A traditional Christmas

Monasterio San Pedro de Cardeña

Can a tradition be a tradition after only two years and if it didn’t take place the second of those years? According to my pal Jessica, yes! So off I went on the traditional Christmas day ride. I’d been a bit pessimistic on Facebollox as there was a bit of a snow flurry. Jessica wasn’t impressed and asserted that a tradition can be a tradition even if you can’t actually keep that tradition, she also wrote that it wasn’t really snowing much (she is a burgalesa, so anything under a couple of metres laying deep and thick and even is just a bit of dusting on the cake) and that I should get off my arse and get out there.

So I did; I was a bit perplexed as to why she didn’t take up my invitation to join me. I mean how could any one turn down an opportunity to pedal thru a beautiful frozen landscape, on a sunny afternoon, big sky overhead, mist draped mountains in the distance, snowy slopes adding to their tenuous, diaphanous feel, like a sequined ball gown drifting in and out of your vision one languorous afternoon with a dancing deb.

diaphanously dancing debs



And so it was; cold, but I soon warmed up, sunny, lovely views, dog walkers and walkers about, villagers in the villages, joyous celebrations in the bar at Modubar de la Cuesta, lots in the legs, the ol’ ticker ticking away smoothly, the lungs as they are won’t to do at this time of year, screaming like teenagers who’ve taken too much of their Daddies Scotch on a Sunday afternoon down by the river ………. And then there’s the Sierra. It’s really worth going out just to see the mountains; snow capped and wispy, more suggestion than solid mass.



Lookin more solid and less diaphanous; la sierra de la Demanda.

I dived down into the dip to go past the monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña. Its where el Cid used to drop of his wife and kids before he went off to batter, well, whoever anyone paid him to go and batter. He was after all, a medieval knight; did he have an awareness of concepts such as nationalism, patriotism, democracy; no, whereas fiefdom and fealty, always backed up with permission to keep a percentage of the swag; yes!  Coming back up the other side, I saw a congregation of fifteen buzzards beautifully poised, trimming the tail and adjusting the flaps to circle around someone’s garden.



A buzzard

There was a choir of songbirds tuning up hysterically, the crows were swooping and diving, doing their “montaña rusa” impersonation, a roller coaster of a ride. The owners of the merendero had left what looked like a carcass in the garden and the birds were going berserk. While the buzzards stayed above; waiting to take a little’un maybe? I’ve only ever seen such numbers together like that once before. Up the lane above my house in Talog, one afternoon, there they were gathered in a field, looking for all the world like a buzzard parliament. It’s a collective noun for one species of bird – a parliament of rooks?

Another look at where el Cid would dump Jimena and the kids while he beheaded Moors.

And so to home and the second part of my traditional Christmas; the consumption of a vast amount of dead pig products. Starting with my version of fabadas asturiano. Bean stew to you. Its laced with three kinds of pig. Chorizo, black pudding and chunks of bacon. This particular version is several days old now and the flavour will be at its richest. And because I live in sensible country where the bakers are still open, there’s choccy cake  for pud!

To occupy the mind I have stumbled upon the latest from señor Hornby, a hero, of course. It’s a typical Hornby, I’m loving not liking it, till I realise that despite his usual faults I can’t put it down and now I’m actually laughing out loud too! I’ve got a copy of his book of lit crit whch is a pleasure and one to delve into from time to time. Amusingly he takes to task various authors for exactly the kind of thing he’s guilty of himself. The main characters are guilty of appalling failures to get any kind of life, but suddenly wake up and acquire abundant self knowledge. Simple departures from context, that have Hornby the reader cringing, the constant straining for political correctness have overwhelmed the language to the point where you want to call him up and scream down the fone, “Its alright to say, ‘Bugger me sideways with a barge pole!’ if that’s what the context demands Nick me old china!” then there’s a couple of movies too and I could always get to the editing that I have to do in Travels in Time if its to become the book that I want it to be.

Merry bah humbug to everyone in Christmas World.

A white, white world



Now ain't it pretty.

Cycling is often an education.

Went out into a white white world yesterday with the boy David. He's an early bird while I don't ususally stir from the nest till about one. We compromised and decided on ten, being as I was "out" and buzzin' after a fine Christmas Carol concert with the choir in the freezing cold village of Mercerreyes. I felt it unlikely that I would be early to bed; and so it proved. but that's another story; I'll tell you another day. If anobody wants to hear.



el bar Patillas; why I didn't go to bed till .....

