Re: A Spanish winter break............almost!!

[John]

Sounded like AB/Strathclyde, were about as well organised as the Coal Board were Daz ;D

[dazb]

In fairness to any individual or any group or company ever involved in coal mining, I could never say that any were more disorganised than the other, apart from that is, any-one or any group or company that I have personally been involved with either directly or indirectly and therefore as such I would only be admitting that any such disorganisation may well have been as a result of my simply being there and there is absolutely no way that I would put myself in a position of blame for even a small percentage of the "cock-ups" I have caused or witnessed................I couldn't afford the costs of any likely ensuing litigation, not on my pension anyway !! ....................so in conclusion your soundings may well be correct but will never receive corroboration from me. ;D.

[John]

Now thats a cough out if I ever saw one, they say they invoke their 5th amendment rights over here.... and refuse to say anything that might incriminate themselves

[dazb]

That was quick reply John, but in mitigation I have another three or so follow on parts to the Holiday in Spain Saga........................it did get worse !!

[John]

Dazb said:

That was quick reply John, but in mitigation I have another three or so follow on parts to the Holiday in Spain Saga........................it did get worse !!

Get typing then!! I'm in suspenders waiting ;D

[John]

Keep it up Daz, giving us a bloody good laugh!

[John]

Dazb said:

Dear John, being of a timid and extremely sensitive nature I wasn't really sure how to take that comment about making you laugh, but having given due deliberation to the comment I realised that it could only have been made in lightness of humour. I base this assumption on the fact that only an educated and forward thinking intelect with little sense of humour combined with a far too serious opinion of him/herself and the world in general could possible take offence at my ramblings and therefore knowing you, John as I do, I felt safe in the knowledge that none of these factors would/could have influenced the compilation of your request/statement………. ;D
So thanks for the encouragement mate and here is the continuation;
now come on Daz Beattie you know women better than that.
This aforementioned incident with the cans did later remind me of a mock battle that I witnessed in my local newspaper shop some months prior to all this, I had walked in to the shop early one morning immediately behind a grumpy retired collier I knew of old, as he approached the counter the lady busy numbering papers for delivery simply said, “No smoking in this shop please”, the old guy said “I only want a packet of cigs”, curt reply of; “I will not serve you until that cigarette is outside”, “But I only want cigs”. That did it she came marching from behind the counter, tweaked the cigarette from between his fingers without even pausing got to the door and threw it out, before she had even turned to go back to her position the old guy said “Bloody marvellous, yer can buy em but yer can’t smoke em in the bloody shop” as she drew level with him she stopped and looked at him in a way that made even me shiver and said “The Coop sells sausages but I bet you wouldn’t light a bloody barbeque in their shop, narr what cigs do yer want?” “Twenty Regal please”, paid and left, what a wimp, but on the other hand these Barnsley women are not to be trifled with at half past five in a morning.


TEXT


Arrived at Southampton, topped the car up yet again and despite the garage guy assuring me that there was no problem with supplies in France I persuaded him to fill the other two cans, he did warm me that I wasn’t supposed to take them on the ferry, so I hid them in the boot and two in the back foot wells, no problem. No problem as I entered the simple to find ferry terminal I could hardly breath for the petrol fumes, I daren’t pull up at the ticket box and transact the deal through the car widow, so I parked away and walked across to book in at the gate side office box, the man looked at the ticket and said “Bring your car over” I said “Well I was unsure where to go”, “Well you are in the right place now fetch the car I need to see if there is anybody else travelling with you”, “Can’t you stamp the ticket or whatever before, now that I’m here?”, “Look just bring the car here”, “Ok”, I got back in the car and went out of the terminal and back to the petrol station, I told the guy as I was buying the half a dozen air fresheners on a string type things why I was doing it, he was in hysterics , “Told you that you shouldn’t have taken em , hang on a minute”, he went in the back and handed me an aerosol of fly and wasp killer, “Here take that, I thought it was air freshener but it stinks anyway”. I sprayed the remainder of the tin all over the car, in the boot under the seats and put the hanging things on top of the petrol cans, drove around for a short while and then went back to the ticket office, I could hardly breath as I pulled up alongside the cabin, immediately he came into view I said “Nipped back to get some cigs, sorry”, he leaned forward peered through the open car window and checked for smuggled emigrants and said “Chuffing hell it stinks in here got a petrol leak or what?” “Just filled up as I came in and spilt a bit” “Ok” and gave me the boarding pass, I felt as though I was smuggling the equivalent of cocaine. The car still stunk of the fly killer three months later when I exchanged it for my new upgrade, an Austin Maxi.

You'd be the first Yorkshireman I've met thats timid and shy Daz ;D

[John]

Especially an ex pit fitter ;D

[slumberland]

aww dont stop there!.....cmon, ive driven in spain its bloody horrendous!

