Why Did the caveman cross the road?

Honestly I still don't know

It’s publication day today for the third instalment of my Erica Sands Series: The Hunt. I had a lot of fun writing this book, which meant it moved a fair way away from the initial idea of these books – to create a police-procedural series in-and-around Dorset, where I lived at the time. But then I’ve moved a fair way away from that life in the intervening years – having moved to the snow-topped mountains and wild beaches of northern Spain.

As such The Hunt has more of a globe-trotting feel. But I think that’s what the story called for too. Fans of the previous books will know they centre around DCI Erica Sands relationship with her serial killer father, who in book two escapes from a high security prison. It wouldn’t make sense if he stayed handily around the shires of Dorset, he’d look further afield to hide and build his new life, and thus she would need to dust off her passport to track him down.

Which, without giving away any spoilers, is exactly what happens. There are links below to get the book if you’d like to read it, and it’s been on Netgalley for a while with a solid 4 out of 5 stars, and some very nice reviews like this one:

“The Hunt is the third in the Erica Sands crime series and I feel like I’ve been waiting ages for this book. I cannot describe how excited I was to read it and it did NOT disappoint!”

Read The Hunt now on Amazon Kindle or Paperback

Or listen on Audible

Huge thanks to everyone who has pre-ordered the book, it should be on your kindle now. I hope you enjoy it. :-)

Today is also Carnival here in Spain, which is a moment of high excitement in the Spanish speaking world. I’ve been here three years now and I’m not sure I really understand why yet, but I’m learning to accept it. I thought it was a good opportunity to send an old newsletter that I wrote about Carnival when we first arrived, because it was quite fun.

I also wanted to say a quick word about the nature of these emails. I got a message this week from someone unsubscribing because they were “fed up with the constant demands for money”—which, to be honest, took me by surprise. So, just to clarify:

This newsletter is free. Always has been, always will be. You don’t have to pay a penny to read it.

I send it via Substack, which sometimes throws in little nudges to subscribe. That’s because Substack takes a cut from paid subscriptions, so it has an incentive to encourage them. But that’s not me pushing for money. In fact, the reason I switched to Substack in the first place was to avoid the hefty costs of my previous email platform (a couple of thousand pounds a year.) I’m pretty bad at email marketing, so the newsletter doesn’t really make me money, but I do enjoy sending out these little stories from time to time. So I hope you’ll forgive the occasional reminder that you can subscribe if you’d like to, and remember that it’s fine by me if you choose not to. I wouldn’t!

I genuinely appreciate you being here and reading along.

So here goes, this is recycled, should you get a sense of deja-vu. But I had fun with this one:

Carnival isn’t a big thing in the English-speaking world, and I didn’t know much about it until today. But here in Spain it’s apparently enormous. And since I’ve spent a good part of the day experiencing it, I’m well placed to tell you about it too. Think of it as educational, spreading the love, a problem shared…

The day started early, dressing one child as a peasant, the other as a rock star. I didn’t know why, even less why it had to happen before sunrise, or more importantly before I’d had a chance to make coffee. But once that little drama was resolved I figured it out. These things take time.

The kids went to school in their costumes, we followed an hour later, making the most of the sunshine by taking the bikes. Good decision it turned out, since the police had by then closed all the roads – again – to allow the school children to parade through the streets, again. Just a quick aside, do you know how often the school in England closed the streets to let the children parade through the town? Not a single time. How often has it happened here? I want to say bi-weekly, but I’ve never understood if that means every other week or twice every week. It’s definitely a lot.

Anyway, we weave our way through throngs of excited parents, less-excited grandparents, and frustrated would-be shoppers, until we identify which of the rock stars is our rock star. I wave a quick hello to our peasant-girl, but then we’re swept away by a gang of pirates and several hundred tiny Robin Hoods, and into the school gym. Here it’s mayhem. Think a cross between Hogwarts and the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics, but bigger, and less well-coordinated. The pirates arrive in the hall to loud music and even louder applause. They’re carrying flags representing – I assume – the Caribbean nations’ involvement in the Carnival festival? Then it’s the turn of the Robin Hoods, representing – actually I’m not sure. Forest people? I suddenly notice they all have enormous plastic ears. I’m not aware that Robin Hood was known for his ears, so perhaps these aren’t Robin Hoods. Maybe they’re elves? Either way, I think ‘forest people’ covers it. After that we see cavemen representing caves, knights representing night time, the rock stars, representing the wonder of the universe, and then traditional Cantabrian peasants – of which our older child is now one – who all seem to be wearing some sort of homage to the tea towel. The really young kids come last. They’re dressed in black plastic bin bags. I have no idea why, nor what this represents.

