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.