Mists, Mellow Fruits and Mushrooms!

Spanish Revolutions

Just when you thought you had got to grips with the last one along comes another
#SpanishRevolution!

Very excitable, foreigners, but as rubber man Cameroon and Gideon are always banging on about it, we are all in this together. I think that is what El Pueblo Unido Jamas Sera Vencido means in English. Can't think where I have heard that before. One of the perils of long life Dave, a view!

If you are perplexed it may help to read an article about Understanding ‘Spanishrevolution’
by Pedro Silverio Moreno in openDemocracy.

Then again, it may not! I think I'll just sit down now while someone phones for the Cruz Rioja!

El Norte

I was delighted with this post by Nicholas Carr which links to a series of photos by Sebastian Schutyser of the Ermitas of Northern Spain. Schutyser gives a brief but fascinating account of the series in Carr's blog.
We spent some time here and it really is that interesting and delightful. We blunbled on so much that has stayed with us and sustained us. The shot below is of a small but perfectly formed church in a village near where we lived in the magic valley.

These are copies of copies. See the real thing!

Warning! These locations contain peace and beauty!

Hamming it up

I am fond of the pig. If a man, or woman for that matter, can live on potatoes alone then how much more pleasant and nourishing to prosper with the addition of cabbage and bacon.

Our travels in Spain resulted in frequent stops in places of refreshment where the legs of your porkers hung in the tobacco smoke with inverted paper umbrellas below them to catch any precipitation. We also spent a happy week in cork oak country and indeed watched the sweet little beasts rootling for the acorns. Your Spaniard does like his or her pig; every bit of it! This love affair has not gone unnoticed.

In Galicia they eat everything.

In Andalucia, in Jabugo, a slice or two of pata negra with your manzanillia would leave you thinking you had died and gone to heaven.

However, as with all things, the bad guys noticed too. The Grauniad reports that -

Ham inspectors put 17 tonnes of pig meat into quarantine yesterday as they cracked down on what they suspected was a massive fraud involving Spanish hams that – purportedly – come from the haunches of free-range pigs that feast daily on acorns.

By their arithmetic ye shall know them.
1 pig = 4 legs
X = the number of pigs happy rootling acorns and producing jamon to the required standard.
8X = the number of legs on sale purporting to be of the required standard.
I’ve seen some things in my life but an eight legged pig is not one of them!

Authorities in southern Andalucia said that, to provide the quantity of ibérico hams that now hang from supermarket meat counters, the region would need to double the number of locally bred, acorn-fed pigs…

By the way if you have not seen Jamon, Jamon by Bigas Luna get yourself a plate of pata negra, some fresh pan, a bottle of fino and be prepared for fun.

Passion

Regular readers who are looking for confessions from your correspondent about being overwhelmed by the hots for some floozy will be disappointed.
We spent a relaxed few days in the garden with the company of family and friends and the blessings of good weather, simple food and some drink. The weekend was rounded off at a concert by Fugata. You can read about them here. The music and the playing were summed up in one word for me, passion.

We pootered home and caught the news that Spain had won the World Cup of Football. No doubt from the pictures of fans in Madrid that they were rather pleased with the result.

Manos Limpias

Thoughtful piece by Giles Tremlett in Th'Observer today about Baltasar Garzon.
You may have heard of him because of his attempt to extradite the slightly chilly General Peanuckle. However he goes back much further than that.
It is interesting that he effectively brought down the controversial socialist government of Felipe Gonzalez, which was mired in Caso Gal, with allegations of corruption and a dirty war against ETA. Felipe, a much underrated character in my view, hits the sweet spot as usual and is quoted in response to an attempt by the supreme court to dismiss the judge ...

"I don't have a very special relationship with this man, but what they are doing is inexplicable and unjust."

So to sum up..

Judge Battasar Garzon

Fought crimes long gone.

The Spanish Supremes

Said only in your dreams.

Sore Throats

Good morning!
Please turn to page 92?
I may have mentioned San Blas or St Blaise once or twice before in these lectures.
The devout among you will have noticed that Wednesday this week was the feast day of the holy man, himself.

He is the patron saint of sore throats plus a few other things. Well, after martyrdom you need some interests as, in the left footer's version of heaven, there are no virgins made available.
Your man St Blaise makes a bob or two responding to prayers concerning the throat. Was he an ENT specialist, I hear you ask? Well no, I think his main qualification for the job was the fact that he had his head cut off, and like King Louis XIV, it spoiled his constitution. However, it did give him a unique insight into maintaining health and integrity in the region between the head and shoulders!

