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Dear Clare

We. Are. Living. In. A. Nightmare. It's all too, too dreadful.

My husbad and I are sitting in an internet cafe approximately forty miles south of a charming Basque village, into which we've bought.

The air is so incredibly clear and the walking is ideal exercise for the both of us. The villa is charming, but in need of a good deal of work. We found some local types the other day do put a roof on the old place - just temporarily while we find the right kind of slate and sort out the inside.

Trouble is, they don't speak English, or at least they pretend not to, and one feels that one's being rather ripped off. One gets the feeling that one's not very welcome, despite the social advantages bestowed on the locals by someone of Gerry's (that my husband) standing: he was second secreatry to his Excellency the Governor of the Isle of Man.

Should, Clare, one seek the better part of valour in such a situation, or should one just bloody well get on and damn the dagoes for so much chaff?

Yours sincerely,

Mrs G Plant MBE

 

Dear Mrs Plant

I have glad tidings! You've nothing to worry about.

They're a funny lot, the Basque: they've the oldest language in Europe and, though their lands may be French or Spanish according to the whims of diplomats, every member of this anciant race is Basque first, second and last.

They are, you could say, a proud people. Honest and hard-working (especially compared to their neighbours). They are wary of strangers such as yourselves, who have sought always to eradicate their culture and plunder their resources.

But their pride will not allow them to do a job badly, however silently they might carry it out. Any house they build will be strong, the roof especially so, since it is well known that the force generated by a blast will follow the path of least resistance: usually up, through the roof.

I should imagine, however, that in your case they will seek to avoid this, allowing the fiery breath of ETA to blow through your nattily converted kitchen, your 'rustique' breakfast room, obliterating forever your porcelein shepherdesses and carriage clocks, leaving nothing of your colonial presence bar the neoprene sunloungers that you will inevitably have brought with you.

God be with them,

Clare.