Galician Tales

‘Lloran los muertos, cantan las hadas, cera en el viento, campanas en el alma.’

The night shadows that silhouetted the orbs were quick to emerge as they came closer to where he was standing. A troop of hooded figures in dark, simple robes that one would attribute to monks or medieval penitents slowly made their way along the trail in a formal cortege. It was the floating lights that gave them away: the eerie orbs numbering a dozen or more in procession that alerted my cousin to their presence.

He could distinctly hear the bell getting louder as they approached and the overpowering smell of candle wax.  He had the good sense to launch himself to the side of the path and avert his eyes. It is a well known fact in Galician tradition that you do not look into the eyes of dead souls. For then you will be bound to them doing your duty as their living guide. Tradition also dictates that you will not live long if you are caught in their binding contract. So he cowered to the side of the road and looked away waiting for them to pass. That night they were on a mission to collect the soul of one whose time had come and escort them away from the land of the living. Where to? We have no idea. The story goes that these beings are not necessarily malevolent, just souls lost in purgatory assisting the dead onto the next plane. It is what they do in payment for their own sins, serving, presumably the living and perhaps God - a job mopping up the ghosts of those deceased. The job Galician’s attribute to La Santa Compaña.

This theme - or any number of variations across northern Spain - are popular tales. My cousin swears by his story and so do other neighbours who have witnessed similar other worldly experiences. There is no denying that my cousin had seen something quite supernatural that evening. As he recalls he had never been so frightened in his life and yet given his family’s propensity for being adepts in such matters, for they have seen many things, it should not have come as a surprise that such phenomena marked him out as a witness. When Señor Álvaro, an elderly villager did indeed die on the day of his strange encounter there was no detering him from his conviction that what he saw were the spirits of the dead come to fetch the soul of the newly departed. And so there we were, a family sitting in my grandparents kitchen at dusk recounting old Galician family tales and stories that would make anyone less inclined to understand the legends and the old ways either very uncomfortable and twitchy in their seats, or scoff in time worn cynicism.

It is not every day that I fall for the myths and legends of a region that is so steeped in superstition I simply lose all my faculties and proclaim myself a believer. No. But I’m easily persuaded when the cessation of life comes to mind. Death has a way of giving rise to stories and explanations to try and divert us from the frightening prospect of oblivion. The fear of something we do not totally understand, the end of all things leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. The supernatural helps to create a mythos around the process of dying that keeps us in check. If such things exist then the afterlife is a sure thing. Everything has its purpose and we follow the rules. So when you see La Santa Compaña be sure to do so and get out of their way.

The Romans proclaimed Galicia, namely Fisterra (Finisterre) and all its moody beauty by the coast, as the land at the edge or end of the world. It was the last port of call before the great expanse that is the Atlantic Ocean. Just as the Celts were big on worshipping the sun here, so the Romans had a wary superstitious respect for the unknown. I believe they had enough on their plates being lords of most of the (then) civilised world. Falling off the end of a landmass or an ocean couldn’t have been very appealing. And who knew then what monsters were lurking in those uncharted depths? It takes a lot of courage and conviction to get past the inherent apprehension that fear evokes.

Galicia lends itself to many legends and strange tales. The land itself is changeable, primal, with forests and woods that invite the supernatural to reside within them, certainly in centuries gone by. Even now the sounds and smells of wood and pine, bonfires and damp are especially sharp during the winter months. Mists can appear out of nowhere. It is, after all, a wet and rainy region. Strange fogs move in the breeze and appear to have a will of their own. In the summer you can walk through the dense trees and find yourself lost under a canopy of leaves that allow for very little sunlight to penetrate. Occasionally, you’ll come across beams of light that break up the dark trails but it’s easy to get lost. I would always walk with family members or friends who knew the woods well. My grandfather particularly was a master when it came to understanding the nature of the deceitful trails. You never quite know how it works, particularly when you come across the unmarked crossroads. Each trail could lead to a village, or worst case scenario you’d end up deeper in the woods. Once, we did get lost thinking the short cut was the best option, only to find an hour later we were back at the crossroads.  Round and round in circles went the routes. We suspected that other forces were at work; the hushed trees where bird song suddenly evaporated and everything sounding muffled all of a sudden made my hackles rise. The imagination is a powerful hallucinogen sometimes. I was ready for fight or flight at this point. And although it was daylight I was frightened to the point where I was shivering in fear. I wanted to be some other place than there. My grandfather was unfazed:

“As bruxas andan xogando con nos” (the witches are playing with us), he told me.

