Sopa del Dia (and that's just the plunge pool!)
July 2006 - Andalucia
Where we live we don't have the luxury - some might say the summer necessity in this climate - of a swimming pool. Of course, like everyone, we've developed strategies for keeping fresh, but there's nothing quite like plunging into a cool pool for feeling properly revitalised. Deliberately cultivating friendships with people who have pools was an option, but not quite our style. Paying to use the facilities at various campsites or public pools threatened to bust the budget, as well as not resulting in quite the tranquil dips we had in mind, as a million youngsters joyfully thrashed and splashed and hurled themselves exuberantly off the sides. Other measures were definitely called for, although, with hindsight, we should have anticipated the typically Spanish-meets-Fruitbatty quirks on the way to Personal Cool.
We could only make a modest investment in the project - we are after all just renting our place and living on a shoe-string - so it was just going to have to be a small plunge pool on a terrace behind our house for those delightful blood-cooling evening dips. A number of people we know locally have plastic ones, 5 metres across, a (relative) snip at €110 from the big supermarkets on the coast. Having tried out a friend's we decided it was ideal. The principle is simple: first you inflate a giant plastic ring, then as you fill the folds of plastic with water, the inflated ring rises, fashioning the sides and it ends up about a metre deep. Just big enough for a few swimming strokes, and lovely for lolling. It comes complete with ladder and its own small filter system, so is perfectly adequate. We decided to gamble part of next month's rent, hoping that a bit of work might come in before we were due to pay.
Level playing field
First the purchase. That was the easy bit (apart, that is, from the moment of panic about next month's rent). Then came the all-important leveling and smoothing of the area on which it was to stand, and putting down some protective layers between the pool and the ground to prevent tragic puncturing of the bottom. Given that this area of the terrace had been covered with shingle to suppress weeds, this was no five-minute task. Rakes, hands and knees - to say it took a while is something of an understatement. Nevertheless, we got there and put down a couple of layers of tarpaulin and a thriftily salvaged quantity of astro-turf-like material. The inflatable ring was blown up. Heeding dire warnings about the daytime heat expanding the air in it with consequent risk of rupture, we duly under-inflated it by a reasonable amount. Excellent. All going well. Now we just needed to add water.
Ah, the water. Even if we hadn't just had a circular from the Ayuntamiento (the town hall) about measures to save drinking water, we knew very well that we couldn't possibly use precious agua potable - drinking water - for our dunking pleasure. It might only be a modest plunge-pool, but it would still take 11,000 litres of water. Scarey.
La sopa 'Brown Windsor'
We'd been told that many people use irrigation water for pool filling, so in consultation with a neighbour, we used his hose feed from the acequia (the channel that brings water down from the mountains). Much quicker and more ecologically responsible. So Marido Querido (dear husband) set up the hose, we satisfied ourselves that all was well and off we went to get some jobs done. Returning some time later, imagine our horror to find our beautiful new pool rapidly filling with ... Brown Windsor soup! Eurgh!! Yes, the acequia water that appeared to be running so clear was actually a sludge of muddy deposits.
Urgent discussions with other acequia-water swimmers ensued, together with a call to our mate the pool expert, and we were assured that the deposits would settle to the bottom over a day or two and could be siphoned out. Two days came and went (with a chlorine tablet floating in the skimmer) and if anything it had become glutinous oxtail soup. Further agitated calls were made to Pool Expert Friend - 'oh, I forgot to mention, you should add 'floculante' and 'algicide' as well', he added calmly. A rapid trip to the local ferreteria (DIY/hardware store) to purchase same and a painstakingly careful translation of the usage and dosage instructions followed. After which, the entire mixture naturally transmogrified into … toxic oxtail soup. Hmm. We were beginning to think we would have to wait for the chemicals to disperse, empty it out and start again.
Satisfactory settlement
But - lo and behold! By the next morning we peered into the murk and we could just make out the little pseudo-mosaic tiles at the bottom and the distinct signs of sludge settlement. The following day (when presumably he hoped the toxicity levels had fallen a bit) I found Marido Querido on his knees in the pool, sporting only teeshirt, knickers and straw hat, his beard skimming the surface, siphoning out 'la mugre' with a short piece of hose. It was a labour of love (or desperation?). Actually, the task gave him hours of hoovering pleasure as, being the creative type, he admitted to drawing doodles and making patterns as he removed the carpet of sludge to make the contemplative experience more enjoyable.
A couple more days of this settling-siphoning sequence employing the Lupti-Aqua-Vac-U-Like Mark 1, and the contents transformed into something pleasingly close to consommé. At last Marido Querido declared that the little filter was probably up to the job of one last overnight clean, prior to our inaugural plunge the following day.
Lingering memories
What a delight that was! Forget the crystal-clear waters of the largest and most stylish of sunken pools. Perhaps because the whole thing was so touch-and-go, it seems every time we use it, we have the best dip ever. It's still obvious that it is acequia water, sporting, as it does, a faint brownish tinge. This, we think, is probably a good thing in case anyone's looking to denounce us for squandering scarce agua potable. Despite the lingering memory of la sopa marrón (brown soup) the water is beautifully soft and remarkably chill given the strength of the sun. With a store of previously harvested bamboo, we created a modesty screen between us and a neighbour's terrace. This means we're now private enough to skinny dip, and we lie in the water watching the swallows, the bee-catchers, the multitude of bats, the pink late-evening light on the mountains opposite and the persimmons and figs ripening on nearby trees. Not a bad life, really.
Jeni y Dave y Chip
July 2006