Wot's in a name? -- she sez . . . An' then she sighs,
An' clasps 'er little 'ands, an' rolls 'er eyes.
"A rose," she sez, "be any other name
Would smell the same.
I had arranged to have breakfast with the Germans at the bar in the little village of Santa Marta de Tera, less than a kilometre across the bridge from where I was staying in Santa Croya de Tera. We were to meet in front of the church. Thinking they would be precisely on time, I was there at eight o'clock on the dot, and was a little bit miffed when they hadn't arrived. But at 8:07 I could see why. Joerg hobbled towards me in his sandals. He wasn't walking anywhere today: his blisters were bloody and he was staying in town.
The trouble with blisters is that you feel them every step of the way, and when you are walking 40,000 steps a day that is 40,000 little stabs of pain. Or for me, 20,000, since my left foot is all right. And today, not stabs of pain, more like nudges or smudges. Quite bearable.
The very worst kind of walking is along the highway when you know that you have to keep plodding along for 16 km or so. Almost as bad is a walk off the highway but on any kind of road or track that's stretching out for miles ahead, and you just have to keep trudging forever to get to the horizon. The best kind of walking is one of constant variety, as it was this morning: across the field for a kilometre, around the corner, past a stand of poplars, through a forest, along the banks of a river, across a bridge and then along the other side of the river, through the woods again, and then along a canal to Calzadilla de Tera. And then two kilometres further to where some signs absolutely insisted that I stop for a coffee and a tortilla at Cafe Bar La Trucha in Oileros de Tera.
It was a wonderful morning's walk, with birds chattering as I startled them, and distant cuckoos chiming in the woods.
I thought of the Marta I had left behind at Santa Marta de Tera. I wondered whether this was the Martha who stayed behind the scene preparing and serving the meals while her younger sister was flirting with the guests. Now had Jesus been John Milton, He would've said of Martha,
They also serve who only stand and wait.
In the English world, Martha has long gone out of fashion, along with names like Mabel and Emily and Amelia and Myrtle and Edna and Nellie and Bertha and Fannie. For my generation, these were the names of grandmothers and great aunts, maiden aunts, many of them, a word that's never heard nowadays, nor the term "old maid", with the weight of society's disapproval upon it, for a woman was expected to get married and have children.
Mothers would say to their daughters:
Eth, You'd better marry old Bert. He may have a bit of a squint, but he's got a good job at the bank. Otherwise, you'll end up an old maid like your sister Flo.
Teachers will testify how quickly names come and go out of fashion. One year there are half a dozen Jasons in their class, and then they've gone forever, unless a famous celebrity should happen to bring the name back.
Boys' names from that era, like William and Charles and George and Joseph, have gone out of fashion, but have remained acceptable, unlike Myrtle or Nellie or Bertha or Fannie. Guess what the kids will call them at school.
Today, anything goes. I believe there is a court case in America at the moment over whether a family has the right to call their child, "Allah".
Can you imagine disciplining your son?
God, put Joshua back in the box and pick up those stones. Do as you're told, or it'll be Paddywack your drumstick.
No, wrong generation. More like,
God, do as you're told. Stop playing David and Goliath, and put away your device. Do it now or there'll be a consequence! God, do you want a timeout?
I had planned to stay at a little hostel run by a South African couple at Villar de Farfon, and I stopped there for a cup of tea. According to the guide, they have a "cute" dog, and indeed she was, but I thought she must have been on her last legs because she stayed in her kennel and barely managed a thump of her tail when I spoke to her. But no, her name was Lena, she was only seven years old, but being of sound mind, she was not going to go out in the noonday sun. But I didn't stay, as there was no possibility of food in the village. I walked on another six kilometres to a fine albergue and an exceptional meal at Rionegro del Puente.
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