The weather fooled us totally; or rather the globals fooled us! In the city, where I imagine the temperature is a good few degrees higher than outside, it was a lovely, crisp, crystal clear morning. As soon as we reached the edge of the city, intending to follow the Camino to Astudillo, David's home village in Palencia, and train it home in the afternoon, it became immediately obvious that flexibility was the name of the game. A very dense cold fog enveloped us and was closely followed by a cold in the digits that threatened to turn us about. Plans changed as we suffered. Knowing that we were near the river (the source of the fog maybe) and that we would soon leave it, we decided to head for the first village, Tardajos and see what occurred.

The fog, we were down in it freezin' our ***** off.

What occurred was that the mist lessened and cleared as we hit the village .......... but as we left it thickened again abruptly. After a very short while we headed back to the village and installed ourselves in the bar. In most rural bars in Spain what matters is the wholesale dispatch of the local wildlife population. A good deal of the ex-population, the victims of this senseless slaughter, is usually visible in various states of decay; the arts of the taxidermist are to the fore. Antlers, skulls, rifles, a fox, and to top it all off an ostrich's neck were all apointed postions of importance on the walls. The inhabitants were waiting, as we were, for the mist to clear. So what did we learn?

Un porrón

Well, I learnt that in David's village its against the law to hunt in the fog. Note; they don't leave it to common sense, this means that, left to their own devices some would go out and shoot blind. And blind drunk . The barman had whipped out to clear our table of someone's breakfast; a few plates and a 2 litre porrón, a glass version of the distinctive Spanish wineskin. Its used in the same manner, up ended and the stream of liquid directed into your waiting gob. Which its a good idea to open first. Its pretty easy actually, but the locals don't like it if you make it look easy; they'll tell you that you haven't done it properly if you don't stain your shirt!

Enough sausages for all the village.

There we have it then; in the country near you - they're pissed, they've got guns, and they shoot them. Indeed they are to be heard as we pedal along, taking pot shots at partridges and the like. Or what they perceive to be a partridge in their soused state. Often they are after jabali, wild boar. Riding up a beautiful mountain in the Picos de Europa one glorious summer's day, I heard a screaming, wailing babies voice; plainly terrified. Rounding the next corner I came upon the hunter's 4 x 4's parked up and knew that a jabali was being murdered on the slopes above in front of her orphan offspring. They have guns and they shoot them, often worringly near us. Riding in la Rioja recently, one hunter took exception as we cycled along and a freind was loosing off a few shots with his camera ..... of the landscape. He shouted and gesticulated angrily, gun tucked under elbow, dogs scrambling up the slope towards us.

They don't make 'em like they used to.

One of the old boys standing nearby had brought along a few resources, as any good teacher should. He opened up with a dog whistle, which had heads whipping round up and down the bar, and moved on to a gunpowder pourer, which looked like something Arthur Negas would pore over in Antiques Road Show. On the cover of the hunting magazine which carelessly lay on our table was a Red Partridge, which gave my companion a chance to trot out a Latin name and explain that there were two species in Spain; the Red and the French Partridge. David knows many birds by their common and Latin names and will identify them as we pedal along; his father was a hunter, though he preferred falcons to a rifle, and as a lad David learned how to train then. He told me that a pair of birds; a mating pair, is used to hunt magpies, which is an unusual practice.

How white is that world.

We also learnt that its bleddy daft setting out so early on a really cold windless day in winter. Nevertheless we saw a wonderfully white landscape, such as I haven't seen since I saw the first snowfall in medieval Krakow. Each twig and branch, every reed and thicket, every field and hillside was encrusted with brilliant sparkling diamonds. Shirley Bassey woulda loved it! The water in our bottles froze, certain non-finger and toe extremities were also frozen, and we went down hill slower than we went up. but out we did go, another 50kms clocked up. We weren't the only ones either - passed at least half a dozen other bikeys.

Diamonds are forever Shirl!

Apocalypse on the Camino: meeting Martin Sheen

Epochal image in Apocalypse Now.

Just to prove that this blog isn't just about riding bikes, snowy Christmases and doing maths with the Spice Girls, here's a post straight out of the pages of HELLO! With a harder edge about the Civil War.

