Blogpost 60, 14 July 2025, Reijer Staats

Experiencing Andalusia in full colour and scent

I'm lying on the beach, writing, senses fully engaged, for quite some time. Perhaps it's the heat? Or the scent of flor de noche, that jasmine-like flower some find delightful, but which makes me shudder. Or maybe it's the summer rhythm? The sleepy afternoons in the air conditioning, the dry, gritty eyes on waking, and the languid evenings wandering the paseo.

"Salir de noche," says the Andalusian. It's too hot during the day, so people head out late into the evening: "If you see me tonight with a refresco and a tapa on the terrace, do wave, we'll share a drink!"

At Restaurante La Roka, a local institution on this coast, the heat is intense. I'm glad we're seated at a table inside, near the air conditioning, rather than outside on the terrace, where the characterful guests, both señoras and hombres, eagerly use fans handed out in every colour of the rainbow. The warmth tends to linger under the parasols and awnings. I sip my lemon lemonade again: sparklingly fresh and sweet-tart.

Suddenly Pavarotti's voice rises above the Spanish murmur through the speakers. Just as the sun sets below the horizon. The fans are returned or slipped into handbags; one hombre with a sweat-stained shirt still holds his briefly.

People move to the edge of the panoramic terrace to capture this magical moment: selfies, with the photo atop this blog post as their backdrop, are the result.

After short nights, the familiar excuses for the morning beach bootcamps come through: "He pasado mala noche."

At home, the coolness and the mystical aroma of incense with Almuñécar scent await: woody tones and azahar from this region, blended and gifted by Jorg and Froukje, new vecinos whose avocado farm we visited and where we took an aroma tour. An aromatic experience in Almuñécar not to be missed: Hermozia!

The hum of a ceiling fan on a thick tree branch, the pleasant breeze it spreads, the chirping of cicadas fills the orchard...

Perspiration streams down my back. T-shirt number three usually lands in the laundry basket before midday.

Village scenes from above

Taking it easy? Quite the opposite. Johan and I are stepping up a gear this summer! We drive from casa to casa, check in guests, clean the houses, tend the plants, fix any issues. Crystal-clear pool water? I love it! Everything's running smoothly.

In the Lecrín Valley, just before our long-term summer guests arrive, we create shade on the roof terrace of our casita. While fixing the reed mat on the new pergola crafted by local artisan Emilio, our neighbour nicknamed Ciske (you might recall her from my blogpost Fernando) suddenly pokes her head through her window into our patio just as she's lowering the persianas against the midday sun. Like a shy street urchin, she waves upstairs while her eyes follow me hopping about the roof terrace, wildly waving and then ducking for cover from the prickly wasps whose nest I accidentally disturbed in the reed mat. As if Ciske thought my arm-waving and sharp cries were aimed at her.

Johan and I then hang a new shade cloth in the patio together, and Johan reports on his chat with the vecina three doors down. When he starts with "That cow…" I immediately know who he means. This señora always wears a scowl, washing clothes is her main hobby, and she only appears on the street briefly if there's something to gain. She fights for one of the two scarce parking spots outside our doors, while we are four vecinos with a total of five cars. Or she borrows our vacuum cleaner (and our power socket!) to clean her car properly. When Johan was just loading one of the surplus parasols into my car, he was promptly told to think of her first when disposing of unwanted furniture "...por favor!", according to Johan. I can see him thinking: "I don't think so!"

During the local feria, this vecina once appeared outside in a red Spanish flamenco dress with white polka dots and lipstick. I was struck, my mouth fell open and I gave a spontaneous compliment. Since that last smile, she's been her usual surly self again. You get a look, and if you're lucky, a brief, neutral "Mmm…" escapes her lips.

Two hombres heading to Salobreña

On our way to our ático, we always pass some hombres playing dominoes in the shade of a large tree on a square outside Hostel María Tere. We turn left and climb the straight Calle Rosario into the Casco Histórico of Salobreña. I give it a little more gas, but no acceleration. Johan grumbles that I shifted up too early again.

Halfway up, in the shade of a hairpin bend, he once again surveys everything crawling up the hill from his too-low camping chair. Slouched, legs apart, a large circus moustache under his nose, bare pot belly, manboobs and shorts, today bright red, tied just above the navel so his waist is hidden. Hanging from his left chair arm is a white plastic bag with snacks. In his right hand rests a litre bottle of beer, and with the other he scratches behind his ears. He nods approvingly, we may continue and turn right just before we would have driven into his crotch, while the tyres roll audibly over the cobbles beneath us.

