many people from working (at least legally)? How realistic is it to ask people who earn 500-600 euros a month to pay 124 euros in Social Security? Have you not thought that perhaps people might sign off and work illegally when they can, and not work at all when they can’t?

As for taking people to court without their knowledge (and when they have already paid their dues) and freezing sums of money in their accounts is, to be perfectly honest, criminal. And then to make them pay to unfreeze their accounts which have been frozen for no fault of their own is downright theft.

I don’t get angry very often, Mr Prime Minister, and I love Portugal but this makes me angry. Troika or no troika, this is no way to treat your citizens – unless you want them to seek their fortunes elsewhere. And that would be a shame – just when I’ve got some neighbours.

Best wishes,

Lisa Selvidge

iPhones, tea and creches – Monchique, September 2013

Leo was due to start at the local crèche in Monchique at the beginning of September. I had decided that I would take him there for three afternoons per week while I went to the library and did some work. Good for him, good for me.

It didn’t go quite to plan. His age group (12-24 months) sleep from 12.30 – 2.30 (even though Leo still sleeps in the morning and afternoon) so I got there at 2.30 when the little ones were waking up. Only some of them were twice the size of Leo. With long hair and big feet. But I was assured they were less than 24 months – just, as it turned out. It took about half an hour before I managed to unclamp Leo’s fingers from my arm and put him on the floor with the others. I got some mismatching rings on a little plastic pole – similar to something he has at home and sat down with him on the floor. The room was stifling. The woman in charge opened the window but no air seemed to get in. The other children were somnolently wandering around holding pieces of plastic vegetables. One little girl with corkscrew dark curls pushed a pram with a one-armed human-like doll. The girl smiled but her eyes were tired.

Leo looked in horror at a pile of dolls with broken limbs and went instead for an aubergine. A blonde-haired boy came and snatched it from Leo so I snatched it back. That is to say, of course, I gave the other boy a potato and Leo the aubergine. No one spoke apart from the staff as they changed nappies and chatted to each other and monologued with the little ones. ‘Come here, Maria, it smells like you’ve done a poo, come on, let’s change you…’ The children didn’t answer but as soon as they were released continued pacing the room. One by one they were sat down and given a yogurt. Not one of them tried to wriggle away –unlike Leo, who tried to climb out of the window. It reminded me of a scene from ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ – except with little people.

Leo loves water, which he calls ‘tea’ and he always plays with the watering can at home – both a toy and a real one. I found him a toy one and he happily took it and went to a tap and turned it on. But the tap wasn’t real. Leo looked up at me, with saudades in his eyes, and said, ‘Tea? Tea?

Leo_watering can

Later, at home, thinking it would be fine, it was just for a few hours a week in the afternoon, my iPhone rang.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the educator, ‘but we can’t accept him only in the afternoons. He must be here before 10 am.’

‘But what about mums and dads who work in the afternoon?’ I asked.

‘They must come in the morning.’

I said I would call her back. Now I don’t know anything about crèches or child pedagogy but surely it makes sense for the parent to spend as much time as possible with their child and for the crèche to try to accommodate that?

I paced around the terrace at home wondering what to do while Leo happily played with his real watering can and real ‘tea’. I thought that maybe two days a week from 10-3 pm would be okay.

‘What do you think, Leo,’ I asked absentmindedly. ‘Would you like to go the crèche a couple of times a week?’

He ignored me and went on playing with his watering can.

I went into the kitchen to get a real cup of tea. I decided I was being silly, suffering from separation anxiety. I would call the crèche and book him in for two days a week. Just then Leo let out an ear-piercing screech. I ran outside and found him pointing to the fenced-off water tank aka swimming pool – two square metres of tea. 

‘Tea, tea!’ he said. There was an unusual sense of urgency in his voice.

Yippee! I get to stay at home!