He was, allegedly, Armenian but has a great following in the north of Spain, Campoo, where we lived for a while. I do not think the Campurrianos have weak throats but I do know there is a tradition the storks appear and start building their nests on San Blas. We have seen them and therefore it must be true.


If you don't believe me have a look! They are ungainly, ponderous, inefficient, build their nests out of the most unsuitable sticks in the most ridiculous places and look complete arses while they do it. You can't help feeling a little stab of joy when, eventually, you see the head of the young stork appear above the edge of the nest.



Thank you.
Next weeks lecture will be on the importance of the
South Waziristan Institute of Strategic Hermeneutics (SWISH) in the development of interfaith hegemony and security in the tribal areas.

Spanish Kings 1

I have been thinking about our time in Spain.
We absorbed a lot, almost by osmosis.
One of the things we noticed was that they gave their kings delicious soubriquets.
So there have been 13 (or 14?) named Alfonso:-
Alfonso I el Católico
Alfonso II el Casto
Alfonso III el Magno
(Ooh,ooh Alfonso Froilaz el Jorobado)
Alfonso IV el Monje
Alfonso V el Noble
Alfonso VI el Bravo
Alfonso VII el Emperador
Alfonso VIII el Noble
Alfonso IX
Alfonso X el Sabio
Alfonso XI el Justiciero
Alfonso XII el Pacificador
Alfonso XIII

So 5 and 8 can slug it out to determine who is the most Noble, 9 and 13 were sufficiently strong or bland not to need a label (how unlike our own dear wing nut.)

My own favourite was 10:- Sabio, wise, got to be good and besides he liked a good tune.

As we plodded through the highways and byways of northern Spain we invented names for the Alfonsos,

So here we go -

Alfonso I el Católico - the eclectic
Alfonso II el Casto - the cunctator
Alfonso III el Magno - the ineluctable
(Ooh,ooh Alfonso Froilaz el Jorobado - the humpheback)
Alfonso IV el Monje - the thelonious
Alfonso V el Noble - the magnanimous
Alfonso VI el Bravo - the assassin
Alfonso VII el Emperador - the penguin
Alfonso VIII el Noble - the unoxidisable
Alfonso IX - the tailor
Alfonso X el Sabio - you done fine kid
Alfonso XI el Justiciero - the ealdorman
Alfonso XII el Pacificador - the dummy
Alfonso XIII - the infellicitous

A short break in the mountains 2

He had had no pain since yesterday. True, the night had been disturbed but he attributed that to the eating of a substantial quantity of mountain stew and more than his share of rough red wine. The mountaineers had booked a restaurant near the end of the walk. They had enjoyed the meal late in the afternoon. They had lingered in the restaurant and while he had not had a copa, a 'bowlful' of brandy or other spirit, he had gone on sipping the red wine. It was very pleasant to be part of a group relaxing and socialising in another language. The group had sung local songs in a chorus and individually, the women competing with the men in the strength of their voices and, he suspected, in the suggestiveness of the lyrics. The allusions were beyond his command of the language. It was the language of their bodies and eyes and the tone of their voices that convinced him of the acceptable ribaldry of the words. They had been called on to sing and together with the other teacher, an Irishman, had made a brave stab at 'Sweet Molly Malone'. The Irishman couldn't remember the word and she couldn't carry the tune and so he was the only one in there at the end. His light tenor voice a bit of an anticlimax. There was applause for their faltering efforts. It was kindly and undeserved.

That Sunday had been no different from many of the others they had spent in Spain. He had been a little tired, a little anxious about the pain in his chest the day before and as always annoyed by the few drivers on the small country roads all giving him a hard time because of the GB plates.

When he had started into the hairpin he had felt nothing. Then he had become aware that he was losing consciousness. That was when he said "shit". It was as if part of his brain was still awake and part had disengaged from the conscious world. The bit of his brain that was still out there knew it had to bring the car to rest. Why did he put the indicator on? The nearest car must have been twenty kilometres away. He put the car in neutral. Did he put the handbrake on? It was a narrow hairpin, he had to get the car as far off the road as possible. Did he know the hairpin was into the mountain? Would he have run the car off the road if the bend had been the other way?

