Michel Does Spain 🇪🇸 Solo: The Night Spain Lost the Plot — And Gave Me an Idea

An extraordinary August storm in Andalucía, two spectacularly ineffective Pomeranians and a terrace covered in Saharan mud got Michel thinking about something far more important: how XPATS living in Spain can learn from the Spanish and become a real community for one another.

After a very busy week spent surviving what can only be described as Andalucía with the oven door left open, Friday night was sacred. It was my first night in my own bed for over a week and, as you can take the girl out of Lancashire but you can never take Lancashire out of the girl, my requirements for complete happiness were remarkably simple.

Some women dream of champagne on ice, rose petals scattered across the bedroom and chocolates on the pillow. I'm considerably easier to please. Give me freshly laundered, crisp white bed linen, a bath, a mug of tea and a custard cream and, frankly, Cartier can keep the bracelet.

Add my resident security team, Gracie and Teddy, and we were approaching perfection. I use the words security team very loosely. Their principal duties appear to be biscuit consumption, unauthorised occupation of my pillows and alerting the entire urbanisation whenever a leaf moves suspiciously, but nevertheless, they were on duty.

Sometime around midnight, bliss arrived. The bath had been had, the tea had been drunk, the custard creams had been demolished, the sheets were deliciously crisp, the fan was whirring and the air-conditioning was humming. Even the Poms had finally stopped rearranging themselves.

Sometimes life spends so long pushing and pulling you that when you finally arrive somewhere that feels completely right, you should recognise it. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Just ahora. Now. As the Spanish say, "A lo hecho, pecho." What's done is done; face forward and deal with what comes next.

Contentment, when it finally turns up, should be treated like a decent plumber in August. Cherish it, do not ask too many questions and, for God's sake, don't let it leave.

Unfortunately, nobody had copied the Spanish weather into that particular memo.

Somewhere above the Mediterranean, Mother Nature apparently looked down at Casa El Nido and thought: "Michel looks far too comfortable."

Pues venga. Let's sort that out.

And then all hell broke loose.

Gracie and Teddy shot off the bed barking simultaneously. Not normal barking. Full performance barking. Apparently auditions for Britain's Got Talent: Pomeranian Edition had opened without my knowledge. Then the fan stopped. The air-conditioning stopped. The electricity stopped. Everything stopped — except the Pomeranians.

Suddenly, the entire sky lit up. This wasn't a pretty little flash of lightning romantically illuminating the Mediterranean. Oh no. This was biblical: the sort of lightning that illuminates the entire bedroom and gives you approximately three seconds to review every questionable decision you have made since 1982.

Then the car alarms started. One, then another, then apparently every car from Mijas to Marbella joined in. The Málaga Philharmonic Orchestra had begun its summer season.

And then came the thunder.

Not distant, atmospheric thunder. This sounded as though God himself was directly above Casa El Nido rearranging the furniture.

At which point my highly trained security detail completely lost its nerve. Thirty seconds earlier they had apparently been prepared to defend Casa El Nido against the entire Costa del Sol. Now Teddy was welded to one side of me and Gracie to the other, both trembling beneath the duvet. Apparently their employment contracts contain a previously undisclosed adverse-weather clause.

"Perro ladrador, poco mordedor." The barking dog seldom bites. Never has a Spanish proverb been demonstrated quite so efficiently.

Thank you, guys.

And then the heavens opened. Not rain exactly. Water. Buckets of it. Bathtubs of it. Possibly the entire Mediterranean being returned to sender.

In more than thirty years of living in Spain, I genuinely cannot remember an August storm quite like it. And as I lay there listening to the apocalypse, I suddenly remembered something.

The terraces.

Oh dear God, the terraces.

Saturday lunch had been planned, which means Michel being Michel, everything had been prepared. Cushions plumped, plants positioned, ornaments arranged, tables dressed and decorations placed. Everything was sitting outside looking gorgeous and waiting for lunch. Basically, I had prepared the terraces for a minor royal visit. What I had not prepared them for was Noah arriving in a bloody ark.

There are moments in every woman's life when she must assess a crisis, consider the available options and make a decisive executive decision. I looked at Teddy. I looked at Gracie. They looked at me.

The three of us reached exactly the same conclusion: absolutely nothing useful could be achieved by getting wet at two o'clock in the morning.

Or, as Spain has been telling foreigners for generations: "Mañana."

Not necessarily tomorrow. Just... not now.

So we went back to sleep. Sometimes Spanish philosophy really is magnificent.

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The Morning After Spain's Nervous Breakdown

The following morning I opened my eyes to silence, sunshine, blue skies and birds singing. Spain had completely changed personality. There she was, glowing innocently in the sunshine as though absolutely nothing had happened.

"¿Tormenta? ¿Qué tormenta?"

Who, me?

Or another wonderfully useful Spanish expression: "Aquí no ha pasado nada." Nothing happened here.

Oh yes it bloody well did.

I stepped outside and Casa El Nido looked as though Glastonbury had held the after-party on my terraces. Cushions were everywhere, plants battered, ornaments displaced, leaves and debris scattered across the place.

And naturally, it hadn't even been nice, clean, helpful rain. Of course it hadn't. This is Spain. It was dirty rain — that wonderful meteorological phenomenon where the heavens don't simply water your garden, they deliver half the Sahara to your front door free of charge.

Every window, table, terrace, cushion and available horizontal surface had been delicately finished in a fetching new shade I shall call Sahara Chic.

"Nunca llueve a gusto de todos." It never rains to everyone's liking. Whoever invented that Spanish saying clearly never spent a Saturday morning hosing Saharan mud off what felt like six thousand cushions.

There was only one thing for it. Action Woman was summoned.

Hair pinned up, freckles completely uncovered because foundation had officially been declared non-essential personnel, but lipstick — naturally — firmly in place. There may have been a natural disaster overnight, but there is absolutely no excuse for abandoning standards.

The lightweight dungarees went on, matching pumps were selected and the hosepipe came out. It wasn't exactly