Like I said the other day, it’s been very, very wet. But yesterday the rain stopped for long enough for me to go for a walk. The river was back within its banks, and I got a glimpse of the mountains for the first time since I got back from the UK:
This morning, the predominant colour outside is grey once more, and the mountains have disappeared again.
Category: village life
sodden
It’s been raining for days. I could have taken a photo of the two inch deep puddle in front of the greenhouse, but instead I went to the piscina natural and made a short video:
olive gathering
It turns out they are harvesting the olives and the pole is being used to beat the trees to make the ripe fruit fall.
I know it’s totally non-pc, but I am reminded of the saying about “a dog, a woman and a walnut tree”. I don’t suppose anyone dares say that anymore.
Apparently they’ve decided it’s not good to beat olive trees, either. This list of harvesting methods describes “el vareo” as “un método no aconsejable ya que daña al olivo” – it’s not advisable as it damages the tree. The advantage of the method, though, is that it is quick and simple and a lot of fruit is retrieved.
la matanza
Today I came across the Asociación Cultural “Tradición Arenense” , and discovered that at least one of the “cultural traditions” of the town of Arenas de San Pedro sounds quite bloody.
This weekend, according to a poster I saw in a bar window, they are celebrating “la matanza, dios mediante, en la plaza de las víctimas.” They could hardly have chosen a better venue, could they?
Presumably dios mediante doesn’t mean that God will be officiating at the upcoming slaughter; it must be the local equivalent of d.v. – deo volente – God willing. Personally, I’d always hoped the Spanish phrase might be con dios al volante – “with God at the steering wheel.”
200: a work in progress
When I first started this blog it was intended to be mostly poetry, but I’ve allowed myself to be distracted by other language issues and general bits & pieces, and it’s a while since I posted a poem.
This, though, is my 200th blog post, so I think some poetry is called for. The problem with short poems is that it’s almost impossible to know when they’re finished. So, like the blog, this is a work in progress; a draft:
draught
The dragon in the fireplace snorts
contempt for kitchen mortals. He shifts
to find a comfy spot, catches his breath
and coughs, farting a firework spray
of sparks and embers. His scaley hide
cracks open as he settles back to rest
on his vermilion hoard.
don't confuse the narrator 