Then the rattling fourgoneta in front of us brings us to a halt. A sharp voice from a tape echoes through the window. The doors open. Señoras come out en masse and a queue forms around the car, with a traffic jam behind us. 2 kilos of cherries from the Valle del Jerte: €5! This hombre (that's me) scores two boxes. Not all perfectly shaped or sized, but what flavour. We've been eating them for days!

Connected in Andalusia

A family in Breton striped shirts steps aside as we pass. "Nice to write about that too," says Johan, "children of various ages from the same family in matching outfits. Typically Spanish." How awful that must be, especially if you're the eldest! Before it's said, we see another sign of family connection at the Línea 2 bus stop: a father and his young son, a toddler, both in light blue and white Argentine football kits, with MESSI on the back.

Here and there, cables spoil the white façades of the Spanish pueblo. Where a fixing point has failed, wiring hangs down halfway to the ground floor or dangles untidily between weathered wooden poles and metal masts. It's not a pretty sight.

Our neighbour Teresa at Villa Merise has been looking out on five sagging cables above her terrace for decades. At her comedor table, the eye is drawn more to this line of cables than to the sea view. The cables run neatly bundled and freshly painted white above Villa Merise to the façade of the other neighbour, Esther, where all is tidy as usual (as you may have read in Lekker lang).

NB: these are old, unused Telefónica cables. All the neighbours switched long ago to mobile phones and wifi via satellite or dish.

Then Pepe, the salesman from a local internet provider, appears. He walks around our street, inspecting and assessing the situation. I approach him, and soon he has asked all the neighbours if they're interested in fibre-optic internet from his company. A resounding "SÍ" comes from the vecinos, except Esther, who's happy with her 4G mobile, and Teresa, whose house is for sale anyway.

The installation date is set and five técnicos line up to connect four houses to fibre. Pepe coordinates. Then Teresa digs her heels in: "No new cables over my garden! Basta!" A fierce neighbourhood meeting takes place in her comedor and everyone leaves.

Half a year later, I arrange a meeting proposing to run the cables all around the front and remove the old ones. And so we now enjoy superfast internet, and Teresa will surely soon have sold her house with its wonderful sea view.

Only Esther, who didn't need internet herself, complains about the new black cables hanging somewhat untidily on her white façade. I bundle them neatly, pull them taut and paint them white under the blazing sun. "Eres genial, besos!" she messages gratefully.

Now the question is: what shall we do with this bare pole?

Live your dream

La mano de Fátima by Ildefonso Falcones, the novel I often mention because reading about Moorish symbolism and 16th-century Andalusian history moved me so deeply. The scene where Fátima prepares for her wedding night with Hernando... I was there! Fragrant amber oil, rose petals on the bed, incense in the air, soft candlelight, steam from the ritual bath. Love in a time of oppression and medieval horrors.

It's 6:45 am. I'm in bed, turning over. Johan and I walk through an unfamiliar house: concrete look, long corridors, black window frames. Where are we? We seem in a hurry, close the door behind us and suddenly find ourselves in a Dutch residential area. Around the corner at the quay, we spot dolphins, and when I zoom in on one, I see it looking at me and changing shape. The quay, fishermen and boats at sea; the scene suddenly feels typically Andalusian again.

We walk to the harbour building, where an absurd scene unfolds: three primly trimmed white poodles poke their heads out of the sea. Francis – Johan's sister, recently visiting – I see as a true activist, banner in hand, seeking allies, protesting the menu of chips with mayo offered to these animals by the fishermen. "Now you're just like Roelien from Gooische Vrouwen," I hear myself say to her, just as Johan wakes me: "It's 9:15, time to get moving!"

A dream: a warning, a statement, a prediction? Something to process, or just fantasy?

I've now been sin alcohol for over six months. Enjoying good sleep, dreaming and wondering. Sometimes it's a bit of a struggle, without the sigh: "Right, time for a glass of wine first…" But then I breathe through it and accept that everything is allowed to be.

Experiencing Andalusia in full colour and scent, I become ever more mindful. So here I lie on the beach writing, and when I'm done, I close my eyes and enjoy lying there a little longer...

Besos!

Johan & Reijer

Reijer Staats & Johan Pastoor | +31(0)6 - 28 27 1492 | contact@villa-andalusia.com | www.onthaasten.es