gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
“Logrono!” the pilgrim exclaimed, “during the wine festival? Not going to stop there.”
“A place best avoided", said another.
Yet another said, “Hordes of people in the streets, and you won’t get a bed for love nor money.”
But surely, this is La Rioja, a land where I’m told ‘Wine is Principal’, and this is the main, the harvest festival. The festival in Logrono starts September 21st and our walking time-table places us right about there, right about then.
All the local townsfolk will be celebrating, farming families will be coming to town, along with Spanish visitors from all around. There’s sure to be lots of entertainment, local flavour and culture.
How cool is that?
And they don’t want to experience it?
Good job. More beds, and fine Rioja, for pillies like us.
“Uncle Gerard?” he asks. But I interrupt him before he can get the question out.
“I am your Great Uncle Gerard!” I remind him. “And actually I’d prefer you called me ‘GREAT, GREAT, GREAT UNCLE GERARD’. More fitting with my position as a wise and respected elder of the family.”
“Yeah right,” he replies dismissively, “do you want to hear my question or not?"
He, is Jefferson, my 16 year old great nephew. This Camino I am accompanying him and his 15 year old brother Lazarus, and their mother, my dear niece Michelle, along the Frances. I’m giving the boys plenty of stick and they are replying in kind. They are bright, happy, adventurous, and full of mischief. We are having a grand time.
I've just come from the shower, pulled my undies on and am trying to get one leg into my trousers.
Jefferson is standing in the doorway. I hop around to face him.
“Of course I want to hear your question,” I reply. “If I can be of any help in dispensing knowledge and wisdom of any kind whatsoever to a young man such as yourself, trying to find his way in this world, I am only too happy to oblige. Fire away!”
He sighs in exasperation.
Then his demeanour suddenly brightens.
“Righto!” he says, “tell me this then....
How come....you've got such a saggy, wrinkly bottom?”
The little swine! I make a stumbling dive for him, but he’s too quick for me.
He’s out the door and gone, quick as a flash. His laughter echoes along the empty passage.
“I’ll have you cobber!” I call after him. “You’re turn’ll come!”
We’d had no trouble finding good beds in Logrono. At Hotel/Hostel Entresuenos, in the middle of town, just along from the Cathedral.
The town is indeed crowded this first day of the festival. Lots of street performers about, and, one after another, bands and their followers proceed noisily along the busy main street.
I set off alone for an exploratory stroll around town.
Get lost of course, and hopefully turn down a narrow twisting alley between streets.
As I hurriedly turn a corner in the alley I trip over a plank of wood and stumble to my knees.
That’s where I found Jesus.
As you should.
On your knees.
I look around and there he is, sitting on a wooden box, having a fag.
He’s in a long white draping toga, and he’s got his crown of thorns on, and he’s got blood streaming down his face, and it’s his cross I’ve tripped over.
“Blimey Jesus,” I say, “Be a bit more careful with your cross cobber. Don’t leave it lying around where people can trip over it. A bloke could sustain a serious injury.”
I don’t think he understands, but whatever, he is most apologetic as he helps me to my feet.
“Mime”, he says, prodding himself in the chest, then pointing to a hat containing a few coins.
"Oh right!" I exclaim, "you had me fooled there for a minute."
He’s having a break. He apologizes again. We smile, shake hands, and I wander off.
I spot a window poster advertising ‘Los Miserables’ for tonight. When I find Michelle we agree that as a treat we will go that evening.
Laz & Jeff aren't interested. They want to go to the Bull Ring, where we are told acrobats will be performing with bulls that evening. Apparently teams from various regions will engage in some form of acrobatic competition.
But you can only get tickets at the bullring itself so we wander off following one of the tuneful, raucous marching bands.
A supporting follower approaches and encourages us to try the wine from his pointy squeezy leather wine cask thingo.
You can’t say no, can you? I give my face a good splash to encourage their laughter, before finding my mouth with the stream.
Michelle and the boys have a go and the laughter of the locals shows they have indeed enjoyed our somewhat misguided efforts.
On arrival at the bullring the boys buy their tickets. We hear cheers and applause coming from within so we decide to investigate.
“No charge”, they say. So in we go to find young matadors showing off their caping skills with young bulls. While not as big as their older brothers who star in the main bullfights, the bulls still look pretty big and mean to me.
At the end of each performance a gate opens and several cattle lope in and gather up the bull before exiting.
There’s no blood or cruelty or anything, and I wonder if I've made the right choice as to the evening’s entertainment.
Whatever, ‘Les Mis’, even in Spanish, turns out to be a great show. It’s touring Spain and stars of Spanish music have taken leading roles.
Michelle and I wander back thru the fine warm night. There are fireworks going off over the river. Crowds are gathering to watch.