Last summer but one I was quietly pottering along the beautiful shady promenade that is Paseo Espelon. I passed St Mary's bridge and Arch and was heading for the Italian ice creamery when I spotted an older man, sitting relaxedly on the wall, leaning back on the railings, much as I intended to do with my Rum and Raisen/Chocolate cone. He was lapping up the warm sun, an unattended book open on his knees. Like many of the tourists and pilgrims (Burgos is in the middle of the Camino de Santiago) who pass through this beautiful city, he was simply stoned on the architecture; blissed out on the beauty. Oh, and he was the spit of Martin Sheen. I toyed with the idea of greeting him and asking him did he know that he rather resembled a Hollywood icon, but I cast my mind back to the days when I was hounded into exile by a percieved likeness to Jerry Springer and decided to leave the poor chap in peace. I bet the poor bastard gets it all the time; cor, what a pain ......



Crossing St. Mary's bridge towards St. Mary's Arch in typical Burgos winter weather.

Faithful followers of these pages will by now have gathered that my cultural references refer to days gone by. And modern day Spain. I certainly don't keep up with Hollywood; I don't like their movies anyway and I loath paying loads to watch a dubbed movie. For me a movie is a visual and an aural feast - or not! So, a picture like Million Dollar Baby, unremarkable story, images, jokes etc. was made remarkable; special; by the aural experience of Clint and Morgan's two hander. Take it away and there's just no way I'm going to pay 7 euros to see it. A rider to this is that in countries where films are not dubbed (because the population have a high literacy level and can read subtitles) the level of spoken English is also noticably better. We all know, for example, that the Dutch and the Scandi-weges all speak better English that wot we do; and their telly is all in version original. English.


Mass execution from the Spanish Civil War.

Cristina called me to ask if I wanted to go to the cinema with her to see a film about Albania (where Cristina had been as a volunteer several times) and emigration; part of a cycle of politically slanted films. The big attraction (we're in Spain here, food has to be part of it) was free sandwiches and drinks before the film. A gala occasion, lots of freinds and aquaintances (Burgos is a handkerchief! Or incestous, every one knows everyone and all their business, often before they know it themselves.) We mingled with the people emerging from the previous screening, listening to three of our friends who come from the same village; the film had included footage of Feli's father and grandfather,who had been shot by the Fascists as he was the mayor of the village and a red. He was just one of thousands and thousands of men and women killed before, during and after the Civil War. Gradually stories emerged; a baby thrust into a watching pair of arms to be saved; another grandfather lost, but on the "other" side; the lime pits they were shot into. Its all starting to emerge now the fear of reprisals has retreated. These were all ordinary people who I know well, telling family tales in a very matter of fact, unemotional way. Stunning.



The boy Sheen himself.

And so it was that I finally saw the movie posters for a new American film called, "The Way" about walking the Camino de Santiago and starring ......................

Of course; you're way in front of me; none other than my old pal Martin Sheen.
Mind, I shan't go to see the fillum; it'll be dubbed - and according to those who've seen it, its shite anyway!

Mart presses the flesh in Burgos.

Agus' Story

Some of those lower, shadier, more relaxed slopes; bah!

This is my current favourite cycling story; and it really is a good ‘un. The problem was that we had set out late and instead of doing the climbs early in the morning, like the Basque girls, while a nice warm sun burnt off the early mist, we were tardy and it cost us very, very dearly.

There were four of us; one was never seen again, one we lost to technical problems on the way and that left me and Agustin to ………. well, frankly, do the unthinkable.

In a Woodhousian way I think I’ve run ahead of myself a little here, so I’ll back up a bit and shade in the colour, much as he would have done it. Fat chance.

In Spain most cyclists wear lycra and go out early on Saturday morning, rush about the place very hurriedly, alone or in little groups of two or four or six, piling up the kms, before racing home so as to take the wife to eat with her mother by two, or if she’s very understanding three, which is the latest hour any self respecting Spaniard would consider healthful to consume his or her lunch. Those odd eccentrics who do not adhere to such customs are the mad fringe; we have an umbrella body called con bici/with the bike. In each city there is a local organisation of these odd cyclists who are prone to sally forth with large and heavy panniers buggering up their bikes and generally detracting from their efficiency. We tend to be very slow and tremendously unpunctual – which is odd here, as most Spaniards are far more punctual than the Brits. We have to stop and examine every small village; if it has a bar, and a village in Spain isn’t a village without a bar, it has to be tried out. Odd assortments of things are carried and even odder assortments of things are worn. Even odder is the fact that there are as many girls as boys in our ranks and kids too, fancy that! What these groups do basically boils down to two things. One; we fight for cyclist’s rights, and two; we organise rides and routes and social gatherings.

