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Passing through


When I lived in Peterborough I never enjoyed catching the train to Edinburgh. Great destination as Edinburgh is it always seemed a real shame to be in York, Durham, Newcastle etc. yet just pass them by.

It was the same today. It's All Saints Day, the day to go and visit family graves, spruce them up a bit and have a nice meal afterwards. It's a public holiday. We were off work and Maggie had come across information about a village called Letur in the province of Albacete in Castilla la Mancha which looked worth a visit.

I like Castilla la Mancha. I particularly like the plains around Albacete on an August afternoon with the heat haze shimmering away into the distance. The last couple of times we've been there exploring though we've found that it's not just the big flat background so typical of those pictures of  Don Quixote and Sancho on their respective mounts. It has hills, valleys, lakes and beautiful green landscapes.

In the last ten days or so Cartagena has turned autumnal. Jackets out of the wardrobe for the first time in months. Thicker duvet time. But in the city the change isn't that noticeable other than in the temperature. As we left the motorway and hit the blissfully quiet roads on the borders of Murcia and into Albacete there were greens, oranges, reds and golds all around us. There were villages and farmsteads, terraces planted with poplars and olives. I thought about stopping tens of times to take a snap or two but we had our own version of Princes Street in mind.

Letur was good. Nice destination. Tinkling water everywhere, splendid views out over the plains, crooked little streets and lots of alleys to explore. In the bar we were introduced to arroz caldoso, a sort of slushy paella. Two sets of people asked us our nationality certain that we were not British as we had managed a few halting words of Spanish. It was a good day; a good destination.

It's all so White Rabbit though - "So much to do and so little time."

Comments

  1. El viento despierta,
    barre los pensamientos de mi frente
    y me suspende
    en la luz que sonríe para nadie:
    ¡cuánta belleza suelta!
    Otoño: entre tus manos frías
    el mundo llamea.

    ReplyDelete

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