In Nerja, there were cranes everywhere, towering above the skyline. Like brightly painted flags, they marked the chaos below.  This blue one pointed to a new hillside villa with trailing cables and half-plastered walls; this red one, a row of half-built town houses, loosely bricked up and covered with 'for sale' signs; this yellow one, the shell of an apartment block, struggling to rise above the first floor.  In Nerja, like much of the Costa del Sol, Spain, the desire to build and sell property is intense.  

In Nerja Town, early season tourists like us had to share the narrow streets with men wearing safety helmets and dirty jeans. We stepped back as dumper trucks rattled by, and walked around skips filled with rubble.  Frankly, we were in each other's way.  Even when darkness fell, and the bars and shops of main square came to life, the town still pursued its obsession with property with brightly lit estate agents on every crowded corner, displaying artists' impressions of what the apartments would look like when the builders finally left.

200,000 foreigners, many of them British, own and let property in the South of Spain, 400,000 live there for large parts of the year, and 300,000 are permanent residents.  Of course, but for the climate, no-one would be interested in Nerja's property.  We could see that ourselves.  For us, Nerja offered a chance to live outdoors, on the terrace attached to our apartment, in beach cafes or in pavement restaurants.  We ate, read, did nothing, chatted, and drank wine outdoors, enjoying the heat of the sun, and the way its light deepened the colours around us:  the dark brown jagged coastline, the swirls of blue, green and turquoise in the sea, and the clusters of white houses spread unevenly over the olive green stubble of the mountainsides.  

These are the commodities that bring people here--the colours, the sun and the lifestyle.  Every morning, being British and used to an ever-changing repertoire of weather, I opened the blinds cautiously, but every morning I found the same clear blue sky gazing back at me. People buy homes in Spain, just for the certainty of this blue sky.  The estate agents are tempting, the exchange rate is good and enough people have made the move to be called an expatriate community.  The weather and the constant supply of property have linked Spain and England in a way that lies outside all the normal tracks of politics and tourism, as people come and go and stay and exchange one lifestyle for another, simply because they want to.  

We rented our apartment from a man in south London called Chris, who had placed a small advertisement in a magazine.  On the telephone, he was very friendly.  He told me about the number of steps to the beach, the way to the nearest supermarket and the best spots along the coast. Then I sent him some money, and he sent me some keys and directions in a padded envelope.  

Chris was a part-time expatriate, visiting his apartment five or six times a year, renting it out the rest of the time.  Now I was in Nerja, I became more curious about the expatriates.  Where were they and what were they doing?  Perhaps they were at the afternoon tea dance we saw in a community hall in Nerja, windows wide open to let out the heat and music into the street.  Or maybe they were indoors, listening to the English speaking station we found on the radio in the apartment, with its particularly bland mix of easy listening music; or crowded into an English bar, watching Manchester United play Arsenal in the FA Cup semi-final on cable television, taking part in good-humoured banter across the tables about whether it was better to come from the north or the south of England.  

In Nerja, I thought a lot about living in Spain, not because I wanted to move there myself, but because I realised those who did so were ordinary people like me or my parents or my friends.  Yet I also knew there was something not British about it all.  The sun makes us behave differently but the ordinary people I know don't usually risk making big changes in their lives or willingly become absorbed by other cultures.  

We visited Frigilliana in the mountains above Nerja because we heard that many of the expatriates lived there. Small white houses, tightly packed together meant we had to rely on steps, slopes and cobbled platforms to walk through the village.  The prettiness of the village lay in the simplicity of its white walls, red roofs and black wrought iron balconies. It was as though the residents had agreed a code and limited their individuality to a few subtle touches: a pot by the door, a window box brimming with bright red geraniums, or a trailing vine.  

In England, we mark our homeownership by painting a bright colour on the outside walls or we change our front door to show we are different. But no-one had done this in Frigilliana: the expatriates were invisible.  Perhaps they were more willing to change than I realised.  

The pressure to build in Spain is maybe an economic necessity, but the courage it takes to move there should not be underestimated.   

Author's Biography

I live in Shepperton, England, UK.  I am a social worker and family (divorce) mediator, now working in social work education.   

I have had articles published in social work and general magazines, but with two children, two part-time jobs and a life to lead, finding time to write just gets more difficult.  I enjoy writing personal essays most of all.

E-mail Helen at hrkeville@hotmail.com  

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