Sometimes these rides and social gatherings happen on a pretty big scale. So it was that thanks to the dynamic organism that is http://www.bizizbizi.org/ or the Bilbao branch of con bici, we were touring the Basque country for a week, both French and Spanish parts, seventy of us from all over Spain. I met Agus last year on the “encounters with bikes” ride which was held in Aragon. I’m tall and thin and like climbing mountains on bikes; Agus is short and sturdy and loves climbing mountains on bikes. He knows that its my Achilles heel; he knew, the bastard, that I just wouldn’t be able to resist adding another Puerto to my list. You see, what Agus knew and I didn’t, was that we were going to pass the foot of el Larrau, an ‘orrible mountain where Miguel Indurain, who lives hard by, lost the opportunity to win his sixth consecutive Tour de France to a Bjarne Riis who has since confessed he was doped up to the eyeballs. Well, who wasn’t in those days. Or now. The latest semi-serious, tinged with irony question amongst serious Spanish cyclists, is should Indurain be awarded the tour now that Riis has ‘fessed up………..?

Big Mig suffering ....

For some inexplicable reason I decided it was the time to ‘eff about with the length of my chain, which was a tiny bit too long and was making an annoying little clicking noise in certain gears that I hardly ever use. Long tall Pedro, who usually plays Quixote to Agus’ Sancho Panza, was attempting to replace four broken spokes – essentially rebuild a wheel, not in the comfort of a bike workshop but on the lovely green lawn that was the camping site that morning; we had to abandon him to his DIY. Eventually even Agus grew restive and having been into the village to shop and make his already bulging panniers even heavier, he decreed that we were for the off. We gathered Domingo, a Madrid University English Professor, and Yolanda a gorgeous blonde getting fit for the Himalayas and off we pottered. At the second village we had to stop, Yolanda had snapped a gear cable, fatal with all the big climbs of the day to come. Agus, who is to our troops what Florence Nightingale was to the boys in blue in the Crimea, fiddled valiantly while the sun got ready to burn. After a while Yolanda decided to go back and see what she could find, a bike shop, some friendly folk. Immediately the road tilted upwards alarmingly. Bigtime! And for 3 kms. This was serious folks, and according to my reading of the map we hadn’t even got to the village where it all started. After about half an hour of really hard climbing we arrived. Pretty place – all shut! At 1. This is a disaster for the Spanish, who are as dis-cum-knockerated by French hours as the rest of Europe is by theirs. We eat what we have in the shade of the Fronton wall, too quiet for words. Domingo opts to stay a while more to rest. The climb has really done for him, and we never see him again. Tho' he's alive and well and still cycling in Madrid where the hills just aren't that big, and we'll see him this summer!



The shady fronton.

By now its hot. Really hot. Very hot. Its hot just walking about. Its WAY too hot to even think about getting on a bike and climbing a mountain that reduced such a champion as Indurain to mere mortal levels. It’s the time of the day to find the complete cover of a beech forest's luxurious shade and linger over lunch, savouring the lush silence and thick pile carpet to doze away the heat outside while lulled by the hint of damp in the air and the silvery notes of a nearby stream. And they abound here in the Pyrenees, indeed we rode up thru one. We stopped to leave our panniers in a perfect one. And went on. And on. And up.

Its 13 kms is the Larrau, not the longest Puerto in the world by any means. But it’s the incline that kills. Its steep, it’s a bugger. And there’s no let up. Even the first curves were hard, although there was some shady spots to be had. That soon stopped and it was suffer, suffer, suffer. A stifling dry heat sucked the air from your searing lungs and soon I began to be aware of a distinct suspicion that the only other road visible, with a similarly steep ascent was the other Puerto still to be climbed after this. Lets just say that I wasn’t enjoying it. We got out of the shady bits and we got cooked; roasted we were. And we weren’t going to be rare, no blood; not medium, not even well done; we were going to be desiccated.

Agus could see by now that I was suffering, but more, that my heart wasn’t in it. So he decided to tell me his story. Here we go.

