Tripe and Spanish onions

John and Anne Hammond have burnt their boats. John has taken early retirement from his insurance company and they have sold their suburban bungalow and bought a run-down cottage in southern Spain. Henceforth life will be one round of perpetual sunshine and cheap booze. But the realities of everyday living intrude. Their encounters with Spanish builders, bureaucracy, dodgy odd-job men and their attempts to integrate into their new mode of life are frustratingly humourous. John tries his hand at writing a best seller and his wife takes up her painting again. But when they have to contend with the Spanish driving test and the traumas of family visitors, forest fires and the late hours of Spanish friends, the pressure becomes intense. Our agreeable but naive Brits sit on their terrace, the sun warm on their backs. They are drinking wine and contemplating their new, palm-fringed swimming pool. Across the valley, whitewashed cottages cluster around a blue-domed church. Beyond, the vista of mountain peaks stretches for a trillion miles. ‘Oo-o,’ Anne says. ‘It’s ever so nice!’ John nods and takes another swig, ‘I’ve never been one to complain.’‘Yes you are,’ says his better half. ‘You complain all the blooming time.’