Galicia

I tell you here a little galician poem of an contemporary author of A Coruña, Toni Garcia Arias (born between A Coruña and Ferrol) :

I remember the landscape of my childhood,

The air stuffy of humidity,

The salt, 

The days of rain when the sun never raises,

The oxide of the shipyards, 

The nostalgia anchored in the harbours

Like waves waiting tides, 

And this orphan and distant voice,
Who remembers that the sea
Is always distant.
I see again this landscape,
As a boat sees a crossing
As hope the kisses which wait for us,
At the threshold of these bodies,
Which never belong to us.

Two months ago day for day, I was in Barcelona, for a last train step who will leave to me at the other side of Spain. When I woke up in the train, near Lugo, I exactly found what it is written in the poem, less the sea. The sky was grey, the landscape green but terribly made of the marks of the diary heroes who have come and gone in these grounds. Today, under a sky highly tormented, not to say furiously whimsical, it was impossible to hope ever sustainable exit. The sea and the harbour were there, quiet, under the influence of a really autumnal sky. All Galicia is summarized in this poem.

That's we call a transition week. I accomplished my 115th day in Spain, after having crossed the country from the north to the south, from the east to the west, even a lot of chapters to read and to write are still missing. The autumn took his rights, with a little 7°C indicated this evening, with trees now exposed, ready to cross the winter.

This week has not been virgin of events and activities. It begun near Arteixo, an other green country where the facades are so coloured. Santiago, well named, one day after the Pope's visit in the Obradoiro's place, has invited me to a padel's game, a variant of tenis come from Argentina. The courts are open, with prices challenging any competition. The aim is the same as tenis but the court is limited by walls and not by corridors, which let the possibility to hit a ball once time she plumped against the fence. The game is so more playful, more intense and quicker than tennis, because the area covered is lower. I really recovered my child's feelings.

As usual now each monday, I have my dosis of mouto (more) and pouco (a few) in the comedor of Andaina's college. That means the quantity of caldo desired by the children of Educación Primaria Obligatoria. But the psychological session which follows, which consists to end the spoonfuls to the last participants, is reducing gradually.

Last thursday we had the right to a theatre's session in French, aimed to the pupils of 3°ESO. I just understood their pain listening again some recorded sessions. In the framework of the Salesian's college, my camara got angry with the acoustic. The play was called "Groundhog Day", referring to a day which is always desesperatly repeating. In an French quite correct, the students who came from a hot country, Sevilla, conquered the public.

So I desesperated myself looking for groundhogs. The galician mountains, seen last week, are difficult to access. I have to take the train to Ourense's suburbs, which would be at spring's program. Waiting for that, I wished extend a part of the ground's camino towards Betanzos but this galician's rain, so cold, so windy, so capricious, stopped my during two days. It's for another time. At the end, it's a acuatic sanctuary probably full of biodiversity. Just before the harbour stuck in the sand...