Sandhoppers

Over the last few days we have demonstrated our Englishness. On Tuesday, as it promised to be cloudy bright, we headed for the beach. This, of course, goes against Spanish tradition, that says that you go to the beach when it is sunny and hot. The breeze off the sea will keep you cool. But we wanted the children to be able to play without frying. So a cloudy bright day, with a promised maximum of 25 degrees, was just what we wanted. 

It's quite a long walk to the beach from where we are staying and so we compromised. Instead of walking down for bread and having breakfast at home, we walked to the bread shop, which is also a cafe, and had a leisurely breakfast there. Then we continued the walk down to the beach. It all worked fine. Having arrived at the beach we had a little "refresco"' complete with free tortilla, and then went onto the sand. 

There then followed a couple of hours or more of traditional beach pursuits: building a wall to keep the incoming tide at bay (King Canute, eat your heart out!), 




 leaping waves,

looking for stuff in the water, beach football, 



burying each other in the sand. 

Back to the cafe for an ice cream to help everyone along the way and we set off for the walk homewards. 

En route we stopped for more refreshments, thinking to get a snack in a cafe, only to find that it was already turned five and the kitchen was closed. Cheese and ham toasties were all they could manage but that worked fine. 

My daughter has one of those apps on her phone that measures how many steps you have taken over the day, how many kilometres you have walked and even how many flights of stairs you have climbed. I am unsure how it works out flights of stairs. Perhaps it can tell when you have taken an upward or downward step and measures a certain numbers of those steps as a flight. Who knows? Anyway, it turned out that we had walked around 12 kilometres in our round trip, including umpteen flights of stairs! 

Yesterday, Wednesday, we had booked tickets for the boat to the Islas Cíes. 

The day promised to be a little damp but we were prepared for that. We took taxis down to Pontevedra railway station. The taxi driver told me first that he was amazed we had managed to get tickets, having only booked them at the weekend. He thought we would have needed to book much further in a advance. He went on to say that it was a pity we did not have a better day. "You need a good, hot, sunny day to go to the beach!" What did I say earlier? And finally he told me that I am an unusual Englishwoman, una inglesa rara, as I speak Spanish! 

Having established a habit of breakfasting out on Tuesday, we postponed Wednesday's breakfast until we got to Vigo on the train. So, a late breakfast, around 10.30 at the Nuevo Derby! Then we wandered in leisurely fashion down to the port, where we collected our pre-booked tickets from the machine and went and joined the queue, laughing at the amazing number of people who were running along laden with all sorts of stuff, on the last minute for the boat leaving before ours! 

The taxi driver was right; we really did need a better day. The boat ride to the islands was chilly!!! The walk round the beach and across the causeway to the self service restaurant was breezy but by the time we had queued for food, found a table and eaten, the sun was trying to come out. 

It didn't last long. There was, however, time to get settled, for castle building to begin and a fair amount of construction work to take place before the Atlantic blanket mist came over us and my daughter and I found ourselves sitting in drizzle eating cherries. We retreated to the shelter of the pine trees but the children continued their construction project. Indeed, we had to tear them away eventually to get dry and change into warm clothes for the journey back. 

Not quite such a fine day as we would have liked but, nothing daunted, the English brigade determinedly had a good time. This morning, however, we decided to forego our trip to the breadshop. The rain was falling steadily. Toasted sliced bread was the order of the day. 

Thursday has been a day for indoor activities. We opted not to reinforce our reputation as crazy English; in other words we did not swim today. Last week we did swim in the rain but it is one thing to continue he swimming if it starts to rain when you are on the pool and quite another level of looniness to deliberately head for the pool once the rain is actually falling. 

 A rather damp end to their holiday then but this is Galicia. It could have rained throughout the visit!

Out and about around Ponters again.

Here is a picture of the charanga that I failed to photograph on Saturday night. Last night, as we walked back from town, I saw them again and snapped them with a little more success. 

I had walked down to town with the eldest grandchild. Her younger siblings had stayed behind with their mother for a bit of an early night. So we headed down with the idea of meeting Phil as he came back from the chess tournament. 

