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St George is the nickname I’ve given to my builder, and now good friend, Jorge. This 48-year-old gallego, born in the same town, El Ferrol, as the infamous Spanish dictator who ruled over Spain for 36 years, following the Spanish Civil War, first entered my life last year.
I’ve had a few builders in my time, both in the UK and in Spain, but they’ve always disappointed. Not Jorge. He is outstanding in every respect.
When he first showed up last summer to dig me a ditch, I thought this quiet little man with the goatee beard was just a peón. He didn’t say much, just got on with the job and did it to my satisfaction.
I asked whether he could paint all my iron gates and fences. He did that conscientiously over the next few days, rubbing the metal down properly and wire-brushing the rusty bits before applying Hammerite.
I asked if he could lay bricks and render and finish off with capa fina so you couldn’t see the join.
“¡Soy albañil, coño!” was his slightly miffed reply.
Did he like gardening? Over recent months he has felled and pruned trees, built raised beds, constructed a superb jardinera on our private terrace and moved two cubas of topsoil from where it was dropped on the road outside my house.
Electrical work? He installed an exterior socket for me in no time at all. At the house I am renovating in Montejaque he has cut all the channels in the walls and ceilings for the re-wire and installed the cajetines, sockets and switches.
He has knocked down walls, built walls, replaced the rotten wooden beams in the kitchen ceiling with concrete ones, without the room above collapsing on top of us. In the fullness of time he will replace two roofs.
He doesn’t like carpentry, but he has hung new doors and installed windows. They’re perfect.
He even changed the wheel on my car when I had a puncture, something he had never done in his life.
What he doesn’t like is water. He won’t do plumbing, so José or I do that.
In fact, he hates water so much, he left damp and rainy Galicia at the age of 17 to come and join the Spanish Foreign Legion in Ronda, looking for a better climate. After his 15 years’ service as a legionario, he stayed in the area, re-trained as a chef and later as an albañil (bricklayer).
Jorge has told others that I am his guiri friend, which makes me feel good, because I like him a lot too.
He even baby-sits my dog, Berti, on occasion, including overnight. The guy truly is a saint.
He is quite fiery and very opinionated. He is well-informed and has, as far as he is concerned, valid views about the disastrous politics of Spain.
The saints George and Paul having a drink after work
As for my reforma, if he disagrees with what I want to do, he says so. The guy has style. He has come up with some much better ideas and solutions to problems than I have.
I’m the boss, as I pay the bills, but he’s the jefe really.
Jorge does not drive, so I have to collect him and take him home. He doesn’t like my driving.
“He sobrevivido cinco guerras; no quiero morir en un accidente de tráfico. Más despacio, coño, porfa.”
“I’ve fought in five wars (the Gulf – twice, Afghanistan, the Balkans and Iraq) and I’ve survived. I don’t want to die in a banal road accident. Will you please slow down.” Fair enough.
That’s San Jorge.
Note: The real St George, patron saint of England, and Spain’s dragon slayer, also have stories behind their legends. I just thought my St George is a more interesting character and you can’t look him up on Wikipedia.
