Áilín Quinlan: Burning issues... a chat in the sun shed light on housing crisis

I met a charming Norwegian on a sunny, wave-licked Spanish beach; one thing led to another, and the next morning I woke up with a sore head.

There isn’t a word of a lie in this sentence, and, in fairness, it does conjure up some enthralling scenarios.

The reality is more prosaic, so I will re-phrase that sentence.

I met a charming Norwegian on a sunny, wave-licked Spanish beach; one thing led to another, and the next morning I woke up with a burned forehead and a red, flaking nose.

For more than an hour, the Norwegian and I stood shooting the breeze in the blazing heat of the mid-afternoon sun; a discussion about the wonderful nature of schnauzers somehow led to the lack of affordable accommodation in the land of fjords and glaciers – as bad or possibly worse than in Ireland, apparently - the enlightening cost of cucumbers, the rape/drugs allegations involving the son of Norway’s Crown Princess, Prince Andrew, and who else, Jeffrey Epstein. My, isn’t the world a small place now!

I was three miles into a seven-mile hike along a relatively rural strip of the Costa del Sol, thinking about the heat of the Spanish sun in March and how more sunblock needed to be applied to my face and neck.

Then I crossed paths with the Norwegian.

He was out for a stroll with a cute little dog that I initially took for a small Kerry Blue. Being a dog person, I stopped to ask and learned it was a mini-schnauzer – and that its health issues to date had cost him the guts of €10,000.

As I reeled back in fascinated horror, the Norwegian said mildly that he didn’t mind the expense because he adored her and, anyway, he had pet insurance.

He went on to list the schnauzer’s attributes – they’re great little guard dogs, excellent ratters, and tremendously affectionate pets. I was utterly riveted by all of this, as I’d never seen a schnauzer, large or miniature, before this.

Afterwards I googled mini-schnauzers and discovered that in Ireland the pups can set you back anything from €500 upwards and past the €1,000 mark, and that, yes, schnauzers do appear to have their fair share of breed-related health problems.

Ah, yeah, given all of that, I don’t think I’ll be investing, much and all as I liked the dog.

We had both noticed how the cost of property on the Costa del Sol – while rising – is still more affordable than in Ireland or, indeed Norway, where, my new friend revealed, prices have been eye-wateringly out of reach of the average buyer for many decades.

He said that family members thinking about selling a nice but quite ordinary ’60s/’70s bungalow in a Norwegian suburb, nothing special, had recently been flabbergasted to learn that it could net them close to a million euro.

Back in the late 1980s, he recalled, he’d managed, in his own words, to “squeeze through a crack in the market” to purchase a comfortable apartment. Which, he revealed, he was now seriously considering selling to finance a permanent move to warmer, cheaper Spain.

We talked about how hard it was for anyone on a normal salary to buy a home in either of our countries now.

Some days later, I read an article about how Irish 30-somethings believe there is a strong connection between the unavailability of homes and the country’s falling fertility rate.

Back to my encounter in the sunshine. I observed to my newfound friend that I’d always wanted to travel through Norway. I nearly went on a cruise there two years ago, I said, and I’d still very much like to see it.

Well, he told me glumly, if you come, be prepared for a big, big bill for hotel accommodation and basic food.

The example he gave was as illuminating as it was interesting - he could buy a cucumber in Spain for €1, but the same cucumber could cost up to €4 in Norway.

Only the wealthy or those in receipt of financial assistance can comfortably manage the purchase of even an ordinary house in either Norway or Ireland now, we agreed.

And from there we segued into the allegations surrounding Norway’s royals and members of the country’s social elite. Its royal family is at the centre of a roaring hurricane of unwanted media and public attention because of an ongoing court case.

“Ooof,” sighed the Norwegian despairingly.

Marius Borg Hoiby, the son of Norway’s Crown Princess, stands accused of a litany of crimes including four rapes and assaults. He has pleaded not guilty to the most serious offences.

Prosecutors are seeking a prison sentence of more than seven years, while his own lawyers are seeking his acquittal on charges of rape and a sentence of no more than 18 months on other, more minor offences.

Hoiby was really getting a hammering in the Norwegian press, the man said gloomily. He felt a bit sorry for the 29-year-old, he admitted.

From there, privilege and scandal, we got on to Jeffrey Epstein. Ah, Epstein, that snake of a man, whose sinister legacy has so many and such long tentacles.

We talked about Prince Andrew and the British royals, and the U.S Department of Justice files which have recently revealed ties between Norway’s Crown Princess Mette-Marit and Epstein.

Sure, money wasn’t everything – in fact, it seemed, it could land you in quite a bit of bother if you didn’t have the knack of managing it - but all the same, the man and I agreed, if you could stay grounded, having a little bit more than you needed would be lovely.

We parted at a picturesque wooden bridge after a very enjoyable debate on some of the world’s problems and resolving nothing.

We never got around to Trump, funny enough. And I completely forgot the sunscreen.