Spots of time

When I studied for my 'A' Levels - rather a long time ago now - one of our set texts was William Wordsworth's 'The Prelude'. And oh, how I loved his poetry at that time in my life! It reached out and grabbed me as it moved from lofty sentiment to intimate description and personal observation. I know it's not to everyone's taste - indeed, there are lines in his work that no poet should ever have written - the most famous being from 'The Thorn' where he actually published the following two lines:

"I've measured it from side to side

'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide"

Though apparently he did revise the lines at a later date - too late though, if a schoolboy (or girl) was going to remember anything, it was this!

But not to dwell on some of the lesser stuff from his copious outpourings, what did impress me so much (so long ago) was his description of one of those moments when your world lights up; when an image, idea, occasion or vision presents itself to you when you are feeling rather down - he called them a 'spot of time' - they give our lives a special something; an indefinable improvement; a little moment when the edges of the rest of the world softens to a blur as the thing you feel or perceive is brought to a sudden, sharper focus. And it can be anything that does it - you can't know beforehand what it will be.

And although yesterday I was not feeling in the slightest bit 'down', I had a spot of time myself that I will treasure forever. I was in the apartment, probably trying to tidy up a bit before going off to the English centre to my Spanish group, and I heard a group of children outside in the street below. Out of curiosity, I went onto the balcony to look - and there I saw my Ruy walking up along - looking up and waving at me along with half his classmates. I waved back til they went past then grabbed my camera - and captured the moment that makes me so happy.

My lovely middle son (in red and blue with the beige cap) chatting away and 'at home' with his new classmates here in Spain. I can tell from the back that he is smiling.

A real 'spot of time' for me. We all have them, don't we.

Surreality rules

Dali

I love the surreal. I think this is why I love the fact that I have vivid and memorable dreams - and I invariably can remember them. I have some that I remember from when I was a teenager, that are now more like memories than dreams. I guess they are memories of dreams but they seem just as real as real memories.

However real real memories really are...

This morning, very early, we were woken by what sounded like 'big gun' fire. Not quite a cannon but more than a rifle. Several shots... then silence... then more shots.
I was too tired to take too much notice and fell asleep again, into that strange, deep, dream-filled morning sleep.

Years ago, nay, years and years ago, I used to set my radio/alarm clock for a whole hour before I actually needed to get up - I'm not good at getting up. (I don't like it. I am not a morning person.)

In that hour when the radio came on (Today on Radio 4, of course - in the days of John Timpson and Brian Redhead) I dozed and had amazing, realistic dreams. For a (short) period of time, I actually thought I was psychic, for as I came round and woke up properly and listened to the news 'for real', I seemed to know what had happened in the world already! I had foreseen disasters, predicted football results and I always knew what the weather was going to be like.

Very probably on this day in 1986, I also knew of the dire happenings in Chernobyl even before I woke up.

I had, of course, been unconsciously hearing the news as I slept and what I heard was being translated into graphic and dreamlike images. It was spooky in the extreme until I realised how it was happening.

And I am not digressing - not really. This morning, as the gunshots were sounding, I was dreaming that this was the call to the good folk of Alcala la Real to leave their beds and go pick olives. It is, after all, what people do around here at certain times of the year. (Not this time of year, though.)

Everyone had the obligation to join in. Everyone would be paid 50euros a day until all the olives were picked (which is about the going rate) - and we all left on a bus from the main square. And there was a band to play for us whilst we picked. It was a quite a nice dream on the whole - and the only problem was that when I presented my basket, it turned out that I had picked strawberries instead of olives. And they weren't very good strawberries. So I didn't get paid. But never mind. It was time to get up and take the children to school.

Something very exciting is happening right in front of the children's school - a fairground is being erected. The SuperRaton ride is looking good and we've identified where the bumper cars will be. What fun - a fair more or less in the playground! Watch out for some happy snaps in the next week or so!

On my walk back, I followed two young men who were pushing bikes. As we crossed a road, we were channelled closer together and I overhead a snippet of conversation. It wasn't what was said that created an impulse in me to speak to them but how it was said - if that wasn't an accent close to my own, I don't know what was! So, I spoke, asking where those dulcet tones came from.

"Huddersfield", he replied, "well, more Brighouse, really."  And that was more or less the end of the conversation as they had to cross another road and I had to go buy my bread. That felt as surreal as my dream - Huddersfield being the place I have lived and worked in for the past 20 years.

But no less surreal than the experience I had recently at a house I went to view. It was out in the countryside, above Castillo de Locubin, about 10kms away from here. Whilst not surprised that the owner was English - there are a lot around here and the photos of the kitchen had the telltale kettle on the worktop, an absolute giveaway of a Brit being somewhere nearby - I was surprised to hear an accent (I love accents!) that was very familiar - not Huddersfield, but even closer to home, Bradford! Where I was born. And the lady used to work for the council there ... and so did my mum. Not that the lady knew my mum, no, that would be silly. But her sister might. And her sister had just arrived that morning from England for a visit. She used to be a home care manager, just like my mum. But no, she didn't know my mum, she was a few years younger and my mum took early retirement. BUT, the coincidence was too good to stop there and we bandied a few names around - and lo and behold, very quickly we established a common contact. She knew one of my mum's colleagues and friends - someone whose son I had gone to school with all my life and who was a very dear friend. There aren't many Sandy Brunskills around, so I knew we were talking about the same person!! Again, very surreal.
(It would be nice to say we had decided to buy that house but, sadly, no.)

And to top off this surrealist post, the source of the gunfire?? I asked at the bread shop.

