Awake, for morning in the bowl of night has flung the stone that puts
the stars to flight.
And, lo, has caught the sultan’s turret in a noose of light!

Spanish life is not always likeable but it is compellingly loveable – Christopher Howse: ‘A Pilgrim in Spain’

Cosas de España/Galicia

I’ve mentioned that Indian learning was absorbed by the invading Moslems and eventually moved westwards. This was primarily through Toledo, at least initially. This is how that city passed from Muslim to Christian hands, taken from William Dalrymple’s ‘The Golden Road: How Ancient India Transformed the World’: On an early summer’s day in 1085, the Christian King Alfonso VI of León crossed the Tagus river over the old Roman Alcantara Bridge. He marched his troops in triumph through the ancient Visigothic Puerta de Vasagra and up the steep, narrow lanes of Toledo. By his side was his remarkable general, Rodrigo Diaz, known as El Cid, Arabic for the Leader. What had once been the ancient Visigothic capital of Christian Spain before the arrival of the Arabs in 711 was now the first major city of al-Andalus to be lost by them. This was the first major victory of the Reconquista. When the King and the Cid rode in, no fighting took place and no blood was shed. After 370 years as an Islamic capital, the city was to revert to Christian rule, but the city’s non-Christian inhabitants – Muslim and Jewish – were allowed to stay, and to keep all their possessions and privileges. Alfonso’s court, though consciously Christian, remained saturated with Islamic culture and learning. The gradual and peaceful way that the Castilians took over meant that at the time the fall of the city was hardly referred to by Christian chroniclers. But the Arabs realised its significance. In the songs of al-Andalus, the Fall of Toledo was remembered as an immense tragedy and the harbinger of much worse to come for the Arabs of Spain.

That old macro and micro difference . . .

Castles and empty villages – a cunning plan . . Or here, if that link doesn’t work.

Remember the fabulous Canfranc station?

The English of the PP leader . . .

Another unwelcome article. But at least my terraza isn’t cited . . .

The UK

A right-of-centre columnist doesn’t think much of the candidates for leadership of the Conservative Party.

Nice acnecdote . . . Britain changed during the seven years that Jon Sopel was the BBC’s Washington correspondent. “We became a country that believes in conspiracy theories,” he said in a talk at the Royal Geographical Society to promote his new book, Strangeland. “We used to believe in cock-ups.” Oddly, the more incompetent politicians appear to be, the less likely some people are to accept that they just mess up. Not that journalists always get it right. Sopel said that during one BBC drive to engage with “youth”, a colleague was told to stand on Oxford Street and ask teenagers if they recognised a vinyl record. “I’m from the The Six O’Clock News, do you know what this is?” he asked one. “Yeah, it’s an LP,” the lad replied. “But what’s The Six O’Clock News?”

Reminds me of an old Liverpool joke re condoms and radiators.

The USA

Ticket-splitting . . . An example of something that used to be more common.

Ukraine v Russia

The darkest hour? Here and here.

The Way of the World

Romance scams continue to plague users, but their costs have risen to staggering heights, according to a survey carried out last month via our weekly newsletter. More than 66% of respondents have been targeted by a romance scam, and those that were ensnared paid a hefty price, with 10% of victims losing $10,000 and up. A shocking 3% parted with $100,000 or more. The vast majority of those who lost money were unable to recover it, highlighting the need for increased awareness of evolving romance scam tactics and aggressive new methods of manipulation.

Quote of the Day

There are two ways to measure how you are doing: internally or externally. Most of our growth comes from internal measurement, while most problems stem from external comparison.

Did you know?

Allegedly, there’s one Spanish number you shouldn’t be suspicious of and ignore – 931 225 081. Far from being a scammer, its actually an Amazon delivery driver having ‘trouble delivering your package.

You Have to Laugh

From my friend David, alluding to an item of yesterday . . .

Finally . .

Welcome to new subscriber Devin Meireles

Finally, Finally . .

MY YEAR IN THE SEYCHELLES

• Episode 1: 12 September 2024: Why VSO?
• Episode 2: 13 September 2024: The Leaving of Liverpool
• Episode 3: 14 September 2024: An interlude: The Seychelles back then
• Episode 4: 14 September 2024: Departure, Nairobi and Arrival
• Episode 5: 15 September 2024: Arriving in Mombasa
• Episode 6: 16 September 2024: The YCWA in Mombasa
• Episode 7: 17 September 2024: The flight to Mahé
• Episode 8: 18 September 2024: Our Arrival
• Episode 9: 19 September 2024: Early Days
• Episode 10: 20 September 2024: My Colleagues and Some Early Adventures
• Episode 11: 21 September 2024: Mr Warren and Me
• Episode 12: 22 September 2024: Chris Green
• Episode 13: 23 September 2024 The Hotel des Seychelles
• Episode 14: 24 September 2024: A Night to Remember
• Episode 15: 25 September 2024: Visitors
• Episode 16: 26 September 2024: Dr McGregor and Me
• Episode 17: 27 September 2024: Dr McGregor and Me 2
• Episode 18: 28 September 2024: Teaching Duties
• Episode 19: 29 September 2024: The Watch
• Episode 20: 30 September 2024: The Sea and Me

Episode 21: Fishy Tales

There are 2 of these, one concerning Paddy Taylor and the other the local fishermen:-

Paddy was very proud of his fishing exploits in Nigeria and placed himself amongst the cream in the Seychelles. No-one I ever met in the islands agreed with his assessment – barring his wife, of course. In fact, he was regarded as something of a jinx.