And with that he adjusted his boina (beret), fixed on a trail point and smiled:

“Vamos nena!”

Yes, well, you can imagine what I thought of that. I never walked so fast in my life!

Do you believe in the supernatural? In my eagerness to hope that there is more out there than meets the eye I want to. Maybe not the scary monsters that lurk under your bed, but a reassuring sign that perhaps oblivion is not how it ends.

Foxy has the answer...

So what is the word to describe me right now? I’m just at the part where Elizabeth Gilbert wonders about this in ‘Eat, Pray, Love’. A word that encapsulates YOU at this point in time; something that holds true of your Self right now. The only thing that comes to mind at this immediate moment is relieved. Why? Well, it seems that after an eternity wondering whether or not I would have a job to go to for the next twelve months or so, I’m pleased to say that my tenure as an employee has been confirmed and extended. This has been the most prolonged dilly-dallying I have ever known in the world of cut backs and restructures. Then again, I should not be surprised that local government has seen fit to keep us all on tender hooks. The powers that be have had to negotiate a new world order as fits with central government and its constant threat of budget cuts and closures. We, the human factor are mostly irrelevant now and carted out to perform our monkey tricks at half capacity only as far as the public demand it. Except now they have to make do with fewer organic beings and more automated, circuited, self-service machines. Such is life! No point in arguing with inevitability. Let me not be ungrateful for my reprieve and the sheer luck of still being employed. Alleluia!

So I watch foxy out in the garden sprawled out in the sun and rejoice at this beautiful creatures care free sleep. A lot of people dislike foxes and consider them ‘vermin’ (there are humans who also fit into this category but I’m not going to argue with semantics). I find foxes live up to their reputation: resourceful, cunning, clever, vocal and opportunistic. She lies there and just sleeps with her ears (always) alert, as though telling me to accept calm and peace but always to keep watch for changes and the occasional turbulence. Be prepared to bolt or change direction when the path diverges should the need arise. No need to accept the turbulence if there is a choice before you.

Take a page out of nature’s book and accept life presently on a daily basis. So much time is wasted worrying and procrastinating when what we should be doing is getting out there and living with quality and love in our lives. I can say this now as I breathe out what feels like months of pent up frustration and irritation. I often fail to appreciate my blessings and instead lament my short-comings and the path I have chosen to follow, thinking I have failed miserably at this thing called life. It’s something I’m sure we all experience at some point in our lives when we are faced with the difficult stuff, the tedium and the impasse; uncertainty - the wall that would take herculean effort to batter down and overcome when we forget that there is more to life. We fail to see beyond our microcosmic world. The inabilty to see outside the glass jar. I'm guilty of this as much as the next person. As much as you try, the routine just wears you down sometimes. The challenges seem overwhelming and so soul numbing that you become apathetic. You live a life that is empty and that's where you nourish your negativity. And by jove is THAT easy to do when you stop being aware of the bigger picture and feel restrained by your very own hang-ups; the deluded perception of what you expect of yourself and what YOU think other people expect of you etc...I see it all the time. We are victims of self-obsession. We must conform, be one of the herd, keep up with the joneses. Sometimes I think that ignorance is indeed bliss as none of the above would even register anyway. There are zombies amongst us and they seem happy enough, but dull and asleep. It has to be said. I am one of those occasionally.

But you know? Should you come to an insurmountable wall and suddenly wake up from the stupor, just build yourself a battering ram. I know I’ll be putting mine to good use when I complete it. It’s going to take a little time but I’m getting there. I just watch foxy do her thing and not give a hoot about what the complicated humans are doing. She lives and that is all there is to it.

