speak any Spanish or the local dialect so communication involved spirited charades, enthusiastic nodding and si si's , and hand-drawn diagrams. The finca had no running water and the electricity ran weakly to 115 volts so on our architect's advice we applied to go on mains water, which would involve running pipes underground from the village to our house, and upping the electricity supply to 230 volts. This was no mean feat and in order to get things moving we enlisted the help of a buildercum-supervisor named Senyor Coll. This wealthy builder from Palma advertised in a local newspaper and, bewitched by his impressive client list and chummy and solicitous ways, we had entrusted him with the task of reforming our ruin. As it transpired, Senyor Coll was a man so devoid of principles as to make my client Greedy George seem like Gandhi. Within a year it had become abundantly clear that he was nothing more than a wily con artist when, having drained us of funds, he abandoned the project halfway through, leaving us to pick up the pieces with an honest and hardworking local builder named Stefan. Did we bear a grudge? Yes, until, that is, we came to accept that there are prowling wolves even in Utopia.
  So with a new roof, wooden beams, staircase, bathrooms, doors and windows we have at last been able to move in to our new home. Shutters have been fitted, mains water now brought up to the house and we have a decent electricity supply. The kitchen is without work surfaces, cupboards or tiles on the floor but at least we have a plumbed-in washing machine and working hob, fridge and sink. When the newly installed plumbing isn't playing up, we even get some hot water in the guest bathroom, although the other two still aren't usable and taps lie dust-laden in their wrappers aloft heaps of tiles waiting to be attached to walls. The once gloomy botega , cellar, has been transformed into a guest en suite and the ancient stone walls of the finca have been re-pointed and made secure. There is still a long way to go and a huge amount of structural work to be done outside such as terracing, creating walls and the laying of paths. We have also set aside an area beyond the kitchen for a swimming pool but, given the cost, we shan't be able to make that a reality for some time. As they say in Mallorca, ' Poc a poc â¦'
  Having arrived half an hour ago, our workmen will sweat it out until nine and then stop for their breakfast, a fat entrepà , a crusty white roll, filled with Serrano ham or chorizo sausage and tomato. I've got into the habit of following their routine, pottering downstairs when they down tools to make some tea. Alan likes to greet them on arrival, standing with crossed arms in the front doorway, his tall frame blocking out the sun, until he hears the pop pop of the motos as they gnaw up the lane. Then with a huge beam on his face, he strides into the sunny courtyard and in his rich Scottish brogue exchanges hearty ' Holas' with them as they gather under our porch. But my greatest entertainment is listening to Alan attempting to converse with them in Spanish. He's a master of the weighty ' Si'. No matter what the topic, Alan can find a way to deliver the simple, delicious monosyllable. Sometimes he manages an ' Ah si ' with huge gusto and enthusiasm, usually when discussing the performance of the Real Mallorca football club. At other times, if conversation moves to summer water shortages, he looks thoughtful, nods his head sagely and mutters ' Si, si si ' with sad conviction. Then there's the questioning ' Si? ' when he furrows his brow as some revelatory information is imparted to him, and exclaims ' Si? ' as in 'Really?' This male bonding of an Anglo-Mallorcan kind can carry on fruitfully for half an hour or so with the builders hanging on Alan's every ' Si ', clapping him on the back and offering him broad smiles of encouragement. It can only be a matter of time before he conquers ' Non ' and then there's no
  So with a new roof, wooden beams, staircase, bathrooms, doors and windows we have at last been able to move in to our new home. Shutters have been fitted, mains water now brought up to the house and we have a decent electricity supply. The kitchen is without work surfaces, cupboards or tiles on the floor but at least we have a plumbed-in washing machine and working hob, fridge and sink. When the newly installed plumbing isn't playing up, we even get some hot water in the guest bathroom, although the other two still aren't usable and taps lie dust-laden in their wrappers aloft heaps of tiles waiting to be attached to walls. The once gloomy botega , cellar, has been transformed into a guest en suite and the ancient stone walls of the finca have been re-pointed and made secure. There is still a long way to go and a huge amount of structural work to be done outside such as terracing, creating walls and the laying of paths. We have also set aside an area beyond the kitchen for a swimming pool but, given the cost, we shan't be able to make that a reality for some time. As they say in Mallorca, ' Poc a poc â¦'
  Having arrived half an hour ago, our workmen will sweat it out until nine and then stop for their breakfast, a fat entrepà , a crusty white roll, filled with Serrano ham or chorizo sausage and tomato. I've got into the habit of following their routine, pottering downstairs when they down tools to make some tea. Alan likes to greet them on arrival, standing with crossed arms in the front doorway, his tall frame blocking out the sun, until he hears the pop pop of the motos as they gnaw up the lane. Then with a huge beam on his face, he strides into the sunny courtyard and in his rich Scottish brogue exchanges hearty ' Holas' with them as they gather under our porch. But my greatest entertainment is listening to Alan attempting to converse with them in Spanish. He's a master of the weighty ' Si'. No matter what the topic, Alan can find a way to deliver the simple, delicious monosyllable. Sometimes he manages an ' Ah si ' with huge gusto and enthusiasm, usually when discussing the performance of the Real Mallorca football club. At other times, if conversation moves to summer water shortages, he looks thoughtful, nods his head sagely and mutters ' Si, si si ' with sad conviction. Then there's the questioning ' Si? ' when he furrows his brow as some revelatory information is imparted to him, and exclaims ' Si? ' as in 'Really?' This male bonding of an Anglo-Mallorcan kind can carry on fruitfully for half an hour or so with the builders hanging on Alan's every ' Si ', clapping him on the back and offering him broad smiles of encouragement. It can only be a matter of time before he conquers ' Non ' and then there's no
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