Hot water flowed from the spring by the old Roman bridge in Caldas de Reis– a place where kings used to stop and where Thomas a Becket gave his name to a church. I stopped to feel the waters, and lost my bearings. no signs visible, no-one around, as it was siesta. An old man came up over the bridge, called out to me, and pointed his walking stick towards a tiny lane. Again the unasked for kindness, and from a man who must have seen so much sad history in Spain.
We have been reading a book called Winter in Madrid, by CJ Sanson, about the siege of Madrid, before Franco took total control in 1940. What passionate politics from left and right, what a grim life for people in the cities and towns, what a history to carry and what a transformation into such a lively country these days. Although as I walked through the country villages, it seemed as if the rhythm of the agricultural year and the church’s year had not changed much for centuries.
November is the time for chestnuts, acorns, and pumpkins, for burning the stalks of corn, and planting the new brassica plants…
