Geckos, Gin and the Bomberos

Life is certainly never dull here in Spain

Last month we moved to a country villa near Frigilianna, a beautiful white washed village just 5 minutes from the sea. Perfect I thought. What I hadn’t bargained for was bagging myself a stalker. I first spotted him last week when I was parking up. Tall for his age, skinny, with a cheeky grin, but as soon as I opened the car door, he was off. Two days later he was back. Lurking by the patio doors. His beady little eyes locked onto mine as I stood rooted to the spot. But last night was the worst. Stepping out of the shower, there he was, right in front of me. I screamed. He froze. Mexican stand-off style. Thankfully, in loped his Lordship to check I was ok but instead of kicking my stalker out, he befriended him and christened him Cuthbert.  

You see, Cuthbert is a gecko. A cute little lizard. But a lizard nonetheless. And chatting to our new neighbours, it seems everyone here has a gecko tale; but my Irish neighbour, Kieran’s, is the funniest.  Apparently, last summer, his sister, Chloe was house sitting. One evening, home alone, enjoying a rather strong sundowner on her bedroom balcony, Chloe was cornered by a gecko. Knowing her much braver boyfriend was hours away, she did what any desperate woman would do and heroically sacrificed her G&T to fend off attack and trapped said gecko under her upturned bowl glass. Alas, in her haste, she sliced his tail right off. Horrified and ashamed, she sank to the floor, the now tail-less gecko staring back at her woefully. Leaning back on the patio door, trying to work out what to do, she heard her only escape route lock shut behind her. Realising she was now trapped; she took to the local expats’ WhatsApp group to ask for advice. Cue one of the most amusing threads I’ve ever read.

Some neighbours worried about the gecko, some about Chloe, some far more worried about the loss of gin. Particularly since it was imported Bombay Sapphire. Then a flurry of questions. Was there enough air in the glass for gecko to survive? Cue Chloe adding photos of glass followed by frantic calculations of gecko size to O2 capacity. Could the gecko upend the glass and escape? Cue hysterical attempts by Chloe to climb off the balcony, convinced she would soon be devoured, one teeny tiny bite at a time. Was the alcohol in Bombay Sapphire strong enough to sterilise the tail for re-attachment?  Cue Chloe on hands and knees, locating slithery tail and placing it on the fast-melting ice from her G&T. Only to be informed by Sven, local hotel manager, that gecko tails grow back. Followed by a heated debate as to how much gin was likely left inside the glass and whether said gecko was now absolutely hammered. Who, by the way, had now been christened TT, tail-less Tommy.

But the piece de resistance was when the messages turned to the siren-loud arrival of the Bomberos (firemen) who had been alerted to the life and death crisis by the little old Belgian lady at Villa Eduardo. Many photos then ensued as neighbours flocked to the scene of the crime to capture for posterity the hunky, handsome Bomberos’ rescue of a rather embarrassed and scantily clad Chloe, alongside a traumatised but now slightly squiffy TT. The story even made the front page of the local expat newspaper. With the hilarious headline. “Young woman terrorised by tail-less lizard. Gin saves the day”.

Right, must dash. Need to coax Cuthbert out on to the balcony. Quite fancy me a Bomberos’ rescue…