Yes indeed, the Pontevedra annual chess tournament began yesterday. Weeks ago we had contacted the Ponters chess people and explained that we would be in Poio for the duration. There had been promises of a lift to the tournament venue but all had been left very vague. We had sent emails about other stuff, including a hint that the lift arrangements had not been finalised but without too much emphasis. After all, we did not want to appear to be nagging. 

When we still had heard nothing by Saturday, however, we did begin to feel a little anxious. So we sent a further email, in which Phil requested a bye for the early Sunday morning match. His chances of getting to the other side of the town for 10.00 am were slight and so he opted to skip that game and accept half a point instead. But he did need to be there for 5.00 pm for the second round. We were assured, by email, that they would phone me during Sunday to confirm arrangements. 

Finally, at 4.20 or maybe even 4.25, I had a phone call asking if Phil could be at the pick-up point for 4.40! Fortunately, our friend Colin was able to drive him down the hill to the pick-up point. A twenty minute walk for most of us. A ten minute walk for Phil. But it was a hot day. So a lift was welcome. At the last minute he asked me to go along so that I could liaise with the Ponters chess people. 

This I did. In the car to Mourente, the chess venue on the other side of town, I discovered that the reason for the late arrangement was not just Spanish mañana-ism. One of the morning games had not finished until almost 4.00 and all subsequent decisions were put off as a result. Anyway, we got there at last. I chatted to a range of people:- chess players from previous tournaments, organisers, parents of some of the boys who had taken part in the Manchester chess visit at Easter and so on. 

And suddenly the start of the tournament was announced and there I was, stuck in Mourente, wanting to return to Poio and seriously not fancying a hot walk, even through the trees and along the river, back to Pontevedra centre and up the hill Poio. Just as I was considering who to ask for a taxi phone number, someone I know, the wife of one of the regular chess tournament people, saw me and offered me a lift. Hurray! Some people are just so good! 

So I was dropped off at the garden door here in Poio and strolled past the pool, greeting people in the water, including the middle grandchild, and up to our friend's house. 

Some time much later, the oldest granddaughter and I went back down to town. We saw the statue of the virgin being brought out of the lovely, round Peregrina Chapel, to the accompaniment of enormous amounts of bell ringing. No photos possible this time. The crowds between us and the white and gold-clad virgin were just too dense. 

We met Phil - game drawn - and we all had a drink and a snack at the Meigas Fora, a favourite place of almost everyone we know here. The waiter asked where our friend Colin was. On his way later, probably, we replied. Almost immediately the table next to ours, actually the table where Colin prefers to sit, was reserved for him. After a number of people had been turned away, the waiters eventually agreed to serve a couple who sat at the table. Clearly the wait had been too long. Commercial considerations won out over their friendship for Colin. However, time was passing and we worked out that by the time he and his companions arrived, we would be ready to move on and they could take our table. 

And so it proved to be. All's well that ends well!

Livening things up.

 It's fiesta time in Pontevedra. 

Yesterday we heard it all begin at around midday. We were at, or in some cases in, the pool in our friend's garden in Poio but we could hear all the bangs and mini explosions from down in town. 

Later, having swum and sunbathed, eaten lunch and rested and sat around reading and so on, we made our way down into town in early evening for a bite to eat. 

The alameda was full of funfair. Some of the stalls had weird names, such as "Scalextric camarero". It was a ride with little cars running on a track. So that explains the "Scalextric" part but goodness knows where the waiter (camarero) comes in. It was interesting to see that trampolines, for kids anyway, are referred to as "camas elásticas" or elastic beds. 

Gangs of young people, "peñas", each group with its own distinctive t-shirts, were preparing to rush around later spraying each other with diluted wine. Some of the peña members were not so very young as a matter of fact. I suppose it's likely that they have been members of their peña for years and years, that they have all grown up together and continue with their old fiesta traditions. When we sat eating in Plaza de Verduras we saw one chap, dressed in his peña t-shirt, chatting to his mates but with his baby in a sling. I hope he was just getting the infant to sleep and not planning to run the streets with her. Another group were having a noisy meal - getting fuel for the energy they would use later perhaps - and stood up and cheered every so often. 

