Once in Os Peares

Os Peares (officially Nosa Señora do Pilar dos Peares) is the strangest village I’ve been to. It belongs to (or shall we say, is torn between) two provinces, four municipalities, three judicial districts and two dioceses. In part — but only in part — this is due to its unusual geography. The rivers Búbal, Minho and Sil meet here; cross one of them and you are bound to find yourself in another administrative division. This peculiar arrangement is guaranteed to make any paperwork-related undertaking a nightmare for the villagers. On the contrary, the mere mentioning of its name must provide infinite joy to bureaucrats dealing with the local matters.

It’s difficult to say what exactly is the centre of the village but I’d place it near the church (Iglesia Nuestra Señora del Pilar de los Peares) — wait, there are two buildings with this name, and I’ve never seen either of them open. Scrap that, I’d place the village centre right in the natural pool of the river Búbal, because this is the place you can meet more than one person at a time. Having said that, I spent several glorious mornings by this pool enjoying total solitude.

Next to the pool there is a reasonably modern building that combines a health centre (the doctor was on holidays when I was there), an ATM and a post office. This latter is open every working day from 11:00 to 11:30. One day I came to visit it because I needed to send a gift to my friend in Santander. The postman did not have a suitable envelope but was able to fashion something resembling it out of scraps of brown paper he’d found under his desk. I was pleasantly surprised when I learned, two weeks later, that the package had safely arrived to its addressee, together with its contents.

The village boasts its own train station where a train stops twice a day: 8:37 to Ourense and 16:48 from Ourense. So a day out in the provincial capital is doable. The train in either direction stops at platform no. 3. I don’t know how useful this information is as I was unable to find platforms no. 1 and no. 2. There is an Eiffelesque railway bridge painted sky blue, the kind of bridge you’d board a train only for the privilege to cross the river by. However, you’d have to go in the direction of Monforte de Lemos to experience that, which I never did. What I did was the next best thing: to cross it on foot. Or maybe it is the first best thing, given that you can stop at any point and enjoy the view to your heart’s content.

The village also has a pharmacy; a grocery store (I heard a rumour that the owner is about to retire, which could spell the end of it); and, of course, a number of bars. My favourite is Bar Barra, where a beer in a frosty mug and a generous tapa will cost you €2.

Os Peares is the birthplace of one Alberto Núñez Feijóo, the man who thinks he is the next Prime Minister of Spain. In another bar, spookily called Luz de Gas, a big photo on the wall shows the man himself posing with the owner-cum-waiter. I don’t know why she put it there, I think it scares the customers off.

Ah, Galicia, beautiful Galicia. Apart from Estrella Galicia and pulpo a la gallega, it gave us Franco, Rajoy and now Feijóo.

Speaking of Franco. Some 1.5 km northeast of the village centre (as defined above) you’ll find a hydroelectric power station constructed during the dictatorship, between 1945 and 1955. The generalissimo just loved his dams. Below the dam, a model village was built for the power station workers, complete with a school and a chapel. Then this housing “was abandoned and fell into disuse for decades”, although the station itself seems to be working all right. Now the restored village hosts Peares Language Immersion Centre. In the summer, the students of the immersion courses descend on the natural pool in the centre of Os Peares where they outnumber the sunbathing locals by an order of magnitude. Above the power station is another place worth visiting, El Mirador Alto da Picota; do some research (a hint: Google Maps may not show you the best route) and wear proper hiking shoes, not sandals as I did.

It’s well known that the rain in Spain stays mainly in Galicia. Not in July though, and especially not in Os Peares. In the four weeks that I spent there, there was one rainy day and several misty mornings, otherwise full sun with daily temperatures up to 40 °C.

According to Wikipedia, in 2023 Os Peares had 57 inhabitants. If it is so, there are more homes than people and, inevitably, many houses are empty, which confers this idyllic corner a certain degree of creepiness. Even stray cats and dogs are conspicuous by their absence. If there are any unsolved murders in Galicia, Os Peares provides the ideal setting. It just has this aura.

This aspect aside, Os Peares is a great spot to visit and probably spend a couple of days hiking around. By the end of the first week there, I thought I’d seen all there is to see. After two weeks, I was fed up with it and with the heat. By the end of the third week, after seeing all there is to see in Ourense, I was ready to go. I left Os Peares after four weeks hoping to never come back.

Os Peares is a place you couldn’t help returning to. On many an occasion I was greeted by a road sign welcoming me, once again, to Os Peares, which means that I must have left the village behind me at some point without noticing it. I’m considering “Once in Os Peares” for the title of my new book. OK maybe “Twice in Os Peares”. But that will be it.

More photos of Os Peares @ Shutterstock.

¿Qué me quieres, amor?

by Manuel Rivas
translated by Dolores Vilavedra

An award-winning collection of sixteen short stories by the author of whom I never heard before and who happens to be, among other things, a founding member of Greenpeace España. I hope it is as joy to read in its original Galician (which I don’t speak) as this Spanish translation. My favourites are Conga, conga, La chica del pantalón pirata and Un saxo en la niebla.