I looked in and there was my iPhone lying at the bottom of the pool floor. I screeched, opened the gate, jumped in fully dressed and retrieved it. It was, not surprisingly, drowned. Leo went on happily playing with his watering can while I tried to give my phone the kiss of life. Miraculously, after a few hours and some gentle massaging with a dry towel it came back to life. That is to say the internet and camera work, as does text messaging, but unfortunately the phone itself gurgles and then goes dead.

So I was never able to call the crèche.

El Rocío, Andalucia, August 2013

August arrives. I take a deep breath and look around me. Leo is one year old. He is already a little person, walking and talking – almost. I did it! The hardest part is surely over? I persuade my mother to come to the Algarve to look after Leo for a couple of days. Paul and I are off to El Rocío – a place I visited a few years ago and have always wanted to go back. To ride through Doñana Parque on horseback.

IMG_0817Imagine.  A town where there are more horses than people.  A town where there are no tarmac roads or pavements – just sand. Outside every house, restaurant, shop and bar there are hitching posts. Alongside the houses are parked coaches and carts – as well as cars and horse boxes. On the outskirts of the town are hundreds of acres of common land where hundreds of horses are tethered (2,500 is the equine population). The circles in the sand are made not by UFOs but by horses practising their paces. The town is famous for its ‘Romeria’ when about a million pilgrims (many on horseback or in wagons) gather for a religious festival but fortunately that happens in May.

We wheel spin into the town on Paul’s motorbike. The August heat beats down on our protective clothes and helmets in one of the hottest parts of Spain. We find shelter in a small, pleasant rural hotel and wait for the sun to back off a bit before making our way to the visitor centre to wait for Grigorio in the air conditioned hut.

I watch a webcam trained on a couple of cub lynx but they are crashed out under a tree and just occasionally flick a tail or slowly roll over. Grigorio arrives and Paul and I, together with two very smartly dressed young Spanish boys from Seville, get into a 4×4 to go to the ‘stables’. Everywhere horses graze on sand and straw. Plastic bottles and ice-cream wrappers grow like bushes out of the summer wasteland. No shelter or shade. Some horses live in gardens no bigger than that of a semi. I think of the pampered horses in the UK or Germany, with wooden fenced paddocks, fluffy beds of clean straw, hay nets and shiny buckets.

When we arrive at the stables there are no horses ready and no stables as such, only a few ramshackle huts that house old coaches and carts, old tin buckets and brushes. Dry land divided by wire fence.

‘Do you need a hand?’ I ask Grigorio. He is in his twenties with black eyes, black short hair and a blinding white smile. Getting five horses ready would take me half an hour.

‘No problem,’ he says and grabs five bridles and five horses and within five minutes they are all saddled up.

I put my foot into a stirrup that looks more like a shovel and mount ‘India’ and we set off. I am the only one with a riding hat. It is 7pm and torrid. We pass by El Rocío. Horses, riders, carts and carriages jog and jingle past each. Some of them trundle, some race, some reverse, some do fancy spins.  On the sand circles riders practice flying changes, piaffs, half-passes, full-passes. My eyes open wider than if I’d seen a UFO. It was as if these riders were practising for the Royal Andalucian School of Equestrian Art.  An enormous cart goes by pulled by five horses. Inside an entire family and their neighbours picnic.

‘How old were you when you started riding?’ I ask Grigorio, as he makes his horse go sideways and forwards in a half pass and texts on his iPhone at the same time.

‘One,’ says Grigorio, looking up. ‘I ride before I walk.’

‘One!’ I say. That’s not possible.

‘Before I was one my father carried me in front.’ Grigorio flashes me a white smile. ‘But I didn’t have my own horse until I was four.’ He continues texting.

Four!

‘Everyone here can ride a horse before walking.’

Just then three kids pass us bareback on one very beautiful black horse, its neck beautifully arched. They were older than Leo but not much. A cart passes us, also driven by children.

‘And you do these riding tours on your own?’ I ask. It seemed like a lot of work for one person.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I study engineering in Seville but it wasn’t for me. This is my passion.’