The summer before, Agus was in exactly the very same place, riding the same gear, suffering the same pain, a little woried about his companion - another friend who was suffering and dropped, lower down the mountain. Gradually, our hero - for he is nothing if not a hero, Agus - became aware, through the pain and the sweat dripping into his squinting eyes, aware of a sound, aware of a sound alongside his bike. Gradually he became aware that there were other bikeys riding with him. Peripherally you understand, you don't disturb the rythym, you don't move a muscle you don't have to, it wasn't till he heard the voice that he risked a glance across. "How brave; with mudguards and all!" the voice said ......... and sounded just a little familiar. Agus breathed deep, summoned all his reserves and properly concentrated, sat up and looked across.

And nearly fell off his bike! It was the great man himself, riding with a couple of companions on the historic site of his worst hour. And he was hailing our hero as a brave and valiant man  - literally in Spanish, "Que valiente!" Of course, after that it all seemed easy, "Here I am riding up el Larrau with Miguel," thought brave Agus quietly and with no little satisfaction to himself. and with a salute they were gone.

And so it was that Agus, my brave Pancho ( I had to be Quixote being so much taller; tho' I pointed out that if any one was irrational round there it wasn't me) made a present of his finest hour to me, to encourage me up the ramps. It worked of course. But by God we died on the next puerto.

On doing decimals with the Spice Girls

Some scene setting is clearly necessary here; picture if you will a poor supply teacher tender in experience if not in years. He sits taking a well deserved cup of cha’ in a friendly staff room and is engaged in the pleasant task of having the urine extracted by a friend and colleague; one Andrew, a thoroughly nice man, with only one fault,  the taint of Man U supporting.

“ I see you’ve got Maths with Y6 now then.” He offers as an opening delivery.

“Yeh, and, so,” I dead bat, dot ball.

“Mr. Jones has been coming in and doing logic with them, you know.” He pops one up in the block ‘ole, searching for a chink in my defence.

“Is there something I should know; are you trying to tell me something Andrew?” I dig it out with a straight bat.

Laughing now, unable to hold the bouncer back any longer, “They’ll dispute with you; he’s trained them up good!”

I try the hook shot and it flies over my head into the ‘keepers gloves harmlessly, but I’m a little shaken.

“What are you doing with them?” asks Andy all innocence, another dot ball.

“Decimals.” Again the dead bat, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing my nerves.

The face all innocent concern, “Good luck.” He offers a good length ball, just down the off side, right where it should be.

A little more scene setting is needed; I’ve been in this class before and Andy is right; they’re bright and sparky, just how I like it. The thing is that today is Red Nose Day and five of the brighter sparkier girls who all sit in a gang down the front have been performing as the Spice Girls all through break time and they'll be a bit hyper after all that buzz. And the kids are all dressed up all day. This in itself is a tad, just a tad surreal. Hit the pause button for just a moment here; examine, if you will, how you might feel trying to teach a bright sparky class of eleven year olds all dressed in street clothes with the Spice Girls down the front demanding your attention. So; I agree, if you’re a teacher with fifteen years experience, as I am now, water off a wet duck’s back; otherwise its definitely somewhat surreal. Huge fun, but surreal. So, here we go ……… on with the motley.

Everyone came in and we all got settled down, complimented the girls on their performance – get them onside Jer – even though I hated the Spice Girls, and off we go with the introduction. Over the first few hurdles nice and smoothly, into the stride, water coming up, we’re going for the multiplication (safe an’ easy) and division (bleddy minefield) ……… easy innit mun – just move the decimal point.

A hand shoots up, Scary Spice; and I want you to know, they really looked like them, not just the costumes; the make up, the hair do’s, the attitudes, everything except certain curves here and there ………

“Yes Tracey.” Obviously names have been changed here to protect the innocent – though the guilty party is named and shamed! A stutter in his stride appearing unavoidably.

“That’s wrong.” She’s cool a as cucumber; utter certainty in her tone, body language and expression; eleven going on Professor of Maths at Oxbridge!

“Uhhh,” oh dear, the stride pattern is all shot to pieces now, will ‘ee go down in the water? “What do you mean?” if in doubt keep asking questions.

“You don’t move the decimal point,” she’s not being contemptuous, just laid back, just seeking to help me out a little, give me the benefit of her undoubted wisdom. “It’s the numbers that move.”

At this point I run off the track and pass her the chalk and she takes over the lesson, with a little help from Sporty aka Sharon, Baby aka Tracey, ( I kid you not, this is in Milford Haven, definitely not nice middle class kids; just bright. Oh, and sparky too.) Posh aka Charlotte and Ginger aka Jade.

