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!