Thanks foxy!

All hail the sardine run!

migrating sardines

Walking home the other day on a rare sunny evening, not that it’s summer or anything, I realised I was wearing black from head to toe. I’m not sure when the conscious thought came to mind but it suddenly dawned on me unbidden and mundanely that I was not dressed in summery attire. There I was walking down the hill looking at nothing in particular because there was nothing of note to capture my attention except the usual chavvy trash with the rather talented potty mouths yelling at each other, when I had that eureka moment of very little import to the rest of humankind. It’s no big deal, it’s a boring fact but there it is – it seems I wear black even in June. But then June has thus far been a shameful example to its hosting season. Is it surprising I’m fashionably challenged right now?  Summer here has so far been rather damp and unimpressive. So churlish you would consider throwing several squibs at the grey, colourless sky just to spite it; or at least to make yourself feel better: constant clouds that I love to hate and wish would make their cumulus-selves more useful in REAL drought faring countries! The next ass to declare drought in the UK will be met with the deadliest telekinetic thought I can muster. I have yet to see a duck sweat in this so-called summer season. Have you ever seen a bird sweat in the heat? No, neither have I. I’m sure it’s not a commonly sought pastime, although I’d rather that than experience stinking human trolls on public transport. Still, the fact remains that I was wearing black. And I think that this unconscious preference is symptomatic of my state of mind.

Medvedenko: Why do you always wear black?

Masha: I’m in mourning for my life. I’m unhappy.

Is this what I am feeling? Is my wearing the dark garb the slippery road to gothic, sullen angst? Am I not too old for this kind of nonsense? Well, I’m at an impasse I think. It’s time to re-evaluate the old life path. It’s not unhappiness or depression or anything like that, it’s far worse, it’s insane boredom. I am so bored I could eat my socks. My focus is a blur and the optometrist has left the building. So what did I do today to make myself feel less bored? I watched something that made me think: eat or get eaten. Never, ever watch a BBC wildlife documentary and be taken in by David Attenborough’s dulcet narration because you will see nature at its most gruesome. You will see things get eaten by other things and you will start wondering whether life is really just about the menu and who is actually up for the main course.

I always root for the underdog. I will automatically dislike anything (I don’t care how hungry) that goes after the poor sucker running, swimming or flying for its life. I don’t care how illogical and totally ridiculous that may sound seeing as this is what nature is all about in part, it’s just the way I felt today. In today’s Great Events in Nature it was the ‘sardine run’ in focus. The little silver unassuming fish had every aquatic predator chasing them and lunging into their defensive bait balls to feed on them. Swallowed whole I tell you, without so much as being given the courtesy of a chew and a taste before the ignominy of sliding down a gullet.

Every few years these amazing little fish: the sort you will usually buy tinned in oil or occasionally from the fishmonger looking limp and well behaved, will migrate. Rather than I bore you to tears with the facts I’ll let Wiki do it:

“The sardine run of southern Africa occurs from May through July when billions of sardines – or more specifically the Southern African pilchard Sardinops sagax – spawn in the cool waters of the Agulhas Bank and move northward along the east coast of South Africa. Their sheer numbers create a feeding frenzy along the coastline. The run, containing millions of individual sardines, occurs when a current of cold water heads north from the Agulhas Bank up to Mozambique where it then leaves the coastline and goes further east into the Indian Ocean.”

For a sardine it was like participating in the restaurant from hell. It was a fish horror bloodbath! Sushi on the menu for all freeloaders: Gannets, sharks, dolphins, humans – even a whale! Where are the Japanese when you need them? (I jest of course) I’m sure Salmon could tell a few stories round a watery campfire too about their migrations upriver. Not that any survive after spawning – but in anthropomorphic terms they must think: - Screw it (a contradiction)! I’m not spawning! Sex equals death. Ok, I’ve lost my mind...

