Campo Communiqué

Joni's right, you don't. Know what you've got 'til it's gone, that is. Andres himself is long gone. No more bartender boogie to the 70's Gold pap from Malaga FM. The Venta sits at the side of the C___ road like the abandoned shell of a crab. It's easy to see what it was for, but the uselessness drifts out of the empty building like smoke. A hopeful orange sign decorates the first floor railings of a balcony that has never been used to my knowledge. I expect they used a cherry-picker to put that up, rather than risk the cracking, flaking concrete of the balcony itself. The sign says 'Se Vende' but someone has added 'alquila' in black felt tip that has already faded to a colour you have to squint at.

The Montevista residents keep themselves amused by reporting – third hand - sightings of drink delivery wagons and suited lawyers or rental agents. I haven't seen any myself. To tell the truth the let or sale of the bar is a race against time: it might fall down before anyone takes it.

It's a bit of a state inside, too. So they say. The German guy who almost bought it says it is, anyway. In fact, he says he'd never have eaten in there, if he'd seen the kitchen. Still, we'd neither of us ever been ill as a result of it. Another fact: the beautiful blue painted restaurant a half-kilometre down the road poisoned the local bank manager with a stale tiramisu: it has the cleanest toilets for miles around. I've had the odd beer in P____ L____. They went well with the odd looks.

Straight over the road is a tiny place; next to the dealer for those damn silly quasi-cars you don't need a licence for; I walk up there for a drink, nowadays. Family run; they're thinking of folding the tents too. I guess a recession is tough for everyone. Cheers.