For two days a warm wind

For two days a warm wind had been blowing from the south.
The last snow had melted off the fields. The foaming spring runnels had ceased their roaring, the gullies and rivulets of the steppe had finished gurgling. At dawn of the third day the wind died away and heavy mists descended over the steppe; the clumps of last year feather grass were silvered with moisture; the mounds, ravines and villages, the spires of the belfries, the arrowing crowns of the pyramidal poplars, were all drowned in an impenetrable milky haze.
That misty morning, for the first time after her recovery Aksinia went out on to the porch and stood long, intoxicated with the heady sweetness of the fresh spring air. Mastering her nausea and dizziness she walked as far as the well in the orchard, put down the bucket, and seated herself on the parapet.
Altogether different, marvellously fresh and enchanting seemed the world to Aksinia. With glittering eyes she agitatedly gazed about her, fingering the folds of her dress as would a child. The enmisted distance, the apple-trees in the orchard swimming with thaw-water, the wet palings and the road beyond them with its deep, water-filled ruts – all seemed incredibly beautiful to her; everything was blossoming with heavy yet delicate tints as though irradiated with sunlight.
A scrap of clean sky peering through the haze dazzled her with its chilly azure; the scent of rotting straw and thawed black earth was so familiar and pleasant that she sighed deeply and smiled at the corners of her lips; the artless snatch of song of a skylark reaching her ears from somewhere in the misty steppe awakened an unconscious sadness within her. And it was that snatch of skylark’s song heard in a strange land which sent Aksinia’s heart beating more quickly, and wrung two meagre little tears from her eyes.
Unthinkingly rejoicing in the life which had returned to her she experienced a tremendous desire to touch everything with her hands, to look at everything. She wanted to touch the currant bush which stood blackened with moisture, to press her cheek against the branch of an apple-tree covered with a velvety pale pink bloom, she desired to stride across the falling fencing and to walk trough the mire, away from all the tracks. To where beyond a broad hollow the fields of winter corn were showing wondrously green, merging with the misty distance.
For several days Aksinia lived in the expectation that at any moment Gregor would turn up. But at last she learned from neighbours who called on her host that the war was still going on, and that many Cossacks had sailed from Novorossisk to the Crimea, while those who had stayed behind had joined the Red Army or had been sent to the mines.
From the book ‘ The Don Flows Home to the Sea’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

After his first battle

After his first battle Gregor Melekhov was tormented by a dreary inward pain. He grew noticeably thin, lost weight, and frequently, whether attacking or resting, sleeping or waking, he saw the features and form of the Austrian whom he had killed by the railings, In his sleep he lived again and again through that first battle, and even felt the shuddering convulsion of his right hand clutching the lance. He would awake and drive the dream off violently, shading his painfully screwed up eyes with his hands.
The cavalry trampled down the ripened corn and left their hoof prints on the fields as though hail had rattled over all Galicia. The heavy soldiers’ boot tramped the roads, scratched the macadam, churned up the August mud. The gloomy face of the earth was pock-marked with shells; fragments of iron and steel tore into it, yearning for human blood. At night ruddy flickerings lit up the horizon: trees, villages, towns were flaming. In August –when fruits ripen and corn is ready for harvest – the wind swept sky was unsmilingly grey, the rare fine days were oppressive and sultrily steaming.
August declined to its close. The leaves turned an oily yellow in the orchard , and a mournful purple flooded the stalks. From a distance it seemed as though the trees were rent with wounds and streaming with blood.
Gregor studied with interest the changes that occurred in his comrades. Prokhor Zilov returned from hospital with the marks of a horse shoe on his cheek, and pain and bewilderment lurking in the corners of his lips. His calfish eyes blinked more than ever. Yegor Aharkov lost no opportunity of cursing and swearing, was more bawdy than ever and imprecated everything under the sun. Yemelian Groshev, a serious and efficient Cossack from Gregor’s own village, seemed to char; his faces turned dark, an he laughed awkwardly and morosely. Changes were to be observed in every face; each was inwardly nursing and rearing the iron seeds implanted by the war, and the young Cossacks were wilting and drooping like the stalks of mown grass.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