After finishing the book, I learned that three of the stories were adapted into a film La lengua de las mariposas directed by José Luis Cuerda, which is now on my to-watch list.

Mi tío se llamaba Amaro y se había muerto por lo menos ocho veces antes de morirse. Era un especialista en morirse y siempre lo hacía con mucha dignidad. Volvía de la muerte perfumado con jabones La Toja, peinado como el acordeonista de la Orquesta Mallo, con un traje nuevo Príncipe de Gales y con una historia sorprendente. En una ocasión hizo una descripción muy detallada del menú del Banquete Celestial, en el que, según él, abundaba el lacón con grelos.

El inmenso camposanto de La Habana

♥ ♥ ♥

Desde que apareció la esbelta figura de la ciclista, el vigía del molino había estado al margen de la realidad. Aquella presencia se producía fuera del plano. No existía ningún trazo que simulase una figura de mujer apoyada en el pretil, contemplando el discurrir del río, ni dos círculos como ruedas que señalasen el preciso lugar, justo en el del puente, donde estaba el pilar principal y, adherida, la carga explosiva. Él permaneció aún durante unos segundos hechizado por la grácil belleza de la joven ciclista sin establecer un vínculo entre la irrealidad de la aparición y las agujas de su reloj.

La chica del pantalón pirata

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«Hoy el maestro ha dicho que las mariposas también tienen lengua, una lengua finita y muy larga, que llevan enrollada como el muelle de un reloj. Nos la va a enseñar con un aparato que le tienen que enviar de Madrid. ¿A que parece mentira eso de que las mariposas tengan lengua?».
«Si él lo dice, es cierto. Hay muchas cosas que parecen mentira y son verdad. ¿Te ha gustado la escuela?».
«Mucho. Y no pega. El maestro no pega».

La lengua de las mariposas

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«Hace viento, ¿eh, Old?», dijo Maggie, cruzando los brazos justamente por donde él lo haría si pudiese.
«Sí que hace». Y añadió en un tono que a él mismo le resultó misterioso:
«Aunque las hojas sean muchas, la raíz es sólo una».
Maggie lo miró como si descifrara un enigma. Era algo más de lo que esperaba de Old M., metido siempre, como quien dice, en su propia sombra. Esas cosas se pagan con una sonrisa. Así que se echó sobre la barra, no sin antes mirar a ambos lados por si alguien acechaba, y acercó la cara, los ojos picaros posados en él, talmente como mujer que va a avivar en la chimenea el fuego tibio de la turba.
«En los mentirosos días de mi juventud metí mis flores al sol», dijo Maggie en un dulce suspiro.

La llegada de la sabiduría con el tiempo

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Y también estaba Couto, que era contrabajo y durante la semana trabajaba en una fundición. A este Couto, que padecía algo del vientre, el médico le había mandado comer sólo papillas. Pasó siete años seguidos a harina de maíz y leche. Un día, en carnaval, llegó a casa y le dijo a su mujer: «Hazme un cocido, con lacón, chorizo y todo. Si no me muero así, me muero de hambre». Y le fue de maravilla.

Un saxo en la niebla

As Neves

a film by Sonia Méndez

Kids nowadays.

No, not really. They ain’t any different from us when we were their age. And from our parents, etc. You’ve got your whole life in front of you, and you’re dead bored. Epecially when you are growing up in a rural village in the middle of nowhere, no matter how beautiful. As Neves, for example. So, alcohol, drugs, and sex, if you’re lucky.

Not that the events of this film would be much different if the protagonists were adults. As if grown-ups don’t consume magic mushrooms or engage in revenge porn.

Still, I think that Sonia Méndez was right to shoot a teen drama. The young non-professional actors are utterly convincing and As Neves is worth watching for them alone.

Elia

by Fermín Solís

After breaking up with her lover Olga (married, with two children), Elia escapes to a small village in Galicia. Which immediately reminded me of Un amor, and brought about the same thought: moving from the city to the arse end of nowhere in a hope to remake one’s life is the worst idea ever.

In this graphic novel Fermín Solís tackles difficult topics with sensitivity and — shall I say it? — love. The monochrome drawings are simple and expressive; just wait till the page where another colour appears! There are plenty of humourous episodes too. My favourite is the airplane game that Elia and her friend Luis play in the car: taking Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper off that fateful plane and shoving there instead all the singers and bands they hate.

Trazo de tiza

by Miguelanxo Prado
preface by Álvaro Pons

Mysterious island that is not on the map; mysterious woman waiting for mysterious somebody. Given the pace of the story (spoiler: not much happens really), by the end of the comic the mystery stays practically intact. What not to love?

A perfect example of me totally judging a book by its cover. I took this comic from the library knowing nothing of it or its author. Trazo de tiza was first published in 1992; what I picked from the shelf is the “definitive” 30^th anniversary edition. Well we all know by now how definitive the definitive editions are; expect even more definitive definitive editions in 2032 and 2042. But at the moment, the book I have next to me is absolutely gorgeous.

O que arde

a film by Oliver Laxe

A powerful and touching drama starring Benedicta Sánchez in her cinematic debut at a tender young age of 84.