During our year there, it usually fell to Martin to take the rudder on Paddy’s fishing trips with the Inspector of Police or Percy Delpeche, who worked at Barclays Bank DSO. But once, and only once, I was asked to perform.

As we cruised in Paddy’s small boat – his pride and joy – he gave me instructions to the effect that, as soon as he or the Inspector got a bite, I was to stop the boat. Not too difficult, you;d have thought.

After several fruitless – and boring – hours we hit a school of Tunny and Paddy’s line bent under the strain of a fish desperate to depart the scene. “Now”, he shouted. “Stop the bloody engines!”

Unfortunately, Paddy’s instructions for controlling the throttle had been brief and none too clear and instead of stopping the boat I caused it to accelerate rapidly.

As the craft shot forward at maximum speed, Paddy fell backwards at the minimum and I bit 3 fingers and the thumb of my left hand to stop myself from laughing.

But Paddy caught the fish – plus a couple more – and we returned to Victoria with what I thought was scant reward but what Paddy obviously thought was bloody wonderful.

As for the local fishermen . . . I’ve mentioned that, thanks to Mr Warren, I was moved out of Goelette into a newly built place of 4 rooms built on stilts on the sands of Beau Vallon beach – only a very short distance from where the tide stopped at its annual peak.

Living there on the water’s edge, I had abundant opportunities to observe the modus operandi of the North West Bay fishing community.

In Victoria, moth-eaten schooners would set out daily to search for the schools of fish that surrounded the islands in their millions. Days would pass before they returned, their crews invariably exhausted and sometimes empty-handed.

But they did things differently in North West Bay. In the season of the South-East Monsoon, when the water on the North West side of the island lay like a vast mirror stretching to infinity from the sands, all the fishermen except one would sleep or play cards in the shade of the Takamaka trees that lined the shore.

Up one of these trees would sit the only ‘working’ member of the party. There he would wait until tell-tale ripples broke the sky’s reflection on the surface of the bay. If the number of ripples augured well, our friend would slowly descend from his observation post and remind his colleagues of their reason for leaving their beds.

After brief discussions of the pros and cons of moving, the men would either return to their previous positions or set about launching their 2 pirogues – at a leisurely pace, of course. This done, they would row out to where the fish swam, guided always by our hero up the tree, and once there they would manoeuvre the pirogues until the fish lay between them and the beach.

The 2 pirogues would then separate, draping and dropping between them a huge fishing net. One pirogue would then make for shore to the left of the fish and the other to the right. The object, of course, was to trap the fish in the semi circle formed by the netting and the beach and it usually worked.

Once ashore, the men would haul in the nets and drag their catch onto the beach, where they would take whatever each needed and sell the rest where it lay.

When the fish was all sold, someone else climbed the Takamaka tree and the cycle began again. You could hardly say it was industrious but it brought in the rupees.

Walking along the strand one day, I noticed that one of the pirogues had far more fish than usual. As I was pretty fluent in Creole by this time, I was able to chat to the fisherman about his magnificent haul, with the conversation proceeding thus;-

Me: That’s an awful lot of fish. What are you going to do with the extra money you’re going to make

Him: What do you mean?

Well, it’ll be a lot more than you make on a normal day.

Yes, it’s 5 days’ fish for sure.

So, what will you do with the extra cash?

What do you mean?

Well, will you spend it on things for yourself or your wife and kids?

No.

Well, will you spend it on making your house or pirogue better?

No.

OK, what will you do with the extra 4 days’ money.

Nothing.

Oh, so you’ll keep it as savings?

No. I just won’t fish for the next 4 days.

I’ve never forgotten that chat. And like to think I took it on board. At least a bit. In the relaxed half of me. Not the intense half.

I guess it goes some way to explaining why I quit work aged 52 and came to live in Spain, financed by by daughters’ inheritance.

About which they might not be as relaxed as I am,.Having not chatted to a Seychellois fisherman when they were 19.

*******

My thanks to those readers who take the trouble to Like my posts, either after reading on line or in my FB group Thoughts from Galicia.

The Usual Links . . .

• You can get my posts by email as soon as they’re published. With the added bonus that they’ll contain the typos I’ll discover later. I believe there’s a box for this at the bottom of each post. If you do this but don’t read the posts, I will delete your subscription. So perhaps don’t bother if you have other reasons for subscribing . . .
• For new readers: If you’ve landed here looking for info on Galicia or Pontevedra, try here. If you’re passing through Pontevedra on the Camino, you’ll find a guide to the city there.
• For those thinking of moving to Spain:– This is an extremely comprehensive and accurate guide to the challenge, written by a Brit who lives in both the North and the South and who’s very involved in helping Camino walkers. And this is something on the so-called Beckham Rule, which is beneficial – tax-wise – for folk who want to work here. Finally, some advice on getting a mortgage. And this article ‘debunks claims re wealth and residency taxes’. Probably only relevant if you’re a HNWI. In which case, you’ll surely know what that stands for.