He third Don Cossack regiment

He third Don Cossack regiment was stationed at Vilno together with certain sections of the third cavalry division. One day in June the various companies rode out from the city to take up country quarters. The day was dull but warm. The flowing clouds coursed in droves across the sky and concealed the sun. The regimental band blared at the head of the column, and the officers in their light summer caps and drill uniforms rode in a bunch at the back of a cloud of cigarette smoke rising above them.
On each side of the road the peasants and their womenfolk were cutting the hay, stopping to gaze at the columns of Cossacks as they passed. The horses sweated with the heat, a yellowish foam appeared between their legs and the light breeze blowing from the south east did not cool, but rather intensified the steaming swelter
Arrived at his destination, the regiment was broken up by companies among the states in the district. During the day the Cossacks cut the clover and meadow grass for the landowners, at night they grazed their hobbled horses in the fields assigned to them, and played cards or told stories by the smoke of the camp fires. The sixth company was billeted on the large estate of a Polish landowner. The officers lived in the house, played cards, got drunk, and paid attentions to the steward’s daughter; the Cossacks pitched their tents a couple of miles away from the house. Each morning the steward drove out in a drozhi to their camp. The corpulent, estimable gentleman would get out of the drozhi and invariably welcome the Cossacks with a wave of his white, glossy peaked cap.
‘Come and cut hay with us, sir; it’ll shake your fat down a bit,’ the Cossacks called to him. The steward smiled phlegmatically , wiped his bald head with his handkerchief, and went with the sergeant major to point out the next section of hay to be cut.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

The regiment was continually changing its pace

The regiment was continually changing its pace, and the horses began to sweat. In the distance appeared the huts of a little village lying under a steep slope. On the other side of the village was a wood, its green the tops piercing the azure dome of the sky. From beyond the wood came the sound of gunfire, mingled with the frequent rattle of rifle shots. The horses pricked up their ears. The smoke of bursting shrapnel hovered in the sky a long way off; the rifle-fire came from the right of the company.
Gregor listened tensely to every sound his nerves tautened into little bundles of sensation. Zikov fidgeted in his saddle talking incessantly:
‘Gregor, those shots sound just like boys rattling sticks along railings, don’t they? ‘he remarked.
‘Shut up, magpie!’
The company entered the village. Russians soldiers were overrunning the yards. The inhabitants of the huts were packing their belongings to flee, their faces impressed with alarm and confusion. As Gregor passed he noticed that soldiers were firing the roof of a shed but its owner, a tall grey haired White Russian crashed by his sudden misfortune, went past them without paying the slightest attention. Gregor saw the man’s family loading a cart with red covered pillows and ramshackle furniture, and the man himself was carefully carrying a broken wheel rim which it was of not value to anybody, and had probably lain in the yard for years. Gregor was amazed at the stupidity of the women, who were pilling the carts with painted pots and ikons and were leaving necessary and valuable articles behind in the huts. Down the street the feathers from an feather bed blew like a miniature snowstorm
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

‘Gunfire!’Zikov almost shouted

‘Gunfire!’Zikov almost shouted and tears filled his clafish eyes. Gregor lifted his head. In front of him the troop sergeant’s grey greatcoat rose and fell in unison with the horse’s back; on each side stretched fields of uncut corn; a skylark danced in the sky at the height of a telegraph pole. The entire company was aroused. The sound of the firing ran through it like an electric current. Lashed into activity, lieutinant Polkovnikov put the company into a fast trot. Beyond a crossroad, where a deserted tavern stood, they began to fall in with the carts of refugees. A squadron of smart looking dragoons went by. Their captain , riding a sorrel thoroughbred, stared at the Cossacks ironically and spurred up his horse. They passed a great, pockmarked artilleryman carrying an armful of boards probably torn from the fence of the tavern, and came upon a howitzer battery stranded in a muddy and swampy hollow. The riders were lashing at their horses, whilst the gunners struggled with the carriage wheels.
A little farther on they overtook an infantry regiment. The soldiers were marching swiftly, their overcoats flung back. The sun glittered on their polished helmets and streamed from their bayonets. A corporal in the last company threw a lump of mud at Gregor:
‘Here, catch! Chuck it at the Austrians!’
‘Don’t play about grasshopper!’ Gregor replied, and cut the lump pf mud in its flight with his whip.
From now on they were continually passing foot regiments crawling like caterpillars, batteries, baggage wagons, red cross wagons. The deathly breath of imminent battle was in the air.
A little later, as it was entering a village, the fourth company was overtaken by the commander of the regiment, colonel Kaledin, accompanied by his second in command. As they passed Gregor heard the latter say agitatedly to Kaledin:
‘This village isn’t marked on the ordnance map, Vasily ! We may find ourselves in an awkward situation.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