My Spanish is too basic to understand the commentary, despite it being blasted out from an enormous loudspeaker close to my ear, and loud enough to hear on the moon. Some of the older kids have a line to say, a blessed few whisper it shyly, but most really go for it, loosening my teeth. It’s clear we’re really building up to something big. I have no idea what, but I’m excited. Slowly the hall fills. In the audience it’s standing room only.

Gandalf from Lord of the Rings stands up. He gives a long speech – longer than his robe, which isn’t quite long enough to cover his trainers – and then the bin bags line up. A breathless hush descends on the room. What’s going to happen? Then the music starts. They begin to dance.

I say dance. Like any four-year-olds moving to music, they really just jerk about in an awkward fashion, as if they were fishing lures, used to catch mackerel. Meanwhile the teachers, clad in their own larger bin bags, gyrated enthusiastically, and slightly desperately, as it dawns on them the whole affair peaked with the dress rehearsal. And finally I get it. I might be new in Spain, but I’m not new to school performances. We’re going to see every class do their thing, year by painful year. I settle in for a long morning.

What feels like days later the bin bags shuffle off, replaced by the pirates. I’m now in full people-watching mode. It’s funny how – even here in Spain where they love a party – these kind of events split opinion. The guy next to me waits precisely long enough to witness his child doing her dance and he’s out of there. Other parents though are *loving* every moment, cheering, tears of joy running down their faces.

For me it’s a timely reminder of how incredibly happy I am to be a writer and not a teacher, which has sometimes felt like a viable fall-back option. There is still a bit of me that wants to be out there, dressed as a wizard, and urgently trying to squeeze somebody else’s five-year-old through the crowd because they need a poo, but it’s not a strong urge.

More acts pass. We’re going youngest-to-oldest, so the moves get better with each change of theme. The bin bags were rubbish, the pirates better, but unconvincing. The elves would have made Robin Hood proud (albeit self-conscious about his ears). The stone age gang are frankly quite good, one of them drops to the floor for some breakdancing. It’s not historically accurate - I’m guessing - but still impressive. I’m getting into it now. Then out come the Rock Stars – my son – and they rock. Actually not so much Rafa, who somehow manages to cram expressions of fear, wonder and boredom onto his face all at the same time. Even so, I find myself straining on tip toes to get a better view, utterly captivated by the sight of my child, at the opposite end of a sports hall, swaying out-of-time to Beyonce. I think it was Beyonce, Maria thinks it was Kiss, it was probably Harry Styles. These days everything is Harry Styles. Either way, tears well up in my eyes, as they all suddenly stop. The crowd goes wild.

The knights come on and do knight-themed dancing. They’re a year older than the rock stars, and the performance is polished, but I’m distracted because they’re all wearing furry brown leg warmers. Where do you get furry warm legwarmers these days, or ever, for that matter? And were they really associated with the age of chivalry in Spain? They file off before I have an answer, and the rabble of peasants amble on. I see my daughter whisper something to a girl beside her as they take their places, and I’m amazed anew at how well she’s doing in a language she didn’t speak when she arrived here six months ago. And you’ll have to take my word for it, but their interpretation of ‘Don’t You Worry’ by the Black Eyed Peas, David Guetta and Shakira (yeah, I looked that up), is legendary. Even if they do look like idiots. Seriously, I couldn’t be prouder.

Finally it’s over, and I’m pleased again we took the bikes. We’re able to escape the whistle-blowing policemen who have closed the roads again, preventing anyone else getting home. It’s an important part of tradition in Spain. So there you have it, a handy guide to the Carnival festival in most Spanish-speaking countries. A festival of pirates, cavemen and knights and bin bags, celebrated this time of year for reasons unknown, at least by me. I hope it was useful.

Happy Carnival!