Mad Dogs and Englishmen...

... really do go out in the mid-day sun, or so it seems on the Costa Del Sol.

The apartment of my husband-to-be is situated in a holiday complex. The recession meant that he was able to get a very good deal on renting here for a longer term, but most of the other apartments are either empty or being let out on nightly rates to mainly Spanish holidaymakers. There are a handful of German and French people about, but generally very few English. The contrasts between our fellow countrymen and their European neighbours is most pronounced around the pool. It's not unusual for the Spanish to go for a bit of a swim around breakfast time. I sit on the balcony with my cup of tea and hear the sound of morning europop floating up to me, punctuated by the odd splash and bursts of Spanish language merriment that I don't quite understand. It's all long gone by lunchtime. When the heat of the day is reaching its pinnacle, that's when the Brits turn up. They're brash and they're loud and they like to complain about the heat, but it doesn't stop them from having a good time. When the apartment shutters are drawn down everywhere else and the siesta hour falls upon the quiet Spanish hillside, they're swimming, diving and shouting for Britain.

The other day a family turned up and had a long, very loud lunchtime poolside discussion about the possible local availability of cheesestrings. Lounging in the shade, feet up and absorbed in a George Eliot novel, I indulged my snobbish side and reflected on just how far away my mind was from a place where cheesestrings are a delicacy. I'm taking advantage of the relaxed Spanish attitude to life and trying not to be too much of a typical Englishwoman abroad. Naturally there are some patterns of behaviour to which I have succumbed, of course. I have underestimated the strength of the Southern Spanish sun and burnt my forehead, shoulders and prominent nose lobster red. I have also begun to use the bidet in the bathroom as a convenient place to wash my feet and swimming costume after a trip to the beach, rather than using it for the purpose for which it was intended. Overall, though, I try and speak Spanish when absolutely necessary, rather than shouting in English to try and be understood, and I make attempts to assimilate culturally, such as watching “Los Simpsons” and “Bob Esponja” on the television. Sometimes I even (briefly) go topless on the beach.

The thing about the beach is that you can sometimes spot a group of English people from a mile away. Consider, if you will, leopards. In the wild their spots act as camouflage to prevent predators seeing them across the plains. Now consider leopard print fabric and in particular that staple garment of the Englishwoman of a certain age on holiday: the leopard print sarong. Marketed as a handy means of covering up undesirable body areas when in warmer climes, it's amazing how a camouflaging pattern becomes quite the opposite when in the wrong hands. The Englishman of a certain age who forms the other half of this matching pair fares little better. It seems as if he bought swimming garments when he was a teenager and kept them all his life, the result being that a very small Speedo is going into battle with a very large belly on the Spanish sand. The belly has the upper hand and the swimwear is attempting to launch a rearguard action, but is sadly on the verge of retreat. Then there are the younger generation, folks who find that work, etiquette and the plain monotony of life conspire to keep them quiet for fifty weeks of the year, so much so that in the remaining two weeks when they are on holiday they must compensate by shouting and bellowing as much as possible. It's as if each person has a noise quota which must be fulfilled.

I know I'm being dreadfully snobby, and probably bitter because I'm too old for youthful nuisances. I'm sure that the Spanish people on the beach all snigger to themselves when my white, flabby English bits emerge into the light of day for the first time in many years, too. I'm trying to move through Spain quietly, though, adopting more of a Latin air. If I glide serenely through the heat and make sure I steer clear of sarongs, or indeed cheesestrings, they may not point and laugh at me too much. Maybe I can be an Englishwoman abroad, but incognito.