She called his name, twice. He had started to go red in the face. Panic! What could she do? Was he still alive? Was he still breathing? She tried to raise his head and free his neck from obstructions from her position alongside him in the passenger seat. Still no response. She got out of the car and went round to the driver's door, opening it. She looked round for help. No cars, no people, no houses, there was nothing but the steep mountain road and the mist.

Her mind came back into focus, subconsciously tackling the mundane things first. She leaned over and put the handbrake on the car. She turned the engine off. Then she lifted his face calling his name. She struck his face, gently, and called his name again. He stirred, he was breathing, his head moved and his eyes flickered. How long had he been unconscious. It seemed like an age. It could have happened so fast. Her mind had no way to measure the the time from when she heard him swear to the point she was convinced he was breathing again.

He had slipped from consciousness. His brain was still active. He was aware he was dreaming but little else. The contents of the dream were beyond him. He was aware of a large lake to his left. The surface boiling and billowing, which was strange as there was no storm or bad weather in his dream. Somewhere in his brain he translated the lake as the sea of mist surrounding the car. That small rationality gave him some comfort. His awareness subsided and he relaxed with his dreams beside the lake. There was light over the lake, the sun looked as if it were rising. The fact that it was rising in the west disturbed him. She was calling his name. He was irritated, the sunrise was so beautiful and he would miss it. She called his name again and consciousness came flooding back almost painfully. Awareness rushed through him as the dreams that he would never remember ebbed away. His tongue was heavy but the words came out breaking like a wave.

"I do love you"

He rested confused as she questioned him. Was he in pain? Was he able to breath easily? Was he all right? The familiar words reassured him. In a few moments he was strong enough to get out of the driver's seat. Holding on to her and the car he moved round to the passenger side. His mind cleared, he became more aware of his body, he had lost control of his bladder. This troubled him more than realising that he had been unconscious. He drank some water and they decided to go back over the pass to the nearest houses to get help.

The houses they had passed on the way turned out to be farm buildings by the side of the road. There was no one around. They went on. He felt very weak but they agreed that they would get closer to help if they drove on. By the time they reached Cervera again he was still weak there was no pain, he was still conscious and alert. They decided to head for 'home'.

It exhausted him to get to the apartment on the second floor. He stripped off his clothes and had a hot shower to warm himself. She kept the bathroom door open as she made some camomile tea. Her ears were tuned to the noises in the bathroom for any sudden changes, any loud noises. He rested in a chair and drank the tea. About an hour after getting back to the flat he felt strong enough to go out.

The doctor in the emergency room at the small health centre checked him out. He was poked and prodded by the doctor and a nurse connected him up to various machines. The doctor asked questions in very simple Spanish as if he were dealing with a slightly backward child. He understood most of the questions and was able to explain the events. They had looked up the unfamiliar words in the dictionary before coming to the emergency room. Where he stumbled over the tense of a verb or forgot the technical term she supplied the correct Spanish, glad to be able to contribute in some way. The doctor was a mountaineer and made some comment about the factory group being "locos" or crazy. The doctor only seemed to be concerned about his blood pressure. Everything else was working, and as far as they could tell he had not had a stroke or a heart attack. His blood sugar was low but he had eaten very little at breakfast and nothing during the day.

He was given pills and eventually his blood pressure came down to something like normal. He was released and told to come back early in the week to have his blood pressure checked.

They went out into the cold night, the rain had stopped and the cloud cleared. There was a good moon and it cast its light into the valley that had become their home. They looked up to the horseshoe of mountains that surrounded them and offered protection. He felt very uncertain, very scared. He reached for her hand.

A short break in the mountains 1

That Sunday they stopped at noon in Cervera, parking in the square where the market was held during the week. They walked under the buildings that stood out on columns over the pavement. That feature was common in this part of Spain. It offered shelter from the sun in summer and the snow in winter.


It was December but there was no snow in the valleys. It would be another mild winter and in their town the snow would rarely fall more than thirty centimetres in a night. The storks would return by the feast of St Blas, in February, and start building their nests laboriously, twig by twig.