Here we unexpectedly find Laz and Jeff. They are bursting with excitement.
“They killed them Uncle Gerard!” Laz exclaims. “All of them! The blood squirted everywhere!”
“Yes mum,” says Jeff. “There were no acrobats! It was proper bullfighting! LOOK!”
He produces his mobile on which he has videoed the dying moments of a bull.
The matador stands tall and elegant. The sword thrust is smooth and deep. The bull stands absolutely motionless. Exhausted bloodshot eyes gaze up steadily and sightlessly. Four knees suddenly buckle in unison. His huge body's drops vertically thru the air, hitting the ground upright, with a thud that even I can hear.
A grotesquely large grey-pinkish tongue appears, lolls out the side of his mouth.
He slowly topples sideways, into the dirt, lies motionless, in that too ungraceful death pose.
My stomach is telling me something.
“How many?” I ask.
“Six!” they reply in unison.
Not wishing to even take the chance of hearing the boys praise this spectacle, we refrain from asking whether they have enjoyed their evening. Fortunately the bang of fireworks interrupts.
We watch the display until eventually the warm night gathers us up and gently shepherds us back towards our beds.
Next morning town is full again. Street performers and bands have resumed their endeavours.
It’s time for a late breakfast. We are sitting around a pavement table and the crowd swirls around us.
Surrounding tables hold a stack of students. They have gathered en masse to enjoy the sunny morning and street entertainment. There must be a university here in Logrono.
And what do you know. Across the street, on the other footpath, coming in our direction, is Jesus. He’s carrying a rolled up square of artificial grass under his left arm and his cross under his right. Almost opposite he stops, unrolls his grass and lays it on the cobbles. He positions his hat, steps on to his grass, adjusts the position of the cross on his shoulder, assumes the freezy mime position.
Our crowd watching is interrupted by the arrival of our breakfast and we and tuck in hungrily.
Jefferson, as usual, is first finished. Loves his tucker does our Jeff. Can’t sit still either.
He rises and stands on tip-toe, with his back to me, looking over the crowd at something that has attracted his attention.
My time has come.
His insult yesterday, regarding the condition of my derrière, will be now be avenged.
“You…cobber,” I think slowly, “are.....mine”.
I lean forward in my chair and gently grasp each side of his board shorts.
I whistle them down to his ankles.
He stands bewildered in his striped undies and t-shirt, unable to believe his predicament.
I expect first to hear his protestations, but it’s the surrounding students I hear.
They rise as one, applauding and cheering loudly.
Students, they like a bit of irreverence, a bit of bawdy, don't they?
Jefferson regains his composure and quickly pulls his shorts up.
“Everyone has seen my bottom!” he protests.
“Good job,” I reply. “Serves you right for being rude about mine yesterday.”
I lean back in my chair with my legs crossed, enjoying his predicament.
But he’s not done with yet.
He leans down and grabs at the slip-on sandal that is dangling from my right foot. In a fit of pique he spins and flings it away.
Another cheer erupts from the students. They are now on his side.
I quickly stand to see where my sandal is going to land.
The sandal spins away aerodynamically, over the top of the crowd, across the street.
Would you believe it, it whacks Jesus on the back of the head!
You gotta give credit where credit is due. Jesus hardly moves a muscle.
Altho as I hobble thru the crowd on my retrieval mission I note his eyes do appear to be concentrating on the strange flying object that has so recently assaulted him.
I bend and grasp the sandal. His eyes follow me as I rise.
“Sorry bout that Jesus,” I say, “but I swear it was an accident.”
“You remember me?” I ask, “Yesterday, in the alley, you and your cross tripped me up….Your fault. Today, you get clobbered by my sandal….My fault. Makes us about square I reckon.”
He never moves a muscle.
He’s not going to answer so I turn away and am moving back thru the crowd when the students start up noisily again. “The Hat! The Hat!” They are yelling and pointing.
I turn to see what they are pointing at. It’s Jesus’s hat of course.
They are indicating that it is only right that I give him a donation.
Quite right too.
I feel in my pocket as I retrace my steps. Fortunately I have a decent collection of coins and trickle them slowly into his hat. As befits such a kind, noble, if somewhat belated gesture, I am cheered and applauded by the students as I return across the street.
All’s well that ends well.
“See,” I say to Jefferson as I sit down again at the table, “You do the wrong thing by chucking my sandal which whacks poor Jesus on the head. And I wind up a hero! How good is that?”
His eyes narrow. He fixes me with a cold steady gaze.
“You’ll get yours,” he replies.
It’s a long way to Santiago.
I fear I will.
Regards
Gerard
ps. You may be wondering if I have so far refrained from conducting an investigation into the current condition of my derrière.
What I fear most of course is that Jefferson may be correct.
Best not to know really isn't it.
pps. Hope you are having a very merry Christmas and best wishes for the New Year.