Later, when we are sitting outside a restaurant draining several cold beers, exhausted from our three hour ride, we watch everyone parade through the town. Young boys accompany their fathers, older boys wearing sombreros Sevillanos – the black round disks, holding their heads high, pretending not to look at the group of girls who pass by on three dainty horses. One of them is side-saddle. This was about more than horses. This was the town’s stage and everyone was acting.

All night horse and coaches tinkle by – either family outings or young couples. We see single horses, pairs and even a troika, as well as the five horse train. At midnight riders and horse and carriages are still passing by.

Now I can’t wait to get home and get Leo on a horse. He can, after all, almost walk.

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To act or to strip – writing fact or fiction? Monchique, June 2013

These days, when I’m not making ‘tea’ for my 10 month old baby (it’s the only word he knows and its multiple meanings include milk, breakfast, lunch, dinner and, possibly, tea), I teach predominantly online creative writing courses. Online courses are a great invention. Both myself and the students are in the comfort of our own homes – well, I’m sitting amongst saucepans, bin parts, mops, pegs and various child proof barricades so not that comfortable but at least I’m near the kettle – and I travel around the world. I have students from Cannes to Cambodia, Newcastle to Nigeria, Australia, America, Afghanistan. I once even had a student from Tonga (I quickly had to look that up on Wikipedia). I say my thanks daily to the gods of technology.

I teach fiction and memoir – or life writing. While they both share similarities in that they employ characters, require a structure and a setting, there is a fundamental difference between the two: quite simply, one is true and the other is made up. That may sound obvious but many people get confused. Life writing is about developing your own voice, about telling your story, or someone close to you. Biography falls into this bracket as well but relies more on interviews and research. Whether we know the person or not it is about presenting a life as honestly as we can (while recognising a certain amount of  subjectivity). Fiction, on the other hand, is about developing the voice – or voices – of your characters and telling their story. In fiction you, the author, are not important – you become instead your characters. You, at best, are the director. In memoir you are centre stage. So, it is a matter of choice. Do you enjoy acting? Or do you enjoy stripping? Of course there are grey areas. There are writers who watch and imagine others strip. This grey area is sometimes referred to as ‘faction’ – such as Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.

‘But what about when you’re writing about a friend?’ one of my students on a life-writing course writes in a forum. ‘Why can’t I write from that person’s point of view? You’ve written on my work that you don’t know how I know the person or the event. I wasn’t there but he’s my best friend and he told me everything!’

‘Why didn’t you say that then?’ I suggest, with a smiley. ‘You could easily establish your relationship to him and then it would give you the authority.’ I go back to look at his work and read the first paragraph.

Jose was sitting at a bar in Soho, pounding a straw into a tequila sunrise. His toes curled. The bar was full of semi-naked women and three men – himself, and two suited businessmen ogling a couple of the women who were at their table drinking a bottle of champagne. Jose had simply followed the half-price cocktails sign and only seen the flashing naked woman – too late – as he went down the burgundy carpeted steps.

 ‘Do you want some company?’ a young woman with green eyes and hair corkscrewing over her naked shoulders. She wore a black holey top that his mother would want to sew up and a too-short skirt. ‘Or are you just here to see the show?’

‘What show?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘The strip show.’

‘No! No! I’m just having a drink.’

‘Can I join you?’

Jose looked around. Other women sat at the bar talking to each other. No one seemed interested in them – except for the barman who scooted over and asked him what she wanted to drink.

‘I’ll have the same as you please.’ She turned towards him slightly, crossing her left leg over her right.

‘Do you work here all the time?’ he asked. It was hotter than Seville in August.

‘At the moment but what I really want to be is an actress.’

I explain again to the student that I would read this as fiction. It is possible to go inside  a subject and use the third person intimate as long as the reader knows that you are reimagining. The point is to be clear. There is a contract between the reader and writer. We read and react differently if we know something to be a true story. And the writer should be clear if he is acting or telling the truth.

Teaching in the comfort of home.

Teaching in the comfort of home.

‘Tea!’ Leo says. ‘Tea! Tea!’ Louder now. ‘Tea, tea, tea.’