Charangas, walking bands, were making their way around, stopping to play every so often. I did try to take a picture but I must have tried too fast as the photo came out blurred. 

We headed homewards through crowded and rather smelly streets. The Spanish know how to be noisy but portaloos seem to be in short supply. 

At midnight the fireworks started and went on and on for what seemed like best part of an hour. Although perhaps I exaggerate. I did only hear and not see them. 

This morning, as we walked down to buy bread, we passed revellers making their way home. Some were dishevelled and the worse for wear. One young lady looked perfectly elegant. (One of the advantages of being young is that you can stay up all night without it showing on your face!) She was on the phone, possibly to her parents, asking for a lift home. Her young man stood beside her. We saw him striding alone up the road a few minutes later, clearly having seen her safely into her transport home. 

Gallantry, it seems, is alive and well and lives in Galicia.

Eating out and preserving things.

Last night we WERE going out to eat in Las Nieves, a little place near the Miño, in other words the Portuguese border. An hour's car-ride away. At the last minute the plan was changed and we went instead to Combarro, only around a quarter of an hour away from where we are staying in Pontevedra. 

Combarro is apparently famous for its "hórreos", those strange constructions that were used to store grain, constructed in such a way that rats cannot climb in and eat the grain. I'm not sure what people store in them nowadays. some seems to be full of firewood.


Our eldest granddaughter's reaction was similar to my own on first seeing them. She asked why there was a sort of tomb in someone's garden. Understandable! Today I found a cartoon depicting an enterprising Galician couple who had decided to rent out their "hórreo" as tourist accommodation. Mrs Galician person measured the tourist seeking accommodation and called out his height to Mr Galician person who then answered cheerfully, "He fits!" 

In the harbour at Combarro we saw a kind of canoe, made totally from empty Coca-cola bottles strapped together. An astounding bit of recycling! 

The old street on the edge of the Combarro waterfront has been developed into an area of restaurants and tourist tat shops but if you ignore the tat (witches with red eyes alongside would be Celtic jewellery) it has a certain charm. 

There is always a kind of conflict between maintaining old places as they used to be, maintaining their historical integrity as much as possible, and developing them to attract as many tourists as possible. In Rome there is apparently a plan to rebuild the Colosseum. Reading the article about this in further detail, it turns out that the plan is to give the arena a new floor, a refurbishment that will cost more than €18m!!! The writer of the article was getting quite angry about it, calling it "history betrayed". 

As a matter of factor, I agree with him. It's more interesting to see places as ancient as the coliseum in a rather dilapidated state, but one which lets you see how they were constructed, rather than "restored", usually with modern materials. This is especially so in this case as it may well be that the main reason for doing it could be to please people who go to the Colosseum because they’ve seen it in movies and HBO dramas and expect it to look like it does in digital special effects. 

Another little item I read in the news is that the actress Jennifer Aniston has got married. Good for her! A journalist writing about this, a certain Jennifer Gerson Uffalussy, wondered what the tabloids would be able to write about from now on. One of the odd things this journalist said was, "In marrying, Aniston thwarts the belief that a woman, divorced and long-unwed, is forever sealed to such a fate. Aniston’s marriage is Trojan horse-proof that – gasp – a woman can make her own happiness on her own time, personally and professionally." 

What on earth does she mean by this stuff about the Trojan horse? 

And where on earth does the name Uffalussy originate?

Modern communication.

We are currently staying at our friend Colin's house in Pontevedra. We in this case means Phil and me, our daughter and her three children. Coincidentally, next door to Colin is a family with three children of the same age. Not only the same age but the correct gender in each case. How convenient is that? Yesterday evening the three pairs of children got to meet other. The oldest pair should not really be referred to as children as they are 18 and 19, terribly sophisticated young ladies who managed to chat to each other reasonably well. 

