England hath need of thee
Clear blue skies this morning. Cool. Lovely walking weather. I looked out across a wide open plain towards two gently rounded hills, rather feminine, if a little uneven. There, I guessed, was my destination.
Vines and olives. Nothing but grapevines and olive trees planted in red brown soil as far as the eye could see.
The olive trees needed little attention, but farmers were busying themselves about the vines in their tractors, harrowing between the rows or towing a huge tank, addingliquid fertilizer, perhaps.
Patrick from Toulouse once told me that I would be horrified if I knew the volume of chemicals that went into the making of wine. It hasn't stopped me drinking it though.
I have always been amazed how the vines line up in three directions: horizontally, vertically and diagonally. In parts the old vines have been uprooted, and new ones planted, perfectly spaced in little green cylinders. The stumps are heaped in piles ready to be burned.
A sign indicated that 300 million euros had been contributed by the European Community towards the development of this area. How enlightened to distribute wealth in order to build wealth in these poorer areas!
O you miserable, narrow-minded, backward-looking, xenophobic Brexiters!
Vines and olives! By the end of the day I had had enough of them, and was glad to arrive in Torremegia. It reminded me of a wild western town. I was just in time for the 3:10 to Yuma.
My daughter Rachel New Zealand has asked me the origin of a quotation I used a couple of days ago. Here it is again:
To Thomas, paths connected real places, but they also led outwards to metaphysics, backwards to the past, and inwards to the self.
It's from The Old Ways: a Journey on Foot by Robert Macfarlane. In the opening chapter he writes about the tradition of English walking from George Borrow in Lavengro to the poet Edward Thomas, mentioned in the quotation.
I've always believed that walking is a particularly English pastime. There are perhaps as many words in English for walking as there in Inuit for snow, and no other country has the same network of public footpaths, zealously kept alive by local ramblers' societies who brave the bulls in farmers' fields to keep the old paths open.
Walking provides the solitude necessary to think, and the natural rhythms of the body stimulate reflection and introspection. Think of the peripatetic Greek philosophers.
My friend John from Australia is reminded of this line from Rousseau.
Never did I think so much, exist so vividly, and experience so much, never have I been so much myself - if I may use that expression - as in the journeys I have undertaken alone and on foot.
Depending on the weather, and your state of health, and your frame of mind, a walk can be a pensive stroll, a meditative ramble, a serious introspective hike - or a mindless trudge after too many miles.
And speaking of the old ways.... In old days the wine would flow freely at pilgrim's meals, but of late, not only in the tourist towns, but elsewhere along the way as well, a nasty practice has crept in of specifying one only bebido with the meal. I am happy to report that during our meal tonight when the level of the vino tinto was close to the bottom, the host appeared, grabbed the bottle, topped up our glasses, and arrived with new one. It is such a no-brainer. One euro for an extra bottle! And instead of customers complaining about the miserable old bastard, they recommend the place to their friends. As I do.
I am staying at the Bar Restaurant Albergue Rojo-Plata.
No comments:
Post a Comment