This time I think ‘tea’ means dinner. But before I go and trip over saucepans, I would like to be clear that the above example, despite appearances, is, in fact, an example of acting and no students have been involved.

Writers in the Algarve, Monchique, May 2013

writers1 I thought I knew most of the writers in the Algarve. I once scoured both the mountains and the beaches for writers who would be prepared to write a short story for the anthology, Summer Times in the Algarve, and finally excavated eighteen – writers tend to be well hidden. Very well hidden in fact.  At the Algarve writers’ lunch and general get-together at Parque das Minas organised by Nuno Campos Inácio from Arandis Editora, out of the thirty odd writers present, I knew no one – other than my German friend, fellow writer and cultural entrepreneur to the Algarve, Catrin George, and Uwe Heitkampf, editor of the new Eco 123.

Language is partly to blame. This was a Portuguese affair and I was the only English person there. I speak the language almost fluently and yet still that barrier is there. Language is another country.

The idea of the meeting was to get all the writers together, show off our wares, moan about the state of publishing and have (in true Portuguese style) a big lunch. I’m not big on lunches and certainly not big lunches as I’m a vegetarian and the Algarve – particularly Monchique – doesn’t do vegetarian. Other than omelettes and salads, the only other vaguely vegetarian food is migas. Migas is a type of bread crumbs, which sounds vegetarian except it is usually cooked in ‘banha’ – pork fat. I ate it once in the Alentejo, thinking it was vegetarian and I was sick for the next twenty-four hours. But an omelette a week is fine and Catrin and I wanted to be social and meet all the other writers. So after a couple of minutes of showing off books, moaning about the fact that Amazon has no amazon.pt and ebooks are almost unheard of (a Portuguese moan) and the difficulties of distribution and general dishonesty amongst certain English book sellers who have packed up, pleaded bankruptcy and not paid for books sold (my moan) and an hour’s tour around Parque da Mina (an old private and house that used to belong to a wealthy Monchique family), we were bused up to the restaurant Luar de Fóia, one of the many restaurants on the road up the mountain to Fóia (the highest point in the Algarve) and seated at the three long tables reserved for us. The three male writers to the left were not interested in talking so I began a conversation with a delightful woman called Fatima Peres, a presenter for Radio Fóia, who is described as ‘the highest voice in the south of Portugal’ Rádio Fóia (97.1 FM). Opposite her was the founder of Radio Fóia, Antonia Ventura, who also had an electrical shop in Monchique. It turns out that Fatima is almost a vegetarian and began telling me how to make the most delicious smoothies – using celery, ginger… A waiter interrupted to tell me that there would be a vegetarian lunch for me. Excited, I asked what it would be.  ‘Vegetable migas,’ the waiter said, but assured me it would be cooked in olive oil and not ‘banha’.

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Meanwhile, Fatima was still rolling out the vegetarian recipes with a passion for vegetarian food that I could only dream of. She began talking about soya milk smoothies and, at that, Antonio protested that soya could not be milk and drew a little design on a napkin that read – animal – milk, plant – vegetable. The male writers on the left were becoming more animated after guzzling the carafes of red wine. Antonio was making a joke about how if God had found the perfect woman he would only have created one (not sure where that came from). And so, the lunch went on and on. Needless to say by the time we got back on the bus I began to feel queasy and so I missed the President of Monchique’s speech and failed miserably to meet any of the writers. But I had met some enchanting people from Radio Fóia, and learned a lot about vegetarian food and I now know that there are many more writers in the Algarve – see Arandis Editora

Blogging, Babies and Sherry, Jerez de la Frontera, April 2013

As a newcomer to all this, I had no idea there are courses on how to blog, and a very good friend of mine in London pointed out an article published in The Guardian. For anyone wanting to write a blog this is worth a read. Most of it is obvious but there are some good tips. It is important, apparently, to keep your blogs short and with one subject heading. There should, for example, be three blogs here:

1. How not to blog

2. Travelling with a baby

3. Sherry in Jerez de la Frontera

It is also recommended to blog at least once a week – if not every day. Ah. I was actually thinking of missing this month but after reading that I have dragged myself to the computer in the dark with my camomile while the baby sleeps. But I’m afraid I have to cram the three topics together – as I did before. And try harder next time.