During the second week of July

During the second week of July, 1914, the divisional staff transferred Gregor Melekhov’s regiment to the town of Rovno in Volhynia, to take part in manoeuvres. A fortnight later, tired out with continual manoeuvring. Gregor and the other Cossacks of the fourth company were lying in their tents, when the company commander, lieutenant Poljovnikov, galloped furiously back from the regimental staff.
‘Another attack I suppose,’ Prokhor Zikov suggested tentatively, and waited for someone to agree.
The troop sergeant thrust the needle with which he had been mending his trousers into the lining of his cap, and remarked:
‘I expect so; they won’t let us rest for a moment.’
A minute or two later the bugler sounded the alarm. The Cossacks jumped to their feet. They had their horses saddled well within the regulation time. As Gregor was tearing the tent-pegs the sergeant managed to mutter him:
‘It’s war time, my lad!’
‘You’re lying!’ Gregor expressed his disbelief.
‘God’s truth! The sergeant major told me.’
The company formed up in the street, the commander at its head. ‘In troop columns!’ his command flew over the ranks.
The horses’ hoofs clattered as they went at a trot out of the village on to the highway. From a neighbouring village the first and fifth companies could be seen riding towards the station.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

During the second week of July

During the second week of July, 1914, the divisional staff transferred Gregor Melekhov’s regiment to the town of Rovno in Volhynia, to take part in manoeuvres. A fortnight later, tired out with continual manoeuvring. Gregor and the other Cossacks of the fourth company were lying in their tents, when the company commander, lieutenant Poljovnikov, galloped furiously back from the regimental staff.
‘Another attack I suppose,’ Prokhor Zikov suggested tentatively, and waited for someone to agree.
The troop sergeant thrust the needle with which he had been mending his trousers into the lining of his cap, and remarked:
‘I expect so; they won’t let us rest for a moment.’
A minute or two later the bugler sounded the alarm. The Cossacks jumped to their feet. They had their horses saddled well within the regulation time. As Gregor was tearing the tent-pegs the sergeant managed to mutter him:
‘It’s war time, my lad!’
‘You’re lying!’ Gregor expressed his disbelief.
‘God’s truth! The sergeant major told me.’
The company formed up in the street, the commander at its head. ‘In troop columns!’ his command flew over the ranks.
The horses’ hoofs clattered as they went at a trot out of the village on to the highway. From a neighbouring village the first and fifth companies could be seen riding towards the station.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

A sultry, sunny July haze lay over the steppe

A sultry, sunny July haze lay over the steppe. The ripe floods of wheats smoked with yellow dust. The metal parts of the reapers were too hot not to be touched with the hand. It was painful to look up at the bluish-yellow, flaming sky. Where the wheat ended a saffron sweep of clover began.
The entire village of Tatarsk had moved into the steppe. The horses choked in the heat and the pungent dust, and were restive as they flagged the reapers. The wind blowing from the river raise clouds of dust from the steppe, and the sun was enveloped in a tingling haze.
Since early morning Piotra, who was forking the wheat off the reaper platform, had drunk half a bucketful of water. Within a minute of his drinking the warm, unpleasant liquid his throat was dry again. His shirt was wet through, the sweat streamed from his face, there was a continual trilling ring in his ears. Her face covered with her kerchief, her shirt unbuttoned, Daria was gathering the corn into stooks. A greyish, granular sweat ran down between her urgent breasts. Natalia was leading the horses. Her cheeks were burnt the colour of beetroot, her eyes were filled with tears because of the glaring sun. Pantaleimon was walking up and down the swathes of corn, his wet shirt scalding his body. His beard felt as though it were a stream of melting black cart grease flowing from his chest.
At last Daria could stand no more. ‘Piotra!’ she called. ‘Let’s stop.’
‘Wait a bit: we’ll finish this row,’ he answered.
‘Let’s put it off till it’s cooler. I’ve had enough.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