“A place best avoided", said another.
Yet another said, “Hordes of people in the streets, and you won’t get a bed for love nor money.”
But surely, this is La Rioja, a land where I’m told ‘Wine is Principal’, and this is the main, the harvest festival. The festival in Logrono starts September 21st and our walking time-table places us right about there, right about then.
All the local townsfolk will be celebrating, farming families will be coming to town, along with Spanish visitors from all around. There’s sure to be lots of entertainment, local flavour and culture.
How cool is that?
And they don’t want to experience it?
Good job. More beds, and fine Rioja, for pillies like us.
“Uncle Gerard?” he asks. But I interrupt him before he can get the question out.
“I am your Great Uncle Gerard!” I remind him. “And actually I’d prefer you called me ‘GREAT, GREAT, GREAT UNCLE GERARD’. More fitting with my position as a wise and respected elder of the family.”
“Yeah right,” he replies dismissively, “do you want to hear my question or not?"
He, is Jefferson, my 16 year old great nephew. This Camino I am accompanying him and his 15 year old brother Lazarus, and their mother, my dear niece Michelle, along the Frances. I’m giving the boys plenty of stick and they are replying in kind. They are bright, happy, adventurous, and full of mischief. We are having a grand time.
I've just come from the shower, pulled my undies on and am trying to get one leg into my trousers.
Jefferson is standing in the doorway. I hop around to face him.
“Of course I want to hear your question,” I reply. “If I can be of any help in dispensing knowledge and wisdom of any kind whatsoever to a young man such as yourself, trying to find his way in this world, I am only too happy to oblige. Fire away!”
He sighs in exasperation.
Then his demeanour suddenly brightens.
“Righto!” he says, “tell me this then....
How come....you've got such a saggy, wrinkly bottom?”
The little swine! I make a stumbling dive for him, but he’s too quick for me.
He’s out the door and gone, quick as a flash. His laughter echoes along the empty passage.
“I’ll have you cobber!” I call after him. “You’re turn’ll come!”
We’d had no trouble finding good beds in Logrono. At Hotel/Hostel Entresuenos, in the middle of town, just along from the Cathedral.
The town is indeed crowded this first day of the festival. Lots of street performers about, and, one after another, bands and their followers proceed noisily along the busy main street.
I set off alone for an exploratory stroll around town.
Get lost of course, and hopefully turn down a narrow twisting alley between streets.
As I hurriedly turn a corner in the alley I trip over a plank of wood and stumble to my knees.
That’s where I found Jesus.
As you should.
On your knees.
I look around and there he is, sitting on a wooden box, having a fag.
He’s in a long white draping toga, and he’s got his crown of thorns on, and he’s got blood streaming down his face, and it’s his cross I’ve tripped over.
“Blimey Jesus,” I say, “Be a bit more careful with your cross cobber. Don’t leave it lying around where people can trip over it. A bloke could sustain a serious injury.”
I don’t think he understands, but whatever, he is most apologetic as he helps me to my feet.
“Mime”, he says, prodding himself in the chest, then pointing to a hat containing a few coins.
"Oh right!" I exclaim, "you had me fooled there for a minute."
He’s having a break. He apologizes again. We smile, shake hands, and I wander off.
I spot a window poster advertising ‘Los Miserables’ for tonight. When I find Michelle we agree that as a treat we will go that evening.
Laz & Jeff aren't interested. They want to go to the Bull Ring, where we are told acrobats will be performing with bulls that evening. Apparently teams from various regions will engage in some form of acrobatic competition.
But you can only get tickets at the bullring itself so we wander off following one of the tuneful, raucous marching bands.
A supporting follower approaches and encourages us to try the wine from his pointy squeezy leather wine cask thingo.
You can’t say no, can you? I give my face a good splash to encourage their laughter, before finding my mouth with the stream.
Michelle and the boys have a go and the laughter of the locals shows they have indeed enjoyed our somewhat misguided efforts.
On arrival at the bullring the boys buy their tickets. We hear cheers and applause coming from within so we decide to investigate.
“No charge”, they say. So in we go to find young matadors showing off their caping skills with young bulls. While not as big as their older brothers who star in the main bullfights, the bulls still look pretty big and mean to me.
At the end of each performance a gate opens and several cattle lope in and gather up the bull before exiting.
There’s no blood or cruelty or anything, and I wonder if I've made the right choice as to the evening’s entertainment.
Whatever, ‘Les Mis’, even in Spanish, turns out to be a great show. It’s touring Spain and stars of Spanish music have taken leading roles.
Michelle and I wander back thru the fine warm night. There are fireworks going off over the river. Crowds are gathering to watch.
Here we unexpectedly find Laz and Jeff. They are bursting with excitement.