What was really interesting was to watch the interaction between the younger ones. The two little boys, 10 years old, went off to play football on the Wii. The two 12 year old girls spent some time looking at each other, both being a little too shy to say anything in front of the assembled adults. When we sent them off to the other side of the room to look at photos on a mobile phone and all seemed to be well. 

The funniest moment was when the four of them worked out how to follow each other on Instagram. Suddenly, international communication was established! But in almost complete silence! Strange! 

Since then, it's the little boys' friendship that has made the best progress. With football as a common interest and some fun and games in the swimming pool, they appear to have become best mates. We also suspect that they might have bonded as a result their common experience as the youngest child in the family, both with two older sisters to boss them around. 

It may be easier for small boys to make friends on the basis of shared activities while my experience tells me that girls make friends more through chatting about anything and everything. It's hard to do that when your knowledge of each other's language is limited. But progress is being made. 

Maybe there will be a regular exchange of visits in the future. That remains to be seen. 

It's not just friendship that provokes travel, of course. I was reading recently about people in the USA who plan to leave their home land for the first time ever and visit the UK? What has led to this development? You may well ask. The answer is Benedict Cumberbatch, who is going to play Hamlet at the Barbican in London. 

Tickets went on sale in August last year and all 100,000 sold out in minutes. Tickets cost round about £65 and have been reselling for more than £1,500. Amazing! Each day during the Production, the Barbican will release another 30 tickets, selling at only £10 each. Particularly obsessive fans are expected to camp out at the Barbican to try to get their hands on them. I say again, amazing! 

It's not just the Americans either. Canadians, Filipinos and Japanese are following suit. Some have even become members of the Barbican in order to be able to book tickets more easily. Some of the comments make it seem that these people imagine that they are actually going to meet their revered Mr Cumberbatch. Will they be disappointed when they have to see him only on the stage, from their seats? 

I do hope they manage to see more of the UK than just the theatre.

Yet more travel stories!!

My travel delay stories have continued. This time it was not my personal travel that was disrupted in the first instance although it certainly impacted on my life later. This is what happened. On Sunday I got up bright and early so that I could catch the 9 o' clock bus from Vigo to Oporto. I was meeting my daughter and her children who were flying in from Manchester. 

At 7.50 Spanish time she sent me a text saying that they were about to board. Hurray! It seemed that they might be departing on schedule, setting off at 7.20 UK time. NO SUCH LUCK!!! I was on the bus to Portugal when I received a message that their plane's departure was going to be delayed by at least an hour!!! Great!! Almost certainly just in time to miss the 10.45 bus to Vigo. And so it turned out! 

The plane eventually landed at 10.44. This gave us an outside chance of catching the bus if they got through security quickly and if the bus was as late as the last time I caught it. I watched the minutes tick by and saw no sign of my family! Finally, at around 11.20 they appeared, having helped another passenger with her bags and small child and having collected a case or two from the carrousel! 

Later conversation revealed that they had chatted to cabin staff while waiting to depart. Indeed, they had even visited the cockpit. The pilot had told them that almost no flights were managing to leave Manchester on time at the moment. (I can vouch for that!) But why is this happening? I find it difficult to comprehend. This time they blamed it on fog over Porto. Well, there was fog but not enough to cause major problems. The other factor was air traffic control problems. Well, there you go! 

Anyway, getting back to Sunday, we had plan B. I had already researched alternative travel possibilities and knew that there was an ALSA bus at 1.00pm. Fine! I had found out where to buy tickets, since this helpful company won't accept payment on the bus. However, I could not buy until the gang arrived because I needed all the passports to make the booking. So, armed with all the necessary stuff, we trooped upstairs to departures to buy tickets. And, after waiting for about half an hour while the chap behind the counter dealt with another customer, we discovered that there was only one place left on the 1.00pm bus!!! Aaaagh!!! Nightmare!!! 

Our next possibility was 6.15pm! Sunday travel!! The pilot of the plane had apologised to passengers for the delay and hoped it would not adversely affect their "onward journey". He must have put a hex on it! 

