When my big brother, Marcus, flew out last month for his first holiday with us, I really had not anticipated his apparent pensioner-pin-up status here. To me, he is my 61-years-young, newly separated, favourite sibling, but to the single, over-fifty women of Nerja, he was pure catnip. You see, the single ratio of women to men here is not in the women’s favour. So, when a sixty-something man arrives, with a full head of hair, two functioning hips, his own teeth and the ability to string a sentence together, word spreads fast.
Tuesday morning Padel Club was my first encounter with this strange phenomenon. Highly intelligent, independent, attractive women suddenly started simpering like teenagers, twirling their hair, licking their lips and strutting their stuff around the court. Me, mortified. My brother, absolutely loving it. Encounter number two, Gardening Club’s monthly meeting at my house. Instead of talking all things Monty Don, they were crossing their legs Sharon Stone-style whilst throwing their heads back, laughing loudly at all of Marcus’ jokes. Me, mortified. My brother, again, absolutely loving it.
But these were just warm-up acts to the main mating event, La Noche de San Juan festival, down at Burriana Beach or, as I now like to call it, spring break for oldies. The over-fifty female international community were out in force, having heard fresh meat had arrived. As soon as we stepped on the beach, I was greeted like a long-lost friend by women I barely knew, desperate for an introduction. Meanwhile, the over sixty-five cougars took a more direct approach, moving in to form a tight circle around him, each looking to drag their prey to a secluded spot to feed undisturbed.
As my brother seemed to still be loving the attention, I left him to it. But after a couple of hours, Marcus appeared at my side, looking dishevelled, out of breath and, frankly, a little scared. “Hide me. Now.” Not knowing what was going on, but sensing alarm in my usually confident brother, I shoved him into a friend’s nearby pop-up tent. Just in time too, because a posse of sangria-filled, swinging-sixties senoras descended on me. “Where is he?” Yvonne from Sweden demanded angrily. “It’s time to go skinny dipping,” shouted Parisian Marie. “It’s my turn to dance with him,” whined Dublin-born Caitlin from the back. Sensing my brother quaking, I protectively lied: “I’m so sorry, Marcus had to head home, his colostomy bag needed changing.” But, as they shuffled off, disheartened, I felt bad, especially when I heard Mia from Frankfurt forlornly muttering, “See, I told you he was too good to be true.”
But as soon as the coast was clear, up popped my brother, now giggling. Apologising to him profusely, he simply replied: “What on earth are you sorry for? Best trip of my life. Haven’t had this much action in years. I just need some wingmen, can’t handle that lot on my own.” And with that, off he shot to WhatsApp his rugby club teammates of ‘83, inviting them out for the Festival de las 3 Culturas in Frigiliana next month. Oh, dear lord.
Right, mush dash. Just heard his sexagenarians are coming over. Fifteen of them. Marcus has bagged a last-minute villa cancellation. With hot tub. And I really need to make sure it has a defibrillator…
Postcards from Andalucía, Lady Muck Style
By Catherine Saunders / Read more at www.ladymuck.style