[John]

slumberland said:

aww dont stop there!.....cmon, ive driven in spain its bloody horrendous!

Daz has loads of his material on Bill Riley's website Pitman.com His tales of India are hilerious, plus his poems, hence his nickname, the Barnsley Bard!

[dazb]

Part Eight;
I eventually got to the room expecting to find it to be an attic corner staff room, it being the last room in the hotel obviously it wasn’t going to be much, I was therefore more than pleasantly surprised to find it on the third floor, two double beds, a beautiful, real marble bathroom, all mod cons., as they say. I collapsed on the bed kicking my shoes off, the day flashing in replay mode through my mind. Ah! Sod it, it could have been a lot worse, at least I was here and had seen where the mine was roughly, I would be up there first thing in the morning. That is of course, if I could get the car out of custody.
I decided to call Bobby Lowe and at least out of courtesy inform him that I was on his patch, I hadn’t needed to complete the previous attempt to phone him. I picked up the phone but before anyone answered I realised that it might be better if not simpler to go to reception and show them the number I wanted, so I jumped in the lift and appeared at reception, handed a piece of paper with Bobby’s number on it, pointed to the ceiling and first, then my wristhingych, thrust five digits towards the receptionist; “OK, nos problema”. Ugh! This Spanish is a dead easy language to learn once you make your mind up. Five minutes later and probably to the very second, the phone in my room rang, I picked it and although it was still ringing out the receptionist simply said; “Bobby Lowe” and clicked off, it continued to ring without any answer. I waited for half an hour and picked up the phone to try Bobby again, I simply said, “Bobby Lowe please”, “OK” and the phone rang, but still no answer. I tried a few times after that but didn’t get a reply. I would try later, knowing Bobby he was probably out getting a couple of pints of Sangria of whatever the beer was called in Spain.
I showered and eventually found my way down to reception, big smiles from my new found friend at the back of the counter, suddenly a lot more helpful, perhaps related to the fact that I could now communicate in a common language, “Eating, restaurant, is where? Pour favoree”, in an instant I received a pointed direction to the restaurant, definitely cracked it, the language that is, although my knife and fork operational impression and chewing actions may have helped. The restaurant was very dimly lit; in fact, even for a pit lad it was dark. Not a problem though, even if I couldn’t see then the fleet of waiters could. I was suddenly facing a little guy in black who slid out of the shadows at the bottom of the two steps that I hadn’t noticed, good job he was fielding in the slips because if he hadn’t caught me at the point of launch I was on my way head first into the kitchen. Perhaps he determined from my entrance that I was either drunk or infirm, because he led me by the elbow to a corner table in near total darkness, he found and selecting a chair guided me on to it. Just as I was about to ask for a cap lamp he struck a match and lit two candles on the table, I was very close to being blinded by this sudden intensity of light, three seconds later and back in focus I took the menu that was being offered.
Apart from the darkness the other effect on my senses was the heavy, smell of garlic, it would have been difficult to determine which was the densest, the dark or the fumes. The menu was a real problem, not one word of English, the nearest was a phrase which included words that gave the impression of beef steak, that’s it not going to show myself up any further, I would settle for that, whatever it was. At the time of my pointing to this menu inclusion, the waiter responded by telling me what it was and concluded his speech with a question, well I presumed that is what he had be prattling on about because although I didn’t understand a single word, I did recognised in the flickering light his expression which clearly required some sort of response from me. “Just potatoes then please, whatever veg and absolutely no garlic please, oh and extremely well done, thank you” The waiter never even flinched just kept looking at me as though I had never even spoken. I could try my new found words of Bengali but settled for “With pomme de terres, pour favoree, and still no garlic ok?” This time I got a response, not a really positive one more of an “Err ok”. Twenty minutes later it arrived and was swished before me, the garlic was overpowering, a pretty raw steak a creamy brown sauce trailed across one half of it, half a dozen asparagus spears and a load of chips, before I could arrange my thoughts into words the original waiter had vanished and another stood in his place, another series of high speed Spanish words followed by an expectant pause, a shrug from me and a smaller menu from him. It suddenly dawned on me that he was the wine waiter, I looked at the ten page menu thinking that I might recognise something, not being a wine drinker at all, but I knew that etiquette dictated a red wine, no idea, once again defeated by printed Spanish. So! “A glass of red, rouge not white please” He never even attempted a response, but two minutes later he came back with a glass jug of red wine, poured a taste, I tried it and found it to be rough, very rough so rough in fact that I couldn’t speak, but just nodded, he filled my glass and left the jug on the table. I tried to cut the steak and found it still bloody in the middle along with the garlic that it was obviously soaked in determined that it be left, the asparagus was also garlicky, so I was left with the chips. I should have guessed, even the chips were cooked in garlic. Only the Rouge de Rough left, so I drank it, I drank it all and must admit I found it similar to the first experience of chewing tobacco, impossible at first, the second chew an act of bravado, the third because it was offered in friendship, the fourth because I had to buy some and return the gesture, eventually it sneaked up on me and became a habit, it was on of the few real pleasures of working down the pit. Well this Vin de Cassa business caught up with me the same way, two more jugs later and still having eaten nothing, I made my way back to my room, only two things on my mind, whether to phone Bobby Lowe tonight in the state I was in or wait until the morning and secondly to make my first project in Spain that of determining the exact phrase for;” Absolutely no garlic at all please”. I forgot both and slept the sleep of the proverbial log.

