Cimeterio del arte: fake cimetery of “art works” in Morille
Another fake grave as piece of art in Morille
A thrown away graveyard lily as decoration for Leon
Frower found on a pile of rubbish next to the cimeterio (recently was All Saints Day)
Paulien checks the road and calls the albergue. Soon I’ll have to do this myself again, holy, holy
Except for culture also every day business. Rob walking Boris!
Your pimple is important for us
Pilgrims stable in Aldeotajada, 4 km. South of Salamanca
Picture through broken window glass of the interior
Aldeotajara’s so called albergue at the main road
I started the day with a half cold shower. While showering I collapsed. Or was this my first tia? I accidentally ripped off the curtain . Rob is a good technician and pushed the curtain back into the brackets. I saddle Leon. In the street I see a woman sweeping and blowing away leaves. She asks “tocar”? Petting, I understand. Only I did not know who she meant. Let her begin with Leon, I thought, and I asked her for pienso, food, for a dog. You should ask two houses down, she says. There they keep two dogs, but don’t tell them that I told you. If one speaks about the devil, then you step on its tail. Because he just came along with something that one could hardly call a dog at all. Pienso ?, I asked him. Come to my house, he invited me. Waiting outside I counted eight cats. Oladeladio, 8 catos, I remarked. Feeling insulted he answered….. 18! But I got my free pienso …!
In the village of Morille many old houses were restored in old style. There were works of art everywhere. There was even a graveyard with artwork or an artwork graveyard of many artworks behind the cemetery. We understood only half, but it is a fact that near the cemetery all kinds of cubes and other geometric statues were scattered in the field, usually red, as works of art. I took a picture of Leon. He’s lost some weight. You can almost look through him. See picture.
Leon loosing weight. You can already look through him
The father of the local barmaid had made the steel horse. I tell her, then you will also be art, because you are also made by your father. They only understood it, when Plien explained. Plien goes along well with her 17 kilos on the poekel (back). I doubt if her upper body is in balance: if 17 kg behind, then she also needs 17 kg in front. She has to be some kind of Margaret Thatcher, the Iron Lady. I even made a picture of iron Plien. See picture.
Iron lady Pauline in artists’ village Morille
I discovered a fantastic local parade (Spanish for bus stop). True 60s style pop art. All kind of old agricultural tools were incorporated into a work of art, which served as a bus stop.
Bus station of Morille, built with old agricultural machines
Again bus station Morilla
Bus stop Morille from the other side
Today the weather is nice. You get what you deserve. The landscape changes from hills with endless oak groves to a very wide, open field landscape almost devoid of vegetation. Entering the village of Miranda del Azán we desire a coffee break. Everything is closed except for the local supermarket. For a few euros we bought lunch and ate it in a bus shelter. At the rear the glass was out of the wall. Of course, no glass in the front. However double glass windows in the walls at the side for thermal isolation! I left Leon roaming free around the “parade”. He tried to play Ed the speaking horse and wanted to scrounche off my bread and long sausage, bocadillo, through the open rear window of the bus shelter.
Lunch break in a bus station
Bus station with Leon, the non speaking horse and double windows only at the sides
There were old paper containers: your papel is important to us (see photo). Medically papel means pimple.
Reenforced we arrived in Aldeotajada, 4 km. South of Salamanca. At the city hall I got the key of the poor pilgrims kot: A dirty mess. Sleeping on the floor, no light, no electro, no water. Leon got tied to a tree again. Fortunately lots of grass. Tosca was attached to a short rope in my dirty pilgrim shelter. If I leave her unleeced she’ll bite preferably the delicious salted, smelly, felt saddle blanket, on which I also can leave her. And then I am screwed. Rob and Pauline wanted to go on a few more km. until the city of Salamanca. The three of us marched on over the ancient, often recognizable Roman Via de la Plata to Salamanca, Pauline and Rob’s goal. Photo of the old road, currently used for the ancient transhumance, wandering herds of sheep, that made Old Castilia become rich, centuries ago. We crossed the Roman bridge with the famous 2500-year-old, they say Celtic bull statue at the end (well it’s said it was a bull, but one could keep it for a pig as well) and we enter the old city. We pass a beautiful Art Nouveau museum/Jugendstihl museum, (not to be confused with Stihl utensils) which coincidentally itself also was built in Art Nouveau / Jugendstihl. Beautiful cathedral, lovely old town. Plien and Rob check in at the posh pilgrims’ hostel in Salamanca. This would have been the home of the parents of the Spanish version of Romeo and Juliet, with a beautiful garden around it, on top of the city ramparts, where the parents of the pair of lovers supposedly jumped off. Dummies.
A very nice, old peligrinophyl in the albergue explains to Paulien and Rob: curfew in the inn is at 10 p.m. Tomorrow at 8 am. you have to be away. One may stay only one night, backpacks be put in a bag and shall be left downstairs, shoes too etc. etc. Rob got all psyched up with all these regulations. Pilgrims inns where nothing is possible. Bale, Bale. Rob and Paulien had figured to stay in Salamanca several nights. Caceres where we were last week and Salamanca have in common with the Dutch town of Maastricht their chauvinism, that seems to be associated with ancient cultural cities. As Maastricht undoubtedly is the oldest city in the Netherlands, possibly followed by Nijmegen ( the town of Nijmegen proclaims the opposite) and as God created from golden ears the people of Maastricht and from the rest God created the rest of the country (variations are possible), so Salamanca has the oldest university in Spain. Like the Sorbonne in French Paris, and Bologna in Italy are the oldest universities, Maastricht is the youngest university in our country. About chauvinism I heard from Paul C (and he should know) the following anecdote, well known in my group , but even a 2nd time still funny: someone in Maastricht goes to bar de Vogelstruijs and says: my boss sends me to England, but I don’t speak English. His friends say: if – you – speak Maastricht- dialect – very – slowly they all will understand you. He dashes into the first pub in England and says slowly: One – beer – please.. The waiter answers very slowly in Maastricht dialect: please- sir – and – cheers. This is repeated many times. Until the Maastricht guy asks? Where- do – you – come – from? The waiter: from – Maas-tricht. Says the Maastricht guy: then – why – are – we – spea – king – Eng – lish??
The evening ended in the Italian restaurant. I tried with the Italian song “bona sera, signorita, kiss me good night.” Says the waiter soi signor (I’m a man). Whether I could not see that! In the dark, I left Salamanca walking 4 kilometers back to my shed in Aldeotajada.
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