David E Balaam - Columbus Day

Only four cars ahead and they were out into the sunlight. That glorious sun which he would be seeing a lot of from now on. They cleared customs and headed out of the harbour, looking for the signs to the E-804 out of Bilbao. It had been a long twenty-nine hours since they left Portsmouth, England, and George was starting to feel elated.

Of his three children, Christopher and Bonnie, the twenty-six years old twins, were there to see him off, (especially Chris as he was driving down with his dad), and some close friends. They had had a meal and said their goodbyes. Bonnie tried not to show too much emotion, but could not hold out on the last hug.

"It’s not Australia, its Spain. Any of you, including your sister, can be with me in a few hours by air."

"We know, dad," Bonnie said thoughtfully, wiping away another tear. "It’s just that we, err, some of us," she said, glancing at Christopher, "thought you would never actually get this far."

"I said nothing of the sort," snapped Christopher, "it was Alex who had doubts. We just want you to be happy again, dad."

"Look after each other, and yourselves." George tried to say with some fatherly authority, which only started Bonnie being tearful again.

George also said goodbye again to his friends, Roger and Carol, and Colin and Judy, who had given them some privacy as a family, but now all waved and cheered as Roger, the court jester, reappeared from somewhere carrying a bunch of ‘Good Luck’ helium balloons, which he tied to the rear bumper of the Transit. The mood was lighter now thanks to Roger, and George appreciated this. They all had a final hug and kiss, and said au revoir , as he and Christopher got into the hired Transit van and pulled into the ferry queue.

Christopher put on his iPod headphones, and in the quiet of the van, George thought of his other offspring, Alexandra.

Alex was their first child. She and George had said their goodbyes a week earlier when he stayed with her, and his son-in-law, Tom, at their house in Cheltenham.

With Alex being the elder, George for some reason always thought of her as more sensible and level-headed, which may have been unfair on his other two children, even if a little true.

They had talked for hours, just as they had done over the previous seven months when he first broke the news, but she knew that with only six days left before he sailed, she was just going over old territory – satisfying herself she had done everything plausible to dissuade him from ‘going over there’ , as she put it.

It was hard saying goodbye that day, but he left with the knowledge that he is not that far away, and with the internet, they can talk every day if they really want to.

In reality, families apart do not talk to each other that often, so George was confident he would not be on Skype every day revealing what he had been up to and asking how the weather in England is. George had bought a good size converted farmhouse in a small town called Calabaza, situated in the north-east of Spain, two hundred miles due south of Bilbao. He could have taken the Plymouth ferry to Santander and had a more straight-forward drive to Calabaza, but it would not have been fair on family and friends to expect them to go all the way down to Plymouth from London. So he did the Portsmouth – Bilbao route instead, and now they have a three-hour journey ahead of them. George had been to Calabaza twice before. The first time with Carlos, the estate agent from Aranda de Duero, the nearest large town. They had looked at five properties that day, covering over one hundred miles. Carlos was very keen to get a sale, but George was not in a hurry and wanted to get it right. The last property, as always, was love at first sight. El Pino, as it was then, is a converted farmhouse, and had been done so with much love and care by the previous owners. It had five bedrooms, a large living room/dining room leading to a good size modern kitchen on one side, and a spacious terrace balcony overlooking the village, and it came with a mature olive grove. It was, however, the view from the terrace that clinched it for George. The view was stunning. The farmhouse was unusual in so far as it was on a high point overlooking the village on one side, with the wide snaking Rio Arandilla on the other. They had arrived at about five in the afternoon and spent a good hour looking it over.

A stone stairway from the end of the hall led to the first floor with two large bedrooms, both en-suite. At the end of the corridor more stone stairs led to the top floor, and the master bedroom, en-suite again, with a wonderful walk-in shower. Next to the bedroom was a smaller spare room which some may have used as a nursery, but could make a good extra study/play/junk room. From the master bedroom, as in all the bedrooms, the view was intoxicating. All the rooms had windows facing westwards over this spectacular landscape. The one exception was the last bedroom. This was to be found in the basement. Stone stairs from the end of the entrance hall lead down to a small corridor with rooms leading off on either side. To the right was a small room ideal for storage or a wine cellar. The room to the left was a good size bedroom with a basin and wardrobe. However, there was no window or air conditioning, and George was not sure anyone would want to sleep there in the summer.

The house was decorated simply and cleanly with modern lines, but keeping much of the Spanish feel in the colours, especially terracotta, blue hues and sandstone. The outside walls were made of local stone and not cemented smooth or painted white like the more familiar pueblos Blancos of Andalusia in the south.

George stood in the large airy living room facing the balcony and considered the smaller room off to the right, which was currently the dining room. It was a good size room, and he knew it would be his study/office/chill-out room. He could see it just as he wanted it to look.

George could have negotiated harder, but Carlos could see he wanted it, and like all good salesman, he was protecting his commission.

The price was not an issue anyway, it was within budget, including all the work he planned to have carried out, so around six-thirty that evening he and Carlos drove into town to find a bar and seal the sale. They entered from the north of the town along narrow streets looking for signs of life. Carlos eventually asked directions and found an old quaint-looking bar called El Tango. They parked in a side street adjacent to the bar, and sat outside with a cool Cerveza and discussed the house, and what George needed doing to it. With Carlos speaking good English, and George not very good Spanish, they managed to agree Carlos would oversee the alterations he wanted doing before he moved in. Looking about him, George realised he had not checked out the town to see if he would like it, but decisions like this, he felt, are done with a mix of gut-feeling and fate. He promised himself he would make Calabaza his home, and he would make it work. He had hardly taken notice of the attractive dark-haired waitress who served them, and why should he - he was house hunting, not wife hunting, but she noticed him and saw the house sale papers on the table as she put down the drinks and a bowl of green olives.

By the time they returned to the farmhouse the sun was nearly setting, and the view to the west over the mountains was even more breath-taking. On that evening, on the last day of June, George knew he had started his new life, although, ironically, it would be nine months before he would be reborn. As it turned out Carlos had been a great help and they became good friends over the following months, sometimes talking for hours by Skype video, and of course e-mailing each other. George had made one further visit in November to sign the papers and finalise the legal affairs, of which there are many when buying a property in Spain.