Strings and things

Occasionally, seized by nostalgia for the days when my guitar played a significant role, I blow the dust off, pick a few notes, strum a chord or two and perhaps even attempt a song, after making sure the windows are closed.

So: one Friday evening, guitar perched on knees, I twang a preliminary chord, C major. Needs tuning. Adjust second, third and fourth strings without problem then the fifth parts in two, pyoing! as soon as I pluck it.

Examining the remnants, I can see why. I'm not good at guitar maintenance. The last time I bought a full set of strings was in the UK, many years ago, and the guy in the music shop gazed at my guitar in disbelief. 'When did you last change this lot?' Umm, several years ago. Well, maybe ten. Could be fifteen. He nodded. 'We have a name for strings like these,' he said sadly. 'They're what we call grotty.' His glottal stop on the 'grotty' cleverly imitated the noise made my low-E string, which had a knot in it. He sold me a replacement set of nylon strings and suddenly I had a brand new guitar, warm, mellow and resonant.

But that was then, and already many more years have passed. At least ten. Could be fifteen... This newly-ruptured fifth string clearly signals an encroaching malaise of old age and weariness. I'm talking about the guitar strings.

I decide to start by replacing just the broken string. There is a specialist music shop I know of but it's in Tenerife, requiring a ferry and bus trip. However, after a quarter-century love affair with La Gomera we have uncovered a few of its secrets. We know it's entirely possible to buy guitar strings right here in the capital, San Sebastián. There is no music shop but there is a shop, heavily disguised, that sells guitars.

Here's what you do. Follow that elegant lady with the crisp hairdo, swirling red skirt and matching high heels - let's call her Carmen - as she clickety-clacks purposefully along the pedestrian street. Carmen is on her way to buy a new outfit!

Watch to see which shop she enters. The smartest fashion boutique in town, of course. Follow her in. Make your way past the tailored jackets, the sparkly dresses, the calfskin handbags and red-soled shoes, the discreet display of fortified bodyshapers - and there, right at the back, you will come upon a little cubbyhole where the walls are adorned with beautiful, curvaceous, polished-wood acoustic guitars.

Show the lady assistant your old, grotty string as a sample, explain that it was once a wire-wound nylon fifth, and she will fetch you a replacement. No raised eyebrows or snide remarks, just service with a smile. Any guitar is something to be treasured and nurtured here, where the proprietor's husband is one of the island's best guitarists.

I guess any long-established community is full of useful little secrets like this, the local know-how. It's not a question of excluding the outsider, anyone would be delighted to tell you where to buy a guitar string. It's just how things develop when services are run by the folk who live here rather than global conglomerates. For instance, to renew your driving licence... oh, later, later. I must get back to my guitar practice.