Despite my best intentions to put this post to bed last Friday, I find myself writing it, on Monday, from more or less the same position in which I was writing 36 days ago, with one crucial difference; this time I am facing in the opposite direction. I say more or less, because I can’t be absolutely certain of my precise location then, or, indeed, now. However, in both cases, the Spanish Mediterranean coast is just visible below me; five weeks ago, it was racing towards us; today, it is receding behind us.

This means that it is time for Bernice to leave one worry behind, and embrace another. Having started the day (at 3:30 AM) worrying that offline Google Maps would let us down (it didn’t) and we would drive aimlessly for hours around the Valverde del Fresno (we didn’t, although when we eventually passed a sign to Spain we were both much relieved), she then graduated to concern that however far we progressed through the vast open spaces of Madrid Airport, the signs still seemed to tell us that Area S, and our departure gate, were 17 minutes away. (We did get there eventually.) All of this was, of course, a mere prelude to the big one – the fear, as we gathered speed down the runway,  that we would crash immediately after take-off. (We didn’t.) I’ve decided not to tell her that we are now over the Mediterranean, because her fear of drowning is almost as great as her fear of being destroyed in the impact of a Boeing 737 hitting solid ground at 200mph. (At the time of writing, the plane shows no signs of crahing imminently, but I’ll keep you posted…or not, as the case may be.)*

It seems like an age since we left home, and our week in Madrid is little more than a distant memory. At the same time, the four weeks in Penamacor seem to have flown by. In one sense, the month there did not really contain much in the way of highlights. In another sense, being able to be part of the daily routine of the kids, and especisally of Tao and Ollie, is all the highlights we need. The intensity with which Tao fills every day with purposeful and imaginative play, the way he soaks up and files away every eperience, exercising his constantly enquiring mind and becoming more of a genuine conversationalist even in the four weeks we were there, are all wonderful to see. And if four weeks is a long time in the life of a three-year-old, then our being with Ollie on a daily basis for 28 of his (to date) 35 days has been a miracle. Speaking personally, having Ollie reward my grandfatherly nonsense prattle with a beaming smile, and even, in the last couple of days, a chuckle, is right up there with visiting Niagara Falls, even if, occasionally, it proved almost as damp an experience.

I thought I would share with you this week a couple of reflections on Penamacor culture, of various brow heights. Let me begin with the culture of the street.

At the beginning of last week, an older woman who lives up the street knocked at the door (or, more accurately, shouted through the open window) with a bag containing about two kilo of large tomatoes, freshly picked from her smallholding. There are, apparently, a few neighbours who share their bounty in this way. Tslil reckons that she and Micha’el are favoured because they are newcomers, with two young and adored children, and also because they do not yet harvest their own crops, and therefore are much less likely to refuse to accept the proferred gifts.

We hadn’t yet managed to finish the tomatoes before another bag appeared in the middle of the week. When a third bag arrived on Friday, Bernice felt compelled to make Micha’el favourite soup – gazpacho – for Shabbat. It was delicious, a reflection of both the full flavour and freshness of the fruit and Bernice’s skill as a cook.

Speaking of open windows (as I was two paragraphs ago) it is interesting that the kids’ house was the only one in the street, and probably the only one in the village, with unshuttered windows. Throughout our stay, with temperatures averaging a daily high of 36, the entire village was shuttered against the sun. We also realised, for the first time, that the small houses immediately opposite ours have no garden. We had realised, of course, that their front doors, like ours, opened onto the street, and that they were terraced (town) houses. We had not realised that they shared a party wall with the houses behind them, the houses aliong the next street parallel to ours. These houses, then, have one window in the front, and are attached on all three remaining sides. I imagine they have one open-plan living room and kitchen downstairs, and just one bedroom upstairs. Unless they have a frosted glass panel in the front door, their hallway (and bathroom) can no natural light at all.

Out for a walk one day last week, Bernice and I took a different route back to the house: one that, while a little more circuitous, has the advantage for us that it can be tackled fairly comfortably without crampons and oxygen masks. This walk unexpectedly took us past the municipal library, which Tslil had mentioned, praising particularly the children’s section. I suggested to Bernice that we look around. What a discovery!

What first struck us was the excellent air-conditioning. The library, like so much of the municipal development in Penamacor, has clearly benefited from EU funding. It is housed in what was probably originally a very grand house (by Penamacor standards) or business premises. Rather than one large open space, it is spread through a number of rooms, each of which is 6–8 metres square. The décor, fixtures and fittings, as well as much of the stock ofbooks and CDs, all seemed very new. We strolled through a well-stocked reference library, an inviting children’s room, and a couple of rooms of general books for borrowing.

We then came to a room of books in languages other than Portuguese, with small sections devoted to French, Spanish, Italian and German, and an entire wall, floor-to-ceiling, of books in English. From the appearance and range of the books, it seems that the library has been stocked with contributions from the private shelves of English readers, with a fine sprinkling of books rescued from the discarded stock of a British Council Library in one of the big cities. As always in such a situation, this made for an eclectic mix, with Stephen King and John le Carré in one corner, Robert Nye’s ‘biography of Falstaff and a collection of Edmund Spenser’s verse in another, and Germaine Greer and Anais Nin in yet another.

Since we made this discovery only a couple of days before our departure, we didn’t borrow any books. However, when we next visit, I plan to enquire whether our status as local householders and payers of municipal taxes makes us eligible for tickets. If not, Tslil has invited us to use her ticket, which entitles her to borrow three books at a time.

This week, in honour of our visit’s imminent end, Tslil suggested a family photo. This seems like the perfect opportunity to make the switch from offering you a photo of all three grandsons every week to rotating between them. This will also take some of the pressure off Micha’el and Tslil who, in addition to adusting to life with two young boys (and a still quite young girl, if you count the dog, Lua, who refused to join the photo) have also had to put up with me nagging them every week for a photo. In addition, for the three months a year that we hope to be in Penamacor, it will likewise take pressure off Esther.

*The promised update. We arrived home, safe and sound and on time, as did both of our suitcases.