The holiday bridge

Next door a skilled team is transforming the house - one of the oldest in the village - into something that will undoubtedly be wonderful, but at the moment is a centre of banging, drilling, dust and pop music. No complaints, we're very glad someone will be moving in soon, an empty house is a sad one.

One of the workers is more chatty than the others, more willing to engage, although he always has an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips which doesn't help my understanding of his Gomeran Spanish.

'You're working today?' I asked him. 'But it's Saturday, and the romería!'

He chuckled, wobbling the cigarette, and said something I very nearly got.

'Only until midday?'

'Mas o menos,' he agreed - more or less. A little more, his hands indicated. Then he'd be off, he said, smacking his palms together like clashing symbols, a gesture meaning 'that's it, done, finished'.

He did it with great verve, with notable glee, the significance of which I didn't appreciate at the time. It was normal practice for the guys to stop a little early on Saturday then take Sunday off but this particular Saturday was a very special one with a huge, enormously important street procession, the romería in honour of the Virgen de Guadalupe, the island's patron. The town would fill with singers, drummers, strummers and dancers not only from San Sebastián but from all over the island and from several of the other islands too.

'And you'll have Monday off as well,' I suggested. 'For the bajada.'

He nodded, grinning cheerfully. 'Sí, sí, la bajada.'

The bajada is an even bigger event than the romería and rarer than the Olympics, taking place only every fifth year. It means literally 'the descent' but refers to the landing of the Virgen de Guadalupe on the main beach of San Sebastián, having been transported here by fishing boat from her home in a small chapel just along the coast. The Virgen is a representation of the Virgin Mary, a small effigy carved in wood but with a local importance way beyond her size. Her arrival on the town beach unleashes floods of emotion for true Gomerans as well as lots of money for the local cafes.

The day of the bajada is always a Monday and, of course, a holiday. In practice one day is not enough - the celebrations extend to breakfast time the next morning with an all-night dance - so on these special five-yearly occasions Tuesday is also a holiday. It's not quite official but it happens, with schools closing along with most of the shops - kind of unofficially official.

Even more unofficial was something else that happened this particular year. As the dates worked out, the following Thursday was an annual national holiday, the Día de La Hispanidad. Which meant that - but wait, first we've got to invoke a brilliant feature of the Spanish way of life and leisure called el puente, the bridge. If, for example, a holiday falls on a Tuesday, it's unofficially accepted that going back to work after the weekend for just a day, before another day off, is hardly worth the bother so Monday is labelled un puente and becomes a de facto holiday as well, creating a long weekend. These can also be triggered at the end of the week by a holiday on Thursday, turning Friday into a puente.

Following this principle, if everyone was going to be off work on Monday and Tuesday because of the bajada, it was hardly worth starting again for just a day before the national holiday on Thursday, so Wednesday became an unofficial holiday as well. Friday was already labelled a puente, so the end result was that everyone took the whole week off.

The workers next door, others on municipal roadworks and various worksites nearby, even the schools and colleges joined in this agreeable subterfuge, although the latter pretended it was because of an unusually prolonged heatwave.

And thus, the explanation for our next-door workman's hearty sign-off on the previous Saturday. He knew. I can't fault this as an attitude. It's not that people get nothing done: Gomeran workers start early and go at it hard all day, but if there's an opportunity for a break and enjoyment they grab it with both hands. When it comes to establishing a healthy work-life balance, I think they're well ahead of the game.

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Multiple puentes such as this recent one are a recognised Spanish phenomenon called the acueducto (aqueduct) or macropuente. They are frowned upon by economists and right-wing politicians but not so much by everyone else.

It seems that the French also follow the admirable tradition of holiday bridges, les ponts. I can't see it taking hold in Britain, and anyway there's little opportunity as most of the bank holidays are on Monday or Friday - no doubt deliberately. A spoilsport former Spanish president, Mariano Rajoy, in 2012 tried to do that to Spain, proposing that all national holidays should be on Monday or Friday. Fortunately he failed because many of them are religious celebrations and the Catholic church wasn't going to have those messed about with.

The Virgen de Guadalupe five-year festivities are called the Fiestas Lustrales which is another way of saying five-yearly. The Lustrales featured in two earlier stories: A moment of madness, 18 April 2018 and The little dark one, 10 January 2019.

Sugar and spice

 José was already fishing in the fridge for a bottle of beer as I approached the counter. A man of few words, he pushed it towards me together with a glass, took my five-euro note and headed for the till.