JerezAs a newcomer to babies as well, I had no idea how difficult it was to travel with a slightly bigger baby. I managed with Leo at four and a half months without too much difficulty (despite the sterilizing and bottle making morning ritual and the three hours a day spent feeding), but eight and a half months is a completely different story. Things needed include wet wipes, high chair, travel cot, toys, 6 dummies and dummy chain, food (frozen and pouch), bottled water, magic plastic spoons that change colour, wet wipes, backpack carrier, frontpack carrier, buggy, clothes, nappies, bottles and did I mention wet wipes? The list goes on and on. Eight hours later and we (‘we’ being myself, Leo, and my friend, Paul) are all crammed into the Toyota pick-up. Another eight hours (plus a few screaming fits) and we finally make it to Jerez de la Frontera (pronounced ‘Herez’ and nothing like Sherry so how one came to be the other – even for us mono-lingual Brits – is a mystery).

We stay in an apartment at the edge of the historical city which has parking – very important for loading and unloading. Another eight hours later we are enjoying a glass of wine on the roof terrace overlooking smoking factories and general city industrial outskirts. If I look to the right I can just about see the famous icon of Tio Pepe and his guitar looking a little worse for wear. But the three months of rain has finally stopped and Spain heaves a sigh of relief as it prostrates itself to the blue sky. Leo crawls on the plastic grass and beelines for my wine glass, fingers worryingly outstretched. Later I make myself a camomile tea (Manzanilla in Spanish) and he screws up his face when I offer him some.

I am quite alarmed at babies’ attraction to wine (assuming Leo isn’t alone?). So I wasn’t sure that a visit to the Bodega to sample the fortified version was a good idea. But there are three things to do in Jerez. Go to see the dancing horses. Go to see flamenco. And go and drink sherry. There are other attractions such as churches and a cathedral, the Alcazar (worth a visit) and a motor track. We give the flamenco a miss as the shows are on late and appear touristy. We do see the horses and they do, indeed, dance – some of them without touching the floor. The Royal Andalucian School of Equestrian Art is a big affair held three or four times a week at midday in a grand indoor school with a bursting gallery. The horses are like ballerinas as they point and pirouette, bow and leap in time to the music. They don’t quite do pliés but I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had.

Then to the Bodega. ‘SHERRY IS ONLY PRODUCED IN THIS PART OF ANDALUCIA AND THIS, MY FRIENDS, IS THE BIGGEST AND BEST SHERRY PRODUCING BODEGA IN THE WORLD…’ the little but loud trilingual guide tells us in English, Spanish and German. Incredibly, Leo sleeps through this and on the tourist train that takes us around the grounds but wakes up as soon as he smells the barrels of sherry. He doesn’t appear interested in the explanations of the many different types of sherry (‘DO WE UNDERSTAND NOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FINO, MANZA… AND OLOROSO OR DO I EXPLAIN AGAIN?), or the way they are made (‘SO IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE TIME. SPENT. IN. THE. BARREL. AND THE PROCESS OF OXIDATION…’) and he positively screams through the film so I take him to the toilet to change him and he bangs his head on the floor (there are no changing facilities in Spain, or soap or toilet paper in any restaurant or public toilet that I have ever visited) which makes him scream louder. But he becomes quiet for the tasting and, fingers outstretched, tries to grab my glass. After all this I’m feeling the need for a cup of tea so on the way home we stop at one of the many bars decorated with photos of bull fights, flamenco dancers and singers. I am only a little surprised that when I ask for a Manzanilla (meaning camomile tea) I receive a glass of sherry. Leo … well, you can probably guess.

Anyway, it is getting late and the sherry is nearly all gone.