Eventually when all that adrenalin had been burned up they let me have the class back, and then the bell went and we had lunch. We had all learned something; me I learned to let go a little and to let the bright sparky ones do the teaching; the class got a sound education in decimals; hopefully one or two of the girls got the feeling – Yeh; love this! I’m going to be a teacher. And shit! Any one who doesn’t believe in education being a right for ALL the people should go and spend a day there. In my day the school had a forty piece orchestra featuring a didgeridoo. Now there’s something you don’t see every day.

“So how did it go then?” a bit of a tentative delivery trying to get me to play forward and too early.

“Oh fine thanks.” I waited for the leather to come nicely onto the middle of the willow.

“Did they dispute with you?” he dug it in short again; the bouncer.

“Yep, they sure did.” I swayed back and watched it safely by.

“And how did you cope with that?” again with the short ball, the catcher out on the boundary waiting the false stroke.

“Loved it mate, loved it!” and the thing is, I did; six, over the beer tent and into the car park – go get the ball pal!

Its a beautiful day



Looking east from Portillo de Busto along the Montes de Obarenes



Its just a perfect day for cycling today (how many more song titles can we fit in Jer?! answers below on the obligatory post card), no wind, which is almost unheard of here in Burgos where I had to invent a new form of cycling called bici y tren, or bike and train, to overcome the howling gale that normally prevails, gloriously sunny and with that wonderfull clarity of light that winter brings and gives you views to die for all over the shop.

 

I believe that cycling is a rite. A series of rituals. It’s a bloody right too, and don’t let any four wheel based bastard tell you anything different ……. But back to the Buddism, the cycles, the rituals, the Zen, the mechanics of it all (all right, its broadened to books too). If I do a certain route I have little habits that have to be observed. Like turning prayer wheels, only they’re bike wheels. Kinda like songlines, singing the route out for me ………

So, f’rinstance, this route involves giving it some welly up the climb out of Riocereza, the beautifully named village of Cherry river. Pausing on the top to gaze at the whole of the intriguingly named Demanding mountains. Popping into Lences to admire the church and the bridge, if not the bar - inside and out; inside if its winter, outside under the succulent shade of the spreading vine in summer. In Oña its obligatory to consume a wonderful creation called either a Choripan (literally a chorizo sausage baked in bread; all the juices ooze out and infest the bread) or a Preñao, the bread being pregnant with the chorizo; depending on whether you’re in the Basque country or Asturias; as we’re in Burgos this can be confusing. This particular part of the rite is interchangeable in winter with the consumption of a Morcilla sandwich, Morcilla being what you and I would call Black Pudding. There is a further confusion as here the sandwich will be filled with Morcilla de Burgos, not to be confused with Morcilla de Asturias, and made with the vital ingredient of rice. Fancy, butch Black Pudding with Nancy boy vegetarian Buddist rice. Its an acquired taste. And I’ve definitely acquired it. what’s more its perfect cycling food! All yer carbs and pure protein thrown in.

Perfect plate!

Then its off again past the Guardia Civil station, who had the nerve to come and ask for my passport and get stroppy cos I didn’t have it when we all took over the youth hostel one perishin (it was blowin’ snow flurries when I set off home, all the others being encumbered with kids and cars) w/end last winter; words were had, I can tell you! Turn right and off up one of my two fave bits of road in all the province. The other is close by in las Caderechas. In the first village I usually have to stop and grieve over “my house” which was simply beyond my financial resources and then got sold. Buggers haven’t done bugger all with it! what can you do eh? Then its on to Barcenas, sometimes its necessary to stop and chat there, as we did today, David and I, with a lovely chap of a certain age who had left the village at a young age to work in the Basque country. He was forthrightly championing the joys of multilingualism, and the teaching and speaking of Euskera (Basque) in particular. Given the rivalry and suspicion that exists between Burgos and the Basque country in general, despite, or because of their being next door to one another and the interchange of population that brings, it was heart-warming to hear him express such views openly and without fear in the middle of the street. A life lived in exile, comments David, often leads to openness.