He wanted a coffee and she wanted to go to the toilet. He ordered a black coffee as he had slept very badly, normally he would have had it with milk but today he needed something stronger.
Yesterday they had been out walking with the mountaineers from the factory where she taught English. It had been a long day, walking for over six hours at heights of around fifteen hundred metres. The group had started off early in the morning when the temperature was below freezing. Dawn came up far off over the high plains of central Spain. The group paused almost in silence waiting for the sun. The day began with a few muttered expressions of appreciation and the inevitable wrangling about which far off landmark was silhouetted on the horizon against the dawn sky. Despite the warmth which the sunlight seemed to bring to the mountain there was a chill wind which cut through their clothing.


The pain began in his chest as soon as the ground started to rise steeply. It continued for an hour until they crested the ridge. He had noted a tightness before, never very bad and never for long. This time traveling fast in the cold early morning there was no chance to adjust his speed, slack off to the point where the pain disappeared. He told her that the pain was bad and they dropped to the back of the group. Once they had gained the ridge the pace eased and the pain leaked away, he followed the group with relief. They discussed it briefly. He said he must go to the doctor next week she said very little.

When she emerged from the gloom at the back of the cafe she perched on a stool and had a coffee with milk. they made the small talk they had become used to. Exiles in a foreign language, their words together the only easy communication. They talked about the day, the English preoccupation with the weather, and commented about the early morning trade in the bar. It was too early for any serious business, the people in the bar were fortifying themselves with a coffee or brandy after mass or before getting the bread for lunch. He settled up using the familiar phrase for this kind of transaction, watching the man behind the bar trying to place them. Out of season tourists, he would have known about them if they were local.

"Shall we go?"

They walked about the small town in the weak sunlight, moving from the the shaded pavements to the narrow streets outside the centre. Wherever they stopped on these trips there was always something to see, stone houses large and small, a family coat of arms carved on the house walls, buildings with functions known and unknown. In the smaller villages there were cobbled streets where old men and women walked, raised above the mud and animal muck on the platform soles of their wooden clogs. In the larger towns there was always "Todo por la patria" (all for the fatherland), the letters cut out above the Civil Guard building. Somewhere in their recent past this had been commuted to "Todo por la pasta" (all for the money), a slang expression, said with the rubbing together of the thumb and forefinger, a suitable sign of corruption. Spain had its fair share of corruption and other difficulties. The government was reaching the end of its spell in power and it had been tainted with more than the whiff of corruption and nepotism. The recent exposure of the bizarre lifestyle of the head of the Civil Guard, who was now on the run, gave it all the feel of a bad comic opera.

They had slipped into a genuine interest in the country as they had acquired their knowledge of the language and culture. they enjoyed living in Spain, in a small town. It was a great contrast to their previous life in London. At times they felt isolated and they knew they would never be part of the community. There was peace, though, and great beauty in the mountains.



They went back to the car. The weather was changing and they were heading for Piedrasluengas, a porto or pass. A detour took them up a valley to look at a possible walk to the source of the river Pisuerga, one of the rivers that flows south out of the mountains only to be gathered in by the Duero to irrigate the vines all the way into Portugal. The weather was closing in fast. they got back to the car glad there was an excuse to play tourists, driving about the area in the little red car with the GB plates.

By the time they had reached the puerto and the appointed stopping place the mist was swirling. The enjoyment of the countryside would have to be left to another day. Appreciation was confined to the steepness of the contours on the map and an image drawn from them of what the view might have been. It was getting late to consider lunch even by Spanish standards. It would be almost four o'clock before they reached Potes and they would have to spend some time parking and sniffing out the best value restaurant. They had sunk into the gloom of the late afternoon each contemplating the deteriorating weather and the prospect of missing their Sunday lunch, a meal which had become an institution for them, usually a small treat.

They were heading downhill. The road lost height quickly in a series of small hairpins, not very spectacular and no great effort to drive. One good turn followed by another. She felt the brakes go on for the corner, but there was no release to enable the car to drive through the turn. Instead the braks continued to bite. He put the indicator on and drew the car to a halt at the apex of the bend. Just before this he had said "shit". the car was at rest off the road, with the engine idling, out of gear. She thought it might be a puncture or something wrong with the car. It wasn't the car that had packed up. She turned to look at him and his head lolled on his chest.

We are all bankers now!

Essex County Council has discovered the, potential, delights of municipalism if not municipal socialism. The Grauniad has a related story about those caring, sharing tories.

