It’s not only the seasons that seem to have shifted here. At this time of year, we should have snow on the mountains; instead it looked more as if we had a volcano out there this morning.
Tag: pueblo
children of all ages
On my way back from the village early yesterday evening, I met a neighbour who asked wasn’t I staying around for the Kings’ Day cavalcade.
The usual conversation resulted, about the Kings as gift-bearers not being part of my culture. (“We do things differently en mi tierra,” is a useful gambit which usually puts paid to criticism of my unorthodox behaviours. After all, I can’t help being foreign.)
Then I asked whether he was intending to watch the parade. “Oh no; es para niños.”
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of pigs and poetry
It’s a piece that I’ve been intending to write ever since we bought the house in the village and were told the guy couldn’t come to prune the trees on the long December puente as he’d be busy with la matanza.
In most parts of Spain, a cada cerdo le llega su San Martín – pigs get what’s coming to them on November 11th – but it seems that in our village it’s more traditional for the pig slaughter to take place on the feast of la Inmaculada.
That juxtaposition of the innocence and virginal white of the immaculate conception with the sheer red-blooded traditional country ritual of pig slaughter seems to be crying out for a poem to be written.
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now I’ve seen it all
I’ve seen it all – though sadly I don’t have photos, so have had to link to other sites: I’ve finally seen all the animals and birds that appear on the information board along by the river in the village. There aren’t that many, but it’s taken me six years to get a full house:
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Thor’s day
Like medicine that’s “everso nice when the nasty taste’s gone”, several days of torrential rain left has everywhere washed and bright and sparkling: 
I expect there will be more storms later, but I’ve tipped the spiders out of my red wellies and found my hand-knitted winter socks, so I’ll be all right.
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don't confuse the narrator 