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Wildfire Advice - Junta de Andalucia

 https://www.juntadeandalucia.es/organismos/ema/areas/incendios-forestales/prevencion/interfase/normas-autoproteccion.html ****This isn't meant as a substitute for following the instructions of the emergency services during an incident.**** This guidance is issued by the **Regional Government of Andalusia (Junta de Andalucía)** for properties located in the **Wildland–Urban Interface (WUI)**—areas where homes are situated close to forests, woodland, or scrubland. It is intended to reduce the likelihood of homes igniting from radiant heat or wind-blown embers during a wildfire. PREVENTATIVE MEASURES FOR RESIDENTIAL DEVELOPMENTS. * Construct and maintain a firebreak around the development that is free of shrubs and tall grass, with a minimum width of **15 metres**. Trees may be retained, provided they are sparsely distributed and their canopies do not touch each other. * Remove vegetation and dry plant debris from all undeveloped areas, including abandoned plots, roadsides, and gulli...
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Scratch That Itch by Dave

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 When the cuckoo comes to the bare thorn, sell your cow and buy your corn." - Old proverb. I couldn't stop thinking about those stones, what the oldies called Shepard's crowns. Could they exist, and could they protect me from the strange? It was a heavy night, close with mug. Petrichoral aromas wafted strong from outside as I heard the first angry rumblings at sundown. The heat clung to me and the air closed in, a great crack sounded and a bright flash lit the bedroom. The storm grew rapidly in an impressive display, it was right overhead, seemed to wait there, deliberately striking around the village and surrounding silver hills, and though aware these were the conditions needed for the stones to appear, I wouldn't allow meself to believe. That would've been ridiculous. The storm stopped suddenly but moisture hung on the atmosphere like a wet towel. Must've dozed off... Thinking back, I remember that in me halfsleep, I'd a notion there was someone outside....
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Scratching the Itch for Freedom by Mongolita

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I was born in  Chile,  bred  in the UK, and retired to Spain. But to understand who I am today, you have to go back, all the way back to where the itch began. In September 1973 Salvador Allende was overthrown by the Chilean military financed and  supported by the USA. Overnight our world collapsed.  Mum, my two sisters and I fled to Argentina leaving  our house, our  belongings, our relatives, and our friends  behind us, in search of our father who had crossed the Andes by foot to Argentina a few months before.  Dad was on the military's hit list for being an active supporter of Allende. He would've been killed if found, as was the fate of many. My middle sister and I had no option but to live in the shadows moving from one safe house to another, while  mum contacted friends to borrow money for the train tickets to cross the border to Argentina. We were NOT living, we were hiding. We settled in San Juan, Argentina for about a...
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The Almanzora Written Word Group Meetup - 10th July 2026

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  Next Meeting: 10 July 2026 Location: Hostal Meson Time 10.30-1pm 500 word subject: “Scratch the Itch” Everybody who has an interest in writing or the written word is welcome to our meetup at:  Hostal Meson Arboleas.
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The Luuvies Open Day - Held on the 21st June 2026

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  The Written Word Group where at the latest Luuvies Open Day. We had booked a big table and where ready to take part in the celebrations. Jeremy turned up like the good trooper he is to fill in for Aileen. Who had to give the day a miss due to unforseen circunstances. Jeremy read some of his favorite poems. Mike read some very funny word play verses Tom spun the wild tale of El Dia Del Libro, or What Did the Romans Ever Do For Us.? And Mongolita gave us the touching tale of Floppy Ears.  Which dovetailed nicely into the Charity that was collecting money for abandoned dogs. So well done everybody. It looked like we were well received by the big crowd on the day.  And it  gave us a lot to ponder, into how we may run an event like this.  It all went like clockwork and the music segements (well done Steve) and the Quiz where fabulous. It was a great way to spend a day in the sun. Drinking cold beers getting entertained by some very talented people. Whats not to lik...
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The Two Seasons of Arthur Scargill by Frank Sonderborg