All well and good. Wouldn't be above noodling a few bob ourselves from willing partners. You should see what we do in the way of creating jobs and influencing people.

Herself was greatly impressed by the tarjeta de Gijon. I must say I thought it was pretty nifty too. I suppose if you have a relatively small city (population 227,000 in 2006) with at least 13 socialist councillors out of 27 you can get things done. See link in Spanish and video (download the mpg from the link) which gives you a flavour of joined up municipalism.

The Alcaldesa, Mayor, of Gijon is Paz Fernández Felgueroso and has a blond mop of hair.
However, unlike our own dear Boris, she seems to do a bit more than sack coppers!

Hasta Luego!

What's that your eating?

I dipped into the first chapter of "Everything but the squeal" by John Barlow courtesy of the NYT.

It is subtitled - Eating the whole hog in Northern Spain. The chapter starts with the importance of the pig. It describes a meal in a restaurant in Galicia, the food - cocido, rabas, lacon- and the atmosphere and the fact that it was shared with a wife, a fish-eating vegetarian who did not even eat chicken, and a small child asleep in a buggy.

It rang a bell.

In Cantabria, where herself taught English for some time, a favourite question to the children on a Monday morning was: What did you do over the weekend, kiddies?
The enquiry brought the usual replies; played with Carmen, Jose, Ramon, visted grandparents etc etc. One little chap could not find the words in English but gave a detailed description of the ritual of slaughtering the pig. It was that time of the year and in his grandparents' pueblo the pig made the usual generous sacrifice. If you don't think it is generous, you have never eaten cocido.

There are some pictures here.

Tondonia.

I have had little acquaintance with Spanish wine. (No laughing at the back please!) The delicious wine that came out of a barrel in a bodega in our pueblo in Cantabria was unbranded and retailed at about 100 pesetas a litre. Perhaps 110 if you were after the good stuff (50p at the time). I have since graduated to an upper limit of a fiver a bottle, or thereabouts. The kindness of family, friends and strangers sometimes takes me into deeper waters. Let me share the tale of such a gift which secured a great deal of affection in my heart for the parties concerned, they know who they are!

The bottle, Tondonia, Cosecha de 1985, Gran Reserva, was placed in my hand with the strict instructions to drink and enjoy over the holiday period. (Will you please stop laughing at the back! Thank you.)

The wine comes from the Bodegas R. Lopez de Heredia in Haro, in the Rioja Alta. The link gives details and they have been making wine for 140 years so perhaps they know a thing or two.

The bottle was sealed with wax the colour of the stuff that comes out of the mouths of mafiosi and sucklings when they have been shot in the lungs, in glorious Technicolor. Could I open it? It wasn’t a screw top. Would it be corked or oxidised? Would I be able to tell? I applied the waiter’s friend, double pull, with shaking hands. (Now then!) The wine was fine, no sign of taint and, of course, I just had to have wee sip to clarify the position on oxidation, ahem. It tasted very young and fruity. I decanted it and got on with the business of cooking my goose, which was in fact a free range chicken! About an hour later I had to have a further sip to make sure it hadn’t oxidised, evaporated, or suffered some other terrible mishap. (Sniggering is not allowed either!)

Of course it was fine and when I sat down to my meal later I was able to enjoy the wine. I do not have the language to describe it in expert terms but it was smooth, had lots of fruit, complex but pleasing flavours and no hint of rough treatment from the barricas that they use. If you are interested there is a man in an anorak who seems to know what he is talking about and who am I to disagree.

Strangely enough I did not finish the bottle. (Watch it!)

I left half for the following dayand I had my meal after Brenda, god bless her, had given her address to the nation. For any youngsters or diehard republicans this is like a You Tube that has been going on for 50 years, before You Tube was either profitable or popular, just a Glaswegian insult.

The wine was a revelation. A good wine, a very good wine, was transformed overnight. It was like seeing a pretty baby one night and finding a beautiful 22 year old the day after. A flower grown from nothing in a day’s turning.

I decided not to risk a third day and gave it the coup d'état, as Des would have said.

Muchas gracias!

Boiled Head

It’s a long story but the moans of this particular boiled head (slap head is so…violent!) reminded me of the time when the old ticker gave us all a fright. In the middle of Cantabria I was dispatched to see an ancient Spanish cardiologist at the local polyclinic. Excellent service! We chatted about this and that and he asked some questions and gave some advice.