Right next to me, in a glass display cabinet on the counter, something was trying to catch my eye. Among the usual late-afternoon remainders - a couple of those little sponges called madalenas, a croissant, a cream bun - was one I'd never seen in there before.

José came back with my change, nodded affably and turned away. I hesitated heroically.

I'm not usually tempted by sweet stuff. Long ago, after a few miserable years as an overweight teenager, I weaned myself off sugar. Cakes, meringues, Death by Chocolate puddings, After Eight mints could no longer touch me. Chocolate digestives hung on for a while but finally I banished them too.

Which is just as well because there is a lot of temptation in La Gomera. Your typical Gomeran has a very sweet tooth. There are four specialist cake shops in San Sebastián alone. They all sell bread as well but mainly they sell cakes, tarts, pastries and biscuits. The supermarkets sell sweet biscuits in family size bags and so do several of the bars and cafes.

José doesn't do bags of biscuits but he does have a selection of cakes and buns. He also offers Kit-Kats, Mars bars and suchlike, as does any other cafe, but the crucial difference is that José's cafe is in the hospital.

I had recently become a regular afternoon customer because of Janine's broken arm (reported in a previous post, Life and limb, 6 May 2023). Once the arm had glued itself together she needed twice-weekly rehabilitation sessions, which I wasn't allowed to watch, the rehab gimnasio being strictly for patients.

The obvious solution was to head for the cafeteria. While a therapist in white overalls was bending my wife's arm in unwelcome directions I could provide moral support a very short distance away over a glass of cold beer. This is what marriage is all about, we try to share the load.

During one of these afternoon sessions, sipping my beer, I got to thinking deep thoughts. The beer was a bog-standard Pilsen because that's all José is allowed to sell. My normal preference would be for one of the special beers - longer matured, fuller flavour - but they are also a little higher in alcohol and the Spanish health service is very sniffy about alcohol. It's tolerated but reluctantly, we're allowed a few per cent by volume but no more. You can't have wine in this cafe at all, not even if you're ordering a burger and chips or a fried egg sandwich.

If alcohol is viewed with disapproval, I thought, should sugary snacks be so freely permitted? Even the humble madalena cupcake is very sweet while all those candy bars are little more than flavoured sucrose. Sugar is bad, isn't it? Obesity, diabetes, blood pressure, rotting teeth…

And how about that other display cabinet full of colourful packets of crisps and other fried munchies laced with oil, salt and those tasty, toasty acrylamides? Junk food designed to be irresistible.

All of which accounts for the internal battle I was fighting that particular afternoon, standing at the counter with my beer bottle and glass, trying to be resolute. I crumbled.

'José. I'm going to have that doughnut.'

José ambled back, picked up the cake tongs and extracted the doughnut.

'I can't resist them,' I told him guiltily.

José nodded understandingly. 'They're very good, these doughnuts.' Placing it on a plate with a paper serviette, he slid it across the counter. 'Buen provecho,' enjoy it.

He didn't realise what he'd just done. I crept over to a corner table with my doughnut, seeking shelter. What was it about these damned things? Locally made, ring-shaped in the proper manner, they are fluffy in texture, fried only lightly, not over-sweet and with a hint of citrous flavour. They tap into something profound, the lingering remnant of the biological urge.

On the following session, as José pushed my standard Pilsen beer across the counter, he indicated the display cabinet apologetically. 'The doughnuts have all gone.'

'That's just as well,' I assured him. 'I'm better without doughnuts.' He shrugged doubtfully - why would anyone be better without doughnuts?

A few minutes later he came over to my table with a slice of Spanish tortilla, a piece of bread and a little bottle of salsa picante, spicy chilli sauce. Deeply touched, I thanked him, not too profusely because the Spanish get uncomfortable if you do that - just accept the gift - but what particularly affected me was that little bottle of chilli sauce. I can't really explain why, but I guess it's because it made the gesture more special, like adding a ribbon to a parcel.

And - no argument here - a slice of tortilla is surely a much healthier snack than a doughnut. The beer, I think I'll simply leave out of this debate.

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A Spanish tortilla is, of course, not at all the same as the Mexican pancake thing, it's a potato omelette.

As for the doughnuts: Spain has sensibly chosen the American spelling donut because the English version would be unpronounceable in Spanish. Many English words are unpronounceable in Spanish.

Oh, and the acrylamides. Having mentioned them, I had to investigate the latest opinions. Are they carcinogenic? Does eating potato crisps, burnt toast, over-roasted potatoes or the crunchy rim of a pizza significantly increase your risk? The most attractive answer seems to be probably not, because while some studies have claimed to reveal an effect others have failed to find anything at all.