So I’m at an impasse. I need to get out more and stop watching Animal Planet and the Eden channels. As educational as these programmes are and as much as I love natural history I need to stop wearing black. It’s time I stopped mourning the fish and pull out a few colourful items from my wardrobe. But then, this is UK weather we’re talking about here – not much scope for colour is there?

Let it NOT snow! Shove it in your clouds!!

Snow! What is it about snow that gets people all excited and whooping for joy everytime they see it spread across the land in all its white picturesque gloriousness? Does it remind you of your carefree childhood? Perhaps we in the temperate zone think of it as frolicsome fun where snow creatures are built, and snowballs can be thrown in frivolous joy at friends; where we get our sleighs out and skis and snowboards and go play in the accommodating hills. Oh joy! I daresay those who live in places like Siberia, Alaska and the upper northern hemisphere have other thoughts regarding the white stuff. I’m sure they look forward to it every winter – not.

Me? I absolutely abhor the stuff. I am all for the seasons, but they either mark themselves out properly or stop giving us these half-hearted flurries every so often that only serve to inconvenience and take the joy out of everything. Ok I'm grumpy today and particularly belligerent. I live in a country that has mastered procrastination, objections and excuses to an art. As a Brit I’m allowed to complain. We’re good at moaning about everything yet at the same time our grumblings achieve nothing as we so seldomly act on our gripes. We just plod along grinning and bearing it. Our transport service is appallingly pathetic. At the first hint of snow everything comes to a standstill. If there’s a twig on the line there will be a delay and an investigation as to HOW that malicious twig got there. The service grinds to zero and yet somehow my fares went up at the beginning of the year.  Where does all this cash go? Certainly not transport. I’m sure it’s lining the pocket of some executive as a bonus for turning up at meetings for his coffee and croissant. I’m sure it was a difficult choice deciding between the croissant and the danish pastry. Such overworked minds need to be rewarded for the effort by over inflated bonuses. Am I being unfair? I think not when I consider the awful economic inequalities in the world. Where a bin man in Indonesia, Jakarta earns one pound a day (if he’s lucky) working over 15 hours a day just to feed his family and is shown very little respect. He has no prospects because he cannot afford an education and is treated by the affluent as a lesser being. I know my argument may seem simplistic but not when it concerns struggling human beings who desperately try to keep their lives together. They are usually also some of the most giving and humble people on earth. The poor have a certain grace and humility that puts most of us to shame. In most cases they are the first to offer you shelter and sustenance if you’re in trouble. I have seen it time and time again. I have no doubt that it’s all about self preservation too. A good deed done today may save your skin on another. But it’s a community that works together and they look after each other. Do we? When was the last time you spoke to your neighbour? Do you even know them?

Anyway, what was I moaning about? Ah yes, snow: that cold stuff that I dislike so much. When you live on a hill and that wonderful white fluffy snow has turned into dirty black slush and iced over the pavements ‘cause the grit is never spared for us plebeians and our vulnerable limbs, the chances are you may break, fracture, sprain something in the process of going about your routine like dropping of your kids at school and walking the 25 minutes to the station to catch your train to work. I do not have the luxury of a car, there are no buses, and taxies around here are extortionate. You pray that you get there in one piece and then you hope against the forces of nature that the icicles have behaved themselves and not touched the line. All it takes is an icicle on the line. They conspire with the twigs and take seasonal turns throughout the year. The wind too has a claim – beware the fallen trees across the line. It’s all out conspiracy with the elements.