“They killed them Uncle Gerard!” Laz exclaims. “All of them! The blood squirted everywhere!”
“Yes mum,” says Jeff. “There were no acrobats! It was proper bullfighting! LOOK!”
He produces his mobile on which he has videoed the dying moments of a bull.
The matador stands tall and elegant. The sword thrust is smooth and deep. The bull stands absolutely motionless. Exhausted bloodshot eyes gaze up steadily and sightlessly. Four knees suddenly buckle in unison. His huge body's drops vertically thru the air, hitting the ground upright, with a thud that even I can hear.
A grotesquely large grey-pinkish tongue appears, lolls out the side of his mouth.
He slowly topples sideways, into the dirt, lies motionless, in that too ungraceful death pose.
My stomach is telling me something.
“How many?” I ask.
“Six!” they reply in unison.
Not wishing to even take the chance of hearing the boys praise this spectacle, we refrain from asking whether they have enjoyed their evening. Fortunately the bang of fireworks interrupts.
We watch the display until eventually the warm night gathers us up and gently shepherds us back towards our beds.
Next morning town is full again. Street performers and bands have resumed their endeavours.
It’s time for a late breakfast. We are sitting around a pavement table and the crowd swirls around us.
Surrounding tables hold a stack of students. They have gathered en masse to enjoy the sunny morning and street entertainment. There must be a university here in Logrono.
And what do you know. Across the street, on the other footpath, coming in our direction, is Jesus. He’s carrying a rolled up square of artificial grass under his left arm and his cross under his right. Almost opposite he stops, unrolls his grass and lays it on the cobbles. He positions his hat, steps on to his grass, adjusts the position of the cross on his shoulder, assumes the freezy mime position.
Our crowd watching is interrupted by the arrival of our breakfast and we and tuck in hungrily.
Jefferson, as usual, is first finished. Loves his tucker does our Jeff. Can’t sit still either.
He rises and stands on tip-toe, with his back to me, looking over the crowd at something that has attracted his attention.
My time has come.
His insult yesterday, regarding the condition of my derrière, will be now be avenged.
“You…cobber,” I think slowly, “are.....mine”.
I lean forward in my chair and gently grasp each side of his board shorts.
I whistle them down to his ankles.
He stands bewildered in his striped undies and t-shirt, unable to believe his predicament.
I expect first to hear his protestations, but it’s the surrounding students I hear.
They rise as one, applauding and cheering loudly.
Students, they like a bit of irreverence, a bit of bawdy, don't they?
Jefferson regains his composure and quickly pulls his shorts up.
“Everyone has seen my bottom!” he protests.
“Good job,” I reply. “Serves you right for being rude about mine yesterday.”
I lean back in my chair with my legs crossed, enjoying his predicament.
But he’s not done with yet.
He leans down and grabs at the slip-on sandal that is dangling from my right foot. In a fit of pique he spins and flings it away.
Another cheer erupts from the students. They are now on his side.
I quickly stand to see where my sandal is going to land.
The sandal spins away aerodynamically, over the top of the crowd, across the street.
Would you believe it, it whacks Jesus on the back of the head!
You gotta give credit where credit is due. Jesus hardly moves a muscle.
Altho as I hobble thru the crowd on my retrieval mission I note his eyes do appear to be concentrating on the strange flying object that has so recently assaulted him.
I bend and grasp the sandal. His eyes follow me as I rise.
“Sorry bout that Jesus,” I say, “but I swear it was an accident.”
“You remember me?” I ask, “Yesterday, in the alley, you and your cross tripped me up….Your fault. Today, you get clobbered by my sandal….My fault. Makes us about square I reckon.”
He never moves a muscle.
He’s not going to answer so I turn away and am moving back thru the crowd when the students start up noisily again. “The Hat! The Hat!” They are yelling and pointing.
I turn to see what they are pointing at. It’s Jesus’s hat of course.
They are indicating that it is only right that I give him a donation.
Quite right too.
I feel in my pocket as I retrace my steps. Fortunately I have a decent collection of coins and trickle them slowly into his hat. As befits such a kind, noble, if somewhat belated gesture, I am cheered and applauded by the students as I return across the street.
All’s well that ends well.
“See,” I say to Jefferson as I sit down again at the table, “You do the wrong thing by chucking my sandal which whacks poor Jesus on the head. And I wind up a hero! How good is that?”
His eyes narrow. He fixes me with a cold steady gaze.
“You’ll get yours,” he replies.
It’s a long way to Santiago.
I fear I will.
Regards
Gerard
ps. You may be wondering if I have so far refrained from conducting an investigation into the current condition of my derrière.
What I fear most of course is that Jefferson may be correct.
Best not to know really isn't it.
pps. Hope you are having a very merry Christmas and best wishes for the New Year.
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