It marks the start and progress of a pilgrimage for the Virgen de la Cabeza - a direct translation would be Virgin of the Head - or Head Virgin, perhaps? No, not exactly, La Virgin de la Cabeza is the patron saint of Jaen. Following an appearance of the Virgin to a shepherd in the early 14th century, a sanctuary was built in a place called 'Cerro del Cabezo' - and the Virgin takes her title from this place. During May and June, processions of the statue of the Virgin are paraded around many of the towns in Jaen. Seems like this week it is the turn of Alcala la Real - the bread lady informed me that the Virgin will be taken out on Sunday and that a number of her devoted followers will be making the pilgrimage around Alcala - and setting off their loud explosions - in preparation for the big day.

That is real. Alcala la Surreal!

If you haven't see this before..

The daughter of a work colleague of mine has a blogspot called The Wandering Wayfarer on which she posts lots of arty/fashion photos. And I like to look at these, partly because the pictures are very nice but also because her mum is a lovely person and I feel as though I'm keeping in touch this way.

I was totally bowled over just now as I followed a Facebook link to the latest post - at first I thought I was seeing things when I saw some of her photographs move! They moved.

The wind ruffled skirts and hair and umbrellas flapped in the breeze. These weren't videos, but moving photographs.

The photographs are the work of Jamie Becks and they really are animated photos and I love them.

For me it creates a strange, fantasy feeling, with hints of Hogwarts and all things Potterish - or as The Wayfarer says, Hogwarts meets High Fashion.

This one is my favourite - I might keep looking at this for some time.

Hope you enjoy it too!

My little habit..

Most days, when I've left the children at school, I walk back up the high street and call in at the 'Crema Caramelo' to buy our daily bread. It is the best cake and bread shop around - it is full of wonderful creations and smells and more types of bread than any town really needs.

And the best bread, in our opinion, is the barra casera - or house special french stick - which is long, not too thin, with a rich, well-developed crusty outside and a light, well-cooked inside. It's never spoggy  - another word used widely by my family but not necessarily known everywhere. If you're not familiar with it, in our context, it means undercooked bread, still doughy and slightly damp.
(In some other places, spoggy can be a word for chewing gum, but come on, surely everyone knows that chewing gum is called chuddy!)

But I digress....I was talking about the wonderful barras - which not only taste delicious, but are always on offer at buy three for one euro! So I buy three.

And here's my little habit - as I walk across the road and back to our piso, I cannot resist snapping off the end - and if it's a little hook-shaped, which is sometimes is, then even better - and munching it as I come up to the 5th floor in our rickety and temperamental lift.

Makes my day!

Flamenco Flamingo

I'd really like to state that Spanish Flamenco comes directly from the observations of flamingoes - those wonderful pink/red/white/black long-legged birds that stamp about in shallow lakes to stir up their lunch from the briny bottom - but the only references I find will only suggest that it is a possibility.
However, I like the idea - in Spanish, flamingo is flamenco. I definitely think there is some link.

And our lovely, impromptu day out yesterday took us to a large lake - the natural reserve of the Laguna de Fuente de Piedra - home to the largest colony of breeding flamingoes in Spain. And sights, sounds and sensations that went far beyond any expectations.

Entrance to the excellent information centre

Credit to Mateo for capturing this one with wings outspread

A natural salt lake, there used to be a salt refinery out in the middle

 

Now home to a wide variety of birdlife - including these amazing flamingoes

View from the visitor centre

We had a wonderful day

Getting close to the flamingoes

Look closely and you'll see...

Mateo in his element

Mateo discovered turtles in the shallows, snapping at flies that skimmed on the top of the water.
There were lots of them, but try as I might, I couldn't manage to get a good photo of them.

This is my best attempt...

(I confess I didn't like to get too close because of all the flies - so was trying to use my zoom without enough support to keep the lens steady.)

The information centre and our picnic spot

A gorgeous vantage point

The Laguna is in the province of Malaga and only about half an hour from the Costa Del Sol but it was like being in a different world. We drove there via a big chunk of Cordoba province which I have grown to love very much - La Subbetica - which, as you will see from the map in the link, is quite close to where we are at the moment. It took us just under two hours - on really wonderful roads - to get there and the journey was in integral part of our very pleasant day. (OK, apart from the half an hour or so on the way there when Ruy felt carsick and had to sit in the front.) We came back on a slightly different route (hurray for being the map reader and not having to listen to a SatNav!) and that was even better than the outward one - plus Ruy was fine. 

As we sat on our noisy fifth floor balcony, both FR and I noted, with some surprise, how happy we were to be back in Alcala la Real - our home.

PS - did you notice I've cut FR's hair! From ponytail to short back and sides - all my own work and very nice he looks too! I'll get a better picture next time.

Just a little observation..

I noticed a strange thing about two months ago as I was walking around Alcala la Real. On one day, I saw several people with broken forearms or wrists. One or two might be considered normal...mightn't it? But three, possibly four...
Was it a coincidence?
Or a phenomenon?

Or something more sinister?

Impossible to tell - too little data.

Since that day, I have been deliberately seeking more evidence. And I have it in spades - just this morning I have seen another two as I took the children to school, PLUS two children, (I can understand that better as children run about, trip and risk damaging their arms more than adults.)

In total, over the past six weeks or so, I have seen more than 20 people with bandages on an arm. (I haven't counted legs, though I have noticed damaged legs too!)

I think that is plenty evidence that something out of the ordinary is happening here in Alcala with people and their arms.

Or is it just that I have never had time to notice these things before - what is the bandaged-arm situation where you are? Do have a look and let me know!

Sensory overload on Saturday

Today we went walking around Alcala again.

Mateo insisted we revisited a place he'd gone to with his school a few weeks ago.



And he was right to insist.

A feast for all the senses.