Did I drink?

Shuffle, cringe, squirm. Yes I did! What did I drink.? Red wine…

Of course, no, but did I drink alcohol. Whisky, spirits…? No. Good.

I must walk, yes it is cold in the winter but I must walk. If it is very cold I must put a newspaper between my chest and my shirt. It will be fine. El Pais is usually good!

Nuestra Bandera de Paz y Amistad

The kitchen has been full of the smell of celery and parsley (perejil- our flag of peace and friendship; with acknowledgment to Karlos)
We are so fortunate. I have so much! So many books as gifts. A and I will need a reading week; but more of that later! A's mum has been telling us the story of her early years in between our Cava and prep for dinner!

Felices fiestas a todo!

Los secretos pequenos de mi pueblo 1

Little secrets of my village.
It seems remiss that I should be about to complete my 6th decade and have not yet read Don Quixote. Suffolk Libraries have provided a copy of Edith Grossman's translation so I will tuck into that after finishing off those fabulous banking boys, the Medicis.
I was known, affectionately, as Don Quixote by some friends in Spain. I think I would have quite liked the association with such a figure in a strange way. However, the joke was on me as El de La Mancha did not refer to a kindred spirit of the chivalrous hidalgo but to the original meaning of mancha - stain.
I am a very messy eater!

We have a windmill in our village. (And much else which I hope to reveal in due course.) It is "en obras". The sails are still in (re)construction but I believe there is a motor to supply power for milling from time to time. I wonder what the Don would have made of it.

I also wonder what he would have made of the huge cylindrical bales of hay scattered about the fields, or the bales which are covered in black plastic. I guess he would have seen them as armies of cristianos y moros fighting it out on the meseta of Mid Suffolk.
As deluded as the folk up the road at Mildenhall.

Sex will get you in the end

The English believe they are a great civilising nation. Having brought tea, cricket and queuing to the masses they declined into post empiricism! Markets in Spain are great places for life, culture and developing tools for conviviality. In the north of Spain we learned the art of civilised queuing the hard way.

Arriving at a stall one asked who was the last in the queue and were told by that person. In turn when the next customer came along and asked it was your duty to indicate your lowly status. I was arrogant enough to believe I had the hang of this and a sufficient smattering of Spanish to pass for a native of Cantabria. One day I sauntered up to the vegetable stall and seeing a gaggle of senoras in front of me called out who is last. There was a pause which stretched into a silence. If there had been a thermometer on this silence it would by this point have been heading south, fast.
Eventually, an ever so polite voice announced that she was the last. The titter that followed this declaration was unencumbered by any muffle.

Yeah, yeah I thought. Is it cos I is Brit? So you don't find many Cantabrians that are 1.8 metres with red hair and the sartorial awareness of a dead camel, what a surprise, just trying to be friendly and fit in!

The dialogue I had just had slowly replayed in my mind, in Spanish, with a slightly heightened awareness.

I had approached a stall where there was an exclusively female queue and asked in my best Spanish who was the last, el ultimo (mixed or masculine) and been firmly and frostily told by the lady in question that she was the last, la ultima (feminine!).

I knew sex would get me in the end.

Spanish Roulette

Spring is unfolding here in the foothills of the Suffolk Alps. We lived in the Cantabrian Cordillera for a time in a town at the entrance to a magical valley where there were more cows than people. This photo of peppers reminded me of a game we used to play when we came down from the mountains to hit the bright lights of Santander or Bilbao.

Going to a bar, our favourite had barrels for tables and wooden floors with sawdust, we would order our poison, beer or tinto, and a portion of Pimentos de Padron. The game was to eat the peppers, which were brought to you hot from the frying pan, one each in turn. They were delightful, in the hands of a good cook the sugars developed in the peppers without being reduced to a mush. This still left something to bite into.

In turn we took a pepper by the stalk, bit off most of it, looked each other in the eye, and savoured the flavour. Most of them were sweet, dulce, but you could always be sure that during the course of this roulette you would hit one that was fiery hot, fuerte! After this they were all fuerte and beer or tinto needed to be applied to the affected part.

Time of the Butterfly

A trip to Barcelona last year was a real joy. It got us through a hard winter and now the weather is relenting a little I am looking forward to the spring and summer.

I now know what I would take to a desert island for my one luxury. I would take the Sagrada Familia.