[dazb]

Part Nine, there at last;
my first project in Spain that of determining the exact phrase for;” Absolutely no garlic at all please”. I forgot both and slept the sleep of the proverbial log.
The next morning I was up about five o clock, shower downstairs for five thirty, not a soul about at reception, tried the restaurant doors but they were locked. Driven by starvation I went in search of bacon and eggs, no tell tale airborne clues to indicate the breakfast kitchen or location of the eatery, I was standing by the front desk when an presumed hotel guest came tripping down the stairs, his camel hair coat unfastened but draped over his shoulders like a bobby’s cape, no signs of his arms. I later became aware that this was the classic indication of a well to do businessman, only colliers and peasants wore overcoats with the sleeves actually accommodating their arms. He swished by with a “Buenos Dais”, I returned a “Good morning” and followed him up a corridor in a direction away from the restaurant. I found my self in a little bar room with half a dozen single place tables set out obviously for breakfast, well maybe not obviously breakfast because each setting had a soup bowl and a sweet bun as well as small side plate with a slice of ham, cheese and guess what? Two slices of garlic sausage. I looked around for a table set any differently but found none. A waiter appeared and spoke to me turned sideways to me and indicating as he spoke various items on the bar, fruit juices, a coffee machine and a warm cabinet with croissants, I thanked him and walked over, chose an orange juice, at a guess it was orange and a croissant, went to the coffee machine but no cups. I was sat back at the table when the waiter reappeared; I gained his attention and tried to tell him that I would have liked a coffee but that there were no cups, took him a while to grasp but eventually he did, humiliatingly he took my soup bowl held it towards me then walked across to the coffee machine, turning sideways to enable me to see clearly how he did it he demonstrated in a classical Marcele Marceau mime style, with a flourish of his left hand he turned the tap off then came back to my table placed it in front of me and in his best English said “Thank you” Clever bugger. I really needed milk and sugar but I wasn’t going to sit through an encore, so I drank it black, well most of it anyway. As everybody knows there is an awful lot of coffee in Brazil and even more in a Spanish soup bowl.

Marcele Marceau
The garage opened at nine o clock, the proprietor giving me an “Olla” with a friendly smile and asked if everything was ok His manner suggested that he genuinely thought that he had done me a favour by securing the car for the night. I thanked him for his caring and had the tank and two of the cans filled.
I then made the decision to find the pit, maybe Bobby Lowe was already there. I travelled back along the road that had brought me into Leon the previous day, but in a far more confident frame of mind. As the road climbed back into the mountains the snow began to fall, but even that seemed a lot gentler than yesterday, found the turn off for Cinera and crossed the wooden bridge over a torrential river that looked as though another five gallons a minute of flow increase would take the water over the top of this relatively flimsy structure. I later found out that I wasn’t the only one with concerns for the bridge, the previous year the bridge had been swept away and its replacement was thought by most of the villagers to a lot less of an engineering feat that the old one built eighty years previously. No one spent much time on this bridge the pedestrians tended to run across it or in case of the elderly they sort of quickened their shuffle, vehicles could be heard to change gear before making the sprint across, it was hardly the weather to be swimming.
I stopped and asked for the road to the mine, I was directed around a corner and followed the indicated right hand fork, I made a mental note of the word Minera, not sure what it meant but obviously having a commonality with the English word mine. I knew instinctively that I was on the right track, the fact that the churned up snow at the side of the road was coal black and the only vehicles on the road were lorries coming towards me loaded with large lumps of coal, obviously hand got stuff, definitely not the produce of a shearer. I followed the road and found myself in what was obviously a colliery yard, not a really difficult part of my travels since there had been no potential turn offs for the last half-mile. I had arrived at Hullera Vasco-Leonesa.

[John]

Jeeze Daz, I ain't got no fingernails left!!! Where's the next episode mate

[ejb]

Admin said:

Jeeze Daz, I ain't got no fingernails left!!! Where's the next episode mate

I'm nearly down to the first joints on mine, waiting.

[John]

Bloody glad I ain't holding the ripping lip up while I wait for the next episode