I end up in the small quiet city of
Madrid, clap for the man who keeps the keys to let me in to my
new lodging, then wander round the Prado museum with its
crumbling walls and leaking roof.
In Andalusia I take part in my Saint's day fiesta with the
rest of the village under the date palms, and later spend the
night in a cave home in Baza with my new friends. While back
in Galicia a church service is disrupted by a game of golf.
Finally, in a mountain village where only I and the village
priest can read, I become the people's eyes on the outside
world, and read the newspapers every evening to the assembled
village. I am the last link with the past before television
will make me obsolete.
It's time somebody told this story of a long gone Spain.