Thursday 11th October 2018
Before I get on to Friday I should say a few words about Thursday night and those words are myriad and mostly unprintable. They can however be summed up by just 2 words which are; “No sleep!” Or, if you like I can stretch it out to 3 words; “The noisiest campsite ever!” I know, that’s 4 words but I’m tired. I’m also grumpy, so back off!
On the snog, marry, avoid (SMA) scale that I am now applying to all campsites (star ratings are so passé) this one is definitely in the avoid category.
The first problem was children and, specifically, Spanish children. Now, don’t get me wrong, just because Mrs P and I don’t have children doesn’t mean we don’t like them (we don’t). I mean, they are lovely (if directly related…) and any noise they make is just, well that’s just kids right? (…and only if they don’t squeal.) Most are well behaved (except all those we meet and/or observe!) and if they get too loud their parents will ‘shush!’ them (not if they are out of their earshot they won’t.) I can just imagine the conversation (feel free to do the Spanish accent thing):
Father of campsite urchins: “Tell ’em to go play by the English campervan honey. That’ll learn ’em for voting to leave the EU.” ‘(learn ’em’!? See what I mean about being badly brought up?)
Mother of same: “Great idea hon’. It’ll be hilarious in the morning watching their tired little Brexit butts scurrying off of (ditto) our fine European campsite.”
Father: “If the Dutch turn up though, tell the kids to be quiet.”
Those readers with children may be disgusted by my generalisation of children who were, by my own admission, playing in a perfectly reasonable way. But, and it’s a big ‘but,’ these were Spanish children!
“What’s the difference?” I hear you say.
Well, Spanish children work a split shift. They play till about 9.30 pm when they are called in by their parents. Not for bed though. Oh no. They are being called in for dinner! (Dinner for Pete’s sake! At 9pm!) Dinner lasts until about 11pm (in no other country…) and then, then, they come back out to play.
Well, true to national stereotype ,these, perfectly normal Spanish children, aged between 5 and 12, did just that. On a trampoline (that we hadn’t spotted). 5 metres from the van. Till 2am! And you can’t tell them to be quiet. It’s perfectly normal in Spain. It would be like telling an English child not to write graffiti on toilet doors.
“Well,” I hear you say. “What’s the problem? You’ll get a few hours sleep. And it’s not like you have to get up in the morning ?”
Hmmmm! Didn’t I warn you I was grumpy. I suggest you read on Mr (or Mrs/Ms/whatever) holier than though reader for the second problem. When the kids stopped, at about 2am, the dogs began.
Now Spain is famous for barking dogs at night. It’s part of the charm. It never lasts long. Turns out however that we are next to a dogs home. One dog, lets call him Diego, is not happy away from home. He misses the kids. It was ok while he could hear those kids on the trampoline over that wall but now they have stopped and poor Diego is lonely. Poor b****y Diego decides, by way of protest at his incarceration, to bark, non-stop, joined by the rest of the dogs home inmates on howling chorus, until about 8.30 am when he is no longer afraid of the dark and he and his mates curl up for a good days sleep.
Dont even get me started on the damn cockerel!