And so we spent hours and hours and hours hanging around the airport until we eventually arrived at Vigo at 9.15 Spanish time. I almost forgot to mention that as we got onto the bus at the airport, the driver asked if we had bought the tickets upstairs in the airport. Yes. Well, he told me, that meant I had paid an extra three euros per ticket. Well, that might be the case but as his bus company won't accept payment on the bus, we had no alternative. Online booking? Hmm, not really appropriate for that particular journey. I was getting a little frustrated by then and gave up on the discussion. 

The outcome of all this was that our planned onward journey to Pontevedra was postponed until Monday. A quick dash to the railway station on Monday morning and onto the train at the last minute. Mission accomplished. 

Ready for the next challenge! Which is probably going to be working out how to post my blog from my iPad!

Things to share.

Last night, so I have heard, there was a blue moon. I didn't see it. Having heard about it, I did a bit of research and discovered that it was not actually blue. Now, that would have been something to see. No, what happens is that they give this title to the second full moon of a calendar month, a rare occurrence. Hence the expression "once in a blue moon". The next one after last night's will be on January 13th 2018. There you go. To see an actual BLUE moon, you have to see the moon through volcanic ash, apparently. It's something to do with the particles of ash suspended in the air making the moon appear blue. I doubt if I have much chance of seeing one of those either. 

Something that does not happen only once is a blue moon is the feria that is currently going on at A Guía, the promontory with its lighthouse chapel on the top that we can see from our window. Every year at this time they a set up a fair and we are regaled with people trying to sing flamenco. Someone must like it, I suppose, but from here it just sounds rather mournful. There is other fair- related noise as well, of course. What is annoying is that the noise goes on well into the night, disturbing my rest, especially as it is a little warm to sleep with the windows wide open. 

Thinking about open windows last night as I tried to get sleep, I had one of those very physical memories that happen from time to time. We once had to spend a night in Oviedo because of our travel arrangements. Our evening meal had been strange, mainly because the white wine we had ordered was decidedly odd. Rather than white, it was a very strong yellow in colour and tasted strange too. We sent it back and they brought us another just the same! When we retired to our hotel for the night we found it so hot in the room, which had no air conditioning, that we had to open all the windows and blinds to let some air in. The street lights outside were unforgiving and it was that bright hot room that came back so vividly to my memory last night. Memory is an odd thing! Proust would understand this! 

I was reading something the other day about the modern tendency to "share" every aspect of life. I know people who do it all the time on Facebook, of course. You know the kind of thing: "just made a cake" or "been gardening all afternoon" or "tired now, off to bed". I enjoy seeing photos of what friends are up to but, really, inane comments about stuff are simply not interesting. 

Anyway, a survey reveals that the twentysomethings' appetite for sharing every aspect of their lives has made it onto the maternity ward, with eight family members or friends in attendance at each birth. They want to share their birth experience. My reaction was very much a strongly felt "ugh, no, thank you!" There are some things you do not need an audience for and giving birth is one. 

The article led to all sorts of comments including one from a fan of home birth - in her living room - why not the bedroom? This lady had about fifteen people in her house to celebrate her birth-giving moment but she banished them all to the stairs except for her husband, the midwife and her "doula". Just think, if she had given birth in the bedroom, all her celebrating friends and family could have sat in the living room. 

What is a "doula"? Good question. Someone called Dana Raphael introduced the term in 1969 in an anthropological study she completed. Her research led her to believe that it was a widespread practice that a female of the same species be part of childbirth, and in human societies this was traditionally a role occupied by a family member or friend whose presence contributed to successful long-term breastfeeding. There you go. She reckoned that the term came from the time of Aristotle when it meant simple "female slave" and somewhere along the way someone decided to use it to mean a person, not the midwife, giving labour support. It seems to me that "friend" is a perfectly good term but you can train to be a "doula" whereas nobody seems to think you need to train to be a friend. 

I just thought I should share that with everyone out there.