I hate *insert profanity here* snow! It’s cold, it’s dangerous in its icy form, nothing but over-rated play dough and it should be confined to the Polar Regions, the glaciers and high mountain ranges. Banish the stuff, or leave it to the insane people who holler in joy at the first signs of it. Pack them off to Greenland and leave them there to ‘play’. They’ll soon get bored once the novelty has worn off and they feel the frost introduce itself to their body parts. I have been known to take a walk in the snow and enjoy its aloof beauty but I wouldn't weep if it were never to show its flakes in my presence again. I can appreciate the beauty of snow and yet not have to cavort in it. Snow and I keep a respectable distance where possible. It's probably why I have never gone skiing or snowboarding. I prefer water sports. I don’t envy the snow lovers in the least. I have better things to do. Why do I want to freeze my proverbial bollocks off shivering my arse off building some half-hearted snowman?  I am not an Emperor penguin and I sure as hell am not daft.  Have you seen how those creatures withstand the harsh Antarctic winter? Kudos to the Emperor Penguins! I’m such a pansy complaining about snow in comparison but those little guys are the ultimate biological phenomenon when it comes to endurance and mettle. If I were to get stranded (highly unlikely) in Antarctica I’d most likely die. Robert Falcon Scott did well to survive as long as he did with his men and was brave enough to face death and note that the elements were just too over powering for the human body to withstand given the limitations of his era. Even now we would be hard pressed to stay alive without our various technologies working towards keeping us alive in such conditions.  Ironically, Scott’s immortality lives on as a result of his death and his compelling journals. Looking back I guess it didn’t really matter that Roald Amunsden beat him to the pole. In death Scott became a legend. Had he lived the acclaim may not have been so enduring.

Mother- nature is formidable and I know not to take on such feats because I’m just not built for it. Hell, I complain about snow and winter but I’m wise enough to know when to avoid what isn’t good for me. It's bad enough the virus has a field day during this time of the year - take all the vitamins you like they'll still get you - I don't need the white stuff too. My extremeties suffer enough!

Snow doesn’t do it for me – sorry. I’m wise enough to take a step back and wait it out. Spring is round the corner and Ms grumpy here is just biding her time.

To your good health...

I never take my health for granted but my 40^th year more than any other age has highlighted my physical short-comings so rudely that I want to scream: my eyesight has deteriorated to the point where I squint and seem like I’m winking at everybody even with the goggles on, the way gravity pulls my body south, the way the dark circles under my eyes emphasise the thinner skin that was once plump and had collagen to spare; wrinkles telling me my cells are replicating from an ageing blueprint; how my once pert breasts have now become the ultimate happy clappers without a supportive bra and finally how my exercise regime feels more like a torture regime rather than anything good for me. Ok, perhaps not entirely a negative regime as I do actually enjoy exercise. It depends on how tired I am and how far I am prepared to enforce my discipline. Do I go burn off some cellulite or do I gain empty calories lounging around on the sofa eating ice-cream? I know what my inclination would be but I can’t do that to myself. Not every weekend. I remember my post pregnancy back-side, my over exaggerated flabby bits and my huge pendulous mammary glands (then again my cleavage was something to behold). I shudder in horror at the memory with exception my cleavage. Fine for the first 12 months perhaps but it took me 3 years to get back to a reasonable healthy weight. I was technically overweight and I was deeply unhappy. I felt awful, stressed and lethargic. It was like carrying extra bricks in my bag. When the flab starts to compromise your health it’s time to wage war and I did – eventually. Now I just need to delay the arthritis, the diabetes and the rest...all run in the family. Genes have a lot to answer for.

These things shouldn’t bother me, but they do because I care. For one thing I want to be around long enough for my munchkin and if that means taking extra care of myself in order to delay the inevitable where ever possible then so be it. I won’t deny that there is also an element of vanity involved. I’m a woman for freaks sake! You telling me your body doesn’t bother you? If it doesn’t then you lie. Stand naked in front of a mirror and tell me you’re happy with what you see. Go on admit it. There will be at least one thing that you’ll curse yourself for. It’s not how we should be but it is how we are as human-beings; always critical of something and usually ourselves, even if we don’t always admit to it.