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  The Flash is peak Season on the mining planet Arthur Scargill. In the Antares System, 500 Million light-years from our home base.  Arthur Scargill swings dangerously close to the sun. The intense solar gravity stretches the planet's crust, triggering massive global volcanic eruptions. The air fills with Flerovium (element 114) and Copernicium (element 112) gases. The essential building blocks of our spacefaring civilization. Our harvesters run at 100% capacity, skimming the atmosphere. Collecting our priceless cargo. Big bonus credits on the way for everybody. Happy days. Then the season changes to, The Deep freeze: The planet swings far away into the freezing dark of space. Mining stops, and we await the return of, The Flash season. If the harvesters haven’t suffered to much degradation or need to be replaced, we can move them to either of the other Flash mining planets, Herbert Hoover or George Hearst. We ship the collected and extremely volatile Flerovium and Copernicium ...
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The Ballet Dancer (Season) by Mongolita

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For a long time, I thought and I thought about what my story would  be about. All kinds of ideas came to mind. Maybe I could  write  about the four seasons:  autumn, winter, spring and  summer. Though my two favourite seasons are Autumn when the leaves on the trees change to different shades,  from green to deep red and then yellow before they fall to the floor;  and Spring when it bursts into full colour of whites, pinks, reds, oranges as the plants come into full bloom.  But then, late one night something incredible happened.   My brain pinged and I was wide awake, my mind racing. The image of Dad playing one of his favourite pieces of classical music, ‘The Four Seasons’ by Vivaldi - was so vivid it felt almost real. Was  I dreaming or was I awake? I reached for my mobile and began to make notes before the idea vanished like the smoke into thin air. Dad had been practicing  modern ballet since  his early twenties ...
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No Regrets a story by Jeremy Patton

  No Regrets A Story by Jeremy Patton ( Edith Piaf was born in December 1915 on, according to her autobiography, a gendarme’s cape. This is his story .) I love Babette, of course I do, we are married after all, and I have no regrets about that.  And she loves me too, but sometimes she shocks me. Where did she learn to swear like that? She isn’t a fish wife, her father was a well respected policeman, but when she’s angry, nothing holds her back.  Last night is a fine example.  I got in from my shift at midnight, an hour later than I should have, and before she could start, I handed her my cape and told her to wash it. Yes “told”. Why would I “ask” her? She’s my wife for goodness sake, I don’t walk the streets of Paris to do my own washing. The guys at the gendarmerie would have a good laugh at that.  Anyway, it wasn’t being told what to do that set her off, it was the state of my cape. It was slimy, bloody and shitty. I didn’t help matters, she couldn...
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THE PASSING YEARS by Dave Dawson

Mary Carter Langtree was sitting with her eyes closed against the penetrating glare of the October sun. But for a nip in the easterly breeze, she had considered it to be a perfect day for the time of year. She had dressed in a light weight, floral summer dress for the unseasonable warmth but to be on the safe side, had wrapped a pink woollen cardigan around her shoulders. Her greying hair was cut short and displayed a pair of small, but nonetheless attractive, ruby earrings which perfectly matched the pendant necklace that rested below her chin.  It had not been her intention to fall into slumber but, slumber she did with her mouth slightly ajar and emitting a faint snore. Had she been able to witness herself as passers by did, she would’ve been mortified. Her legs crossed at the ankles, she sat reclined against the wooden backrest of the bench which, when she opened her eyes, afforded a view of the English Channel, busy with the comings and goings of ferry boats and leisure craf...
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THE SHORE OF NO REGRETS BY MONGOLITA

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  At sixty-five, Claire stood alone by the seashore gazing at the horizon, the red sun rose to greet a new day. In her coat pocket was a letter addressed to someone dear who had not spoken for many years. She wanted to rebuild the bridges that had been broken, before it was too late.  Claire heard through the grape vine that her friend of many years was unwell. Determined to let bygones be bygones, she decided to make one final attempt to re-establish their friendship.  The night before, she had picked up her mobile phone, opened her contacts and searched for the name Caroline, and dialled the number.    “Hello Caroline, it's me, Claire?”  On the other end of the line, she heard heavy breathing. Then silence dropped like a guillotine. The line went dead. The misunderstanding that had torn them apart was over something that could've been discussed and resolved long ago. But both women were stubborn and proud individuals and after their fa...
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