The Via Algarviana, Troika and Experimental Fiction, Monchique, March 2013

I have steered away from blogging and facebooking and, in fact, most things to do with ‘social’ and ‘media’ – mainly because, until recently, I used to teach on a computer, write on a computer, practically eat on a computer and there were only so many hours in a day I could sit – or lie – at a computer. However, recently and very belatedly in life, I had a baby. Leo, together with the half a donkey I share with a neighbour, three cats and a whole horse means that now I only have one precious hour a day on a computer. (I remember once going to a reading by William Gibson who claimed that he wrote Neuromancer while looking after the baby – a baby what I wonder now?). But I still can’t face Facebook so Goodreads looks like a good platform. The idea that there exists a huge online reading group makes me happy. For writers like myself who do not have a big publisher beside them it seems to me that this is an important place to be. So I will try to post something vaguely interesting on a monthly basis but, not being William Gibson, I can’t promise. However, I hope to tell a little about life in the south of Portugal which is, on the whole, thanks to the EU, Troika and the torrential rain this month, not what it was.

This month saw the release of Herdeiros da Revolução, a film directed by Uwe Heitkamp, with the premier in Ochála, a tea shop in Monchique – that is a small mountain town in the Algarve near where I live (the choice of venue had nothing to do with the fact there is only one cinema left within a 100 km.) The film takes us along the Via Algarviana, a 320 km trail that crosses southern Portugal. Some of the filming is stunning with Portugal’s photogenic blue skies, ochre land, eagles, vast empty valleys and green mountains, whitewashed crumbling villages, and the interviews with the few locals on the way really do capture old Portugal. It has a political angle that juxtaposes the expectations of the 1974 Revolution with the upcoming Troika Revolution. One old shepherd says that ‘this time blood will spill’. After visiting Lisbon last week he may well be right.

lisa_donkey_ianI am keen to write a book about the Via Algarviana but with a more practical, less political, approach. Well, slightly more practical. I cannot walk far due to bad knees so I had planned to ride the donkey but since last month when I started riding him again to get him fit he’s started limping. I’m sure he’s pretending but it’s a long way to hobble home if he isn’t. The horse is keen and able but she’s nervous of lumps of concrete and I’m afraid she’ll imagine a lion or a Findus logo in a rock, run for her life and then all I’ll see is ochre dust. So then I thought about a bike, an electric bike, a Stealth bike actually… Or perhaps all three? Perhaps I can create my own Troika with a horse, a donkey and an electric bike? But all that to be decided. In the meantime, I recommend the film to anyone who wants to know anything about life in Portugal, walking, or how to make medronho… Of course, you would have to contact Uwe (00351 918 818 108) as the film is unlikely to make it to the one cinema left in the western and central Algarve.

For culture we tend to have to head to Lisbon and last week we went to see the super talented Rodrigo Leão. The concert was packed with a very cultured, well dressed and heeled crowd. Even more surprising, Rodrigo Leão composed music to poets’ lyrics. A packed auditorium for what seemed like an experimental performance? What about austerity? At 1 am we were stuck in traffic trying to get across the city. Lisbon, despite the rain, was in full throttle and Benfica hadn’t even played. The next day, while half the city nursed hangovers, the other half crawled out of mouldy apartments and down to Praça do Comércio with their banners, ‘Que se Lixe Troika’ and singing, Grandola, Vila Mo-re-e-na…, the song of the Revolution.

Revolutions aside, the poets reminded me that there is a new literary prize, the Goldsmiths Literary Prize for new daring experimental fiction. Unfortunately, All entries must be submitted by an established UK publishing house (‘established’ is defined as a house that publishes a list of titles by different authors, that produces titles with an ISBN and that distributes them through established retail outlets). Self-published books are not eligible for the Prize.

And neither are small publishers because in order to sell through established retail outlets the company needs to have a turnover of at least twenty grand. Surely most experimental fiction is refused by major publishing houses and so doesn’t that defeat the object? My objection is, of course, personal but I’ll go into that another day. My hour is up. The donkey is braying and baby Leo is waking…