It was my birthday last month. Not a milestone event like my Rock n Roll 50th two years ago – and if you are good with numbers you will have worked out how old I am – but just an “early to mid fifties” day.
Back in the day, of course, my birthdays were rather liquid affairs. As Spain celebrates Christmas until Three Kings on January 6 and my birthday is on January 19, I tended to single-handedly carry on the festivities. My hangover would be so severe after my birthday weekend that I like to think that I personally discovered the term ‘Blue Monday’, which describes the general depression and existential angst felt by most of the population in mid-January.
A combination of events, including the usual chasing of clients for cash – present company excepted – more car trouble in the form of the brakes, which are rather important as the track leading down to the Casita is frequently described as ‘something out of an Indiana Jones movie’, and the tragic and traumatic death of Lilly, a friend’s Yorkie that I looked after over Christmas – left me with the growing feeling that Marbella was losing some of its appeal for me.
The pre-Brexit scramble of getting my paperwork together didn’t help much either and I coined a new noun, ‘Marbellaise’, for the way I was feeling, even contemplating a move to pastures new.
Driving back through the hills at the end of the week, I turned a corner just as the last of the Sun’s rays hit La Concha mountain, turning it a gorgeous pink. The view was so outstanding that I pulled over to admire it.
I took a deep breath and a look around and realised that, as a place to live, Marbella isn’t so bad after all.