Victoria Twead

Was it really less than three weeks ago that Joe and I sat in our kitchen in Spain, wondering what our new life in Bahrain held in store? We’d agreed to exchange our idyllic, if sometimes crazy, life in a

Ironic isn’t it? Our grapes will be ready in a couple of weeks, but we won’t be eating them. They’ve never looked better; plump, blushing purple, huge heavy bunches ripening in the Spanish sun. And we’ll never taste them. They

‘I’m in heaven!’ Joe crowed. ‘Do you realise that on my birthday, it’s the British Grand Prix, Moto GP…AND…the World Cup final? Wall-to-wall sport! Now, if you were to serve me tapas in the nude, it would be the best

Temperatures in the village are soaring, so, like the Spanish, Joe and I rarely venture outside in the middle of the day. However, last weekend I needed a letter posted, so I sent Joe to the postbox in the square.

Joe and I stared at the computer screen in disbelief. They’d done it again! Telefonica had seen fit to help themselves to the funds in our bank account for the THIRD time. It first happened last year, in August, I

It’s been a long winter and excessive rain has resulted in the village being even quieter than usual. Our mountains have been shrouded in mist and we’ve stayed indoors. Recently, however, we’ve had a few days of sunshine, just in

Joe and I are seriously considering building an ark. The rain, which started well before Christmas, is still coming down like stair-rods. The Spanish news speaks of little else and shows us images of flooded towns, collapsed bridges and roads

Our village is so tiny that there are only a handful of permanent residents. Uncle Felix, a retired goatherd who shares his cottage with his beloved mule and two chickens. Ancient Marcia who runs a shop selling sweets, beer and