I am so obsessed with my mortality right now I’d make Woody Allen proud. There have been nights where I have woken up suddenly and not been able to get back to sleep. And then my mind throws down the gauntlet and presents me with morbid thoughts about death and illness and my house falling apart, and the end of the world. I've had dreams of Godzilla lunching on my sofas and yes, you can stop laughing, I'm revealing my deepest, darkest secrets here. That reptile has some very large teeth. I've even had a visit from the evil Wellsian martians. As yet the men in white coats haven't arrived on my doorstep. It won't be long before they do at this rate. Yes, I’ve watched far too many apocalyptic movies lately. Anyone seen Lars Von Trier’s ‘Melancholia’? Well, you’ll see what I mean about depressing endings if you do. Unlike ‘The Tree of Life’ (Terence Malick) there is nothing redemptive about it, except the end of all things and the fact that there won’t be anything living to remember ‘life’.  Is that redemption?  “We are alone!” I guess when we die it doesn’t matter either way. Told you I was morbid. ‘The Tree of Life’ at least has some sort of upbeat quality to it – a belief in the afterlife and the enduring soul. Some critics have accused it of having overt Christian connotations but I say - so what. It is ultimately positive and - if not a little pretentious and Kubrick-like in its presentation - it makes you think. I am ripe for such existentialism right now. I am so desperate to find something to calm my agitation down that I’ll just about eat up anything that will show me a philosophy that goes some way towards answering my questions to calm my neurosis - however flawed it might be. Perhaps I’ll steer clear of Mr Von Trier, but I do so love his rebellious nihilism. Lucky you if you have complete faith in something. It means you can go to bed at night and not wake up like a startled rabbit in fear of death.

Ok, so now that I’ve admitted to my lunacy and lack of discretion up above I shall now enthral you with why this might be to an extent...

I’m in a fog people, a rather strange, drug induced experience where I’m not quite sure what’s what. Part of me is cursing the feeling of being out of wack with normality and the other is embracing the weirdness of it too. I have decided to write whilst in the throes of a migraine with its edge reduced by a drug infused with Triptan. It helps to reduce my brains excitability apparently. My dear brain is so abhorrent of any chemical changes within my body it likes to screw me over with 3 days of hell every month.  I am a Migraineur: A person who suffers from this incurable brain disease so easily dismissed by most as just a headache. It is a freaking nightmare that leaves me foaming at the mouth with pain. I have learned to manage it if I am to function and carry out my duties as a mother as an employee and as a normal human-being but when I get into Cujo mode (remember Stephen King’s doggy character that had rabies?) I am screwed!  You are bed bound with the vomit monster not far behind and the shakes make me unsteady on my feet. Talk about being at the mercy of my organic matter! Makes me want to take out my brain and wash it under cold running water just to numb the damn cauliflower. Jeez what a living hell! Even when it subsides you’re left with something akin to a hangover. You still cannot think straight and you look at the world as though in a trance. Physically I look like death warmed up. I scare my daughter’s friends in the playground so I wear a hat pretty much pushed over my eyes when I drop her off and pick her up. Then the blessed child attempts to give me a massage when she sees I’m struggling and I know I’ve done well to have given birth to this angel who gives me such unconditional love I could burst into tears.  If you know anyone who suffers from migraine be sure to show some sympathy. It’s not just a headache it’s a debilitating one. There's no faking it, you'll know. It takes away your control and your ability to function normally. Any person who pretends their headache is a migraine just to get out of work or whatever, obviously hasn't met Cujo. You will never fake a headache again if you do, because the experience alone is enough to leave you with a hideously lasting impression. If a doctor has diagnosed you as a migraine sufferer then you’ll probably be on medication for the rest of your life depending on the severity. It is different for everyone and it attacks in different ways. I just pray for a merciful release once I hit the menopause.  I’d rather deal with a hairy chin and grey hair than put up with this. Childbirth is a doddle compared to it, and that’s saying something.

Anyways, I shall not continue my monologue. It’s like talking to myself blog-style. Who reads me anyway? I wouldn’t, truth be told: "I would never want to belong to any club that has me in it for a member". Is it an egocentric thing to write about your experiences in public like this? Perhaps. It's cathartic for me and that is what matters.

Rather I go and feed my stomach something to keep it happy and hope my brain stays calm now the drugs have kicked in. Your brain might be hungry too. It’s an amazing organ when it behaves. Go feed it organics...