Encantapajaros

In la Aldea Portillo de Busto, I sometimes go to admire the “encantapajaros”. A play on the word espantapajaros or, scarecrow; espanta is scare, while encanta is enchant. So the birds will be enchanted rather than scared. The first time I climbed up from the beautiful castled village of Frias beside the Ebro river I met Jorge, an Argentinian and an artist, sculptor and organiser. He showed me about and we chatted, since then I’ve met him a few more times and he was always lovely. Last time he told me that he’d got cancer, but seemed optimistic, observing that I wasn’t the first time the doctors had told him he was finished. Sadly today we heard he passed away last month. One of his neighbours laughing admiringly told of his courage and how he’d left everything organised while joking that he himself wouldn't have been capable. A very sad moment. It reminded me of my Mum who’d also organised everything to the last detail.

Jorge

All that’s left, then is to climb the mountain. Well, we’ve been climbing steadily since Oña, but this is the beginning of the puerto proper. Its only 4 kms and reasonably suave, or gentle, but nevertheless after 70 odd kms it has to be climbed. And a sprint at the top has to be done, no!? Oh yes, I think so! Then it’s the perfect day moment of staring at the view, tho’ in winter this often has to be limited due to factors such as shivering, train times, light left, howling gales, severe hunger and simply being buggered. Today it was all big snowy mountains, just as it should be. Its why we do it, it really is. There's no finer feeling, sitting on a rock perched above a majestic view admiriing all the grace of creation.

 

All the grace of creation

Then comes the really hard bit. The false flat out of Vid de la Bureba. Today it was interesting to see, with no wind, plenty of time and light, well fed, full of energy after a not-battling-the-wind day that David was a tad sceptical of my stories of Fear and Loathing on the plain in Spain. I kid you not, I have died on that bastard many times. Ohhhh, it’s a bastard. About 3 kms, with a curve, always, always into the wind (wind, wind, what am I talking about – it’s a gale!), just uphill enough to kill you off. Twice I’ve missed the train and the first time I rode back, an extra 40 kms in the dark along the main road, all hurtling great lorries, up and over another big climb. Last time, soaked with sweat from my valiant effort to get the last train, I went into the baker’s, bought a preñao or two and asked if there was a taxi to be had. The lovely lad not only called the taxi for me, but invited me to wait in the warm of the shop and sit on the bench thoughtfully provided for his older customers – and buggered bikeys! Yesterday it was a stroll in the park, a dawdle not in the dark. That’s only the second time ever I’ve had that luxury in five years.

Song titles:
Its a beautiful day - U2
A perfect day - Lou Reed
The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain - Alan Jay Lerner

Book titles:
Zen and the art of motorcycle mechanics - Robert Persig
Songlines - Bruce Chatwin
Fear and loathing in Las Vegas - Hunter S. Thompson

Christmas in Burgos

The frozen north

I'm in Spain, where x*m* is still a religious festival celebrating the birth of one Jesus Christ and not a shopping frenzy of american proportions. Most people work the day before and the day after. The bakers, of course, work all thru' as Spain would grind to a confused and panicked halt if they didn't. The big day is "los reyes", the kings, 6 jan, celebrating the arrival of Balthazar and his buddies to hail the Baby Jesus. Presents are given and parades take place and people are out in force everywhere ........ just in case you've all forgotten that its not a pagan festival dedicated to the worship of M and S, BHS, Woolies, Tescos, and all those other halls of Mammon. 

My personal invovlement in all this finished at school on Friday with the construction of Father Christmas' Grotto and adding the finishing touches to the belen that Carlos built (as opposed to the House that Jack built). A belen is what we'd call a nativity scene - but you have to think MUCH bigger ...... ours is about ohhhhh ...... 3m by 2m and features a castle, a running stream, fairy lights, kings on their camels led by delightfully femenine looking pages, shepherds, the Baby Jesus, moss, sand, leaves, hills and caves and so on. Most have a wonderful figure taking his ease, and known as "El caganer" or The Crapper. 

The very irreverant holiness himself.

Some villages take to the hills to build their belens. This gives plenty of scope for taking the kids, lots of food and plenty of wine up the hill too. Ooops, we've forgotten all the materials to build the belen, back down the hill, and while we're there a tad more food and feeling a bit dry, so some more wine too. The best belen here in Burgos is in a modern catholic church with a VERY scary wooden sculpture of Christ crucified, its enormous and takes up about 50 sq m ............ it has everything from burning camp fires to the angels and stars in the heavens, there is of course "el caganer" or "The Crapper" but I somehow doubt it will be the Pope! Well worth a visit. In fact ........ I'm off now.