The estate of Yagodnoe lay in a spacious valley

The estate of Yagodnoe lay in a spacious valley. The wind blew changeably from north or south, summer advanced on the valley, the autumn rustled with falling leaves, winter flung its forces of frost and snow against it, but Yagodnoe remained sunk in its wooden torpor. So the days passed crawling over the high wall that cut off the state from the rest of the world. The farmyard was always alive with black ducks wearing red spectacles; the guinea fowls scattered like a beady rain; gaily feathered peacocks called hoarsely from the roof of the stables. The old general was fond of all kind of birds, and even kept a maimed crane. In November it wrung the heart-strings with its copper tongue, yearning cry as it heard the call of the wild cranes flying to the south. But it could not fly, for one wing hung uselessly at its side. As the general stood at the window and watched the bird stretching out its neck and jumping, fluttering off the ground, he laughed; and the bass tone of his laughter rocked through the empty hall like clouds of tobacco smoke.
During all the time of Gregor’s stay at Yagodnoe only two events disturbed the sleepy, monotonous life,; the coming of Aksinia’s child and the loss of a prize gander. The inhabitants of Yagodnoe quickly grew accustomed to the baby girl, and they found some of the gander’s feathers in the meadow and concluded that a fox had carried it off.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

The night before Earter Sunday

The night before Earter Sunday the sky was overcast with masses of black cloud and rain began to fall. A raw darkness enveloped Tatarsk. At dusk the ice of the Don began to crack with a protracted rolling groan, and crushed by a mass of broken ice the first floe emerged from the water. The ice broke suddenly over a length of three miles, and drifted downstream. The floes crashed against one another and against the banks, to the sound of the church bell ringing measuredly for the service. At the first bend where the Don sweeps to the left, the ice was dammed up. The roar and scraping of the moving floes reached the village. The lads had gathered in the church enclosure. Through the open doors came the muffled tones of the service, light streamed gaily through the windows, whilst outside in the darkness the lads surreptiously tickled and kissed the girls, and whispered dirty stories to one another.
From the Don came a flowing whisper, rustle and crunch, as though a strongly built, gaily woman as tall as a poplar were passing by, her great, invisible skirts rustling.
At midnight, Mitka Korshunov, riding a horse bareback, clattering through the Egyptian darkness up to the church. He tied the reins to the horse’s mane, and with a smack of the hand on her flanks sent her back home. He listened to the sound of the hoofs for a moment, then, adjusting his belt, he went into the church. At the porch he removed his cap , bent his head devoutly. And thrusting aside the women, pressed to the altar. The Cossacks were crowed in a black mass on the left; on the right was an azure throng of women. Mitka found his father in the front row, and seizing him by the elbow, whispered into his ear:
‘Father, come outside for a moment.’
As he pressed out of the church through the dense curtain of mingled odours, Mitka nostrils quivered. He was overwhelmed by the vapour of burning wax, the stench of women’s sweaty bodies, the deathly odour of long-lying clothes brought out only at Christmas and Easter time, the smell of damp leather, naphthaline , and other, indistinguishable scents.
In the porch Mitka put his mouth close to his father’s ear and said:
‘Natalia is dying.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

The forest was turning a golden yellow

The forest was turning a golden yellow. The ripened reeds bent warily over the Don side marshes. Blending with the dusk, an early autumnal, drowsy, azure haze enwrapped the village. He gazed at the Don, the chalky ridge of hills, the forest lurking in a lilac haze beyond the river, and the steppe. At the turn beyond the cross-roads the fine outline of the wayside shrine was silhouetted against the sky
Pantaleimon’s ears caught the hardly audible sound of the wheels and the yapping of dogs. Two wagonettes turned out of the square into the street. In the first sat Miron with his wife at his side: opposite them was granddad Grishaka in a new uniform, wearing his cross of Saint George and his medals. Mitka drove, sitting carelessly on the box, and not troubling to show the foaming horses his whip.
Pantaleimon’s threw open the gate, and the two wagonettes drove into the yard. Illinichna sailed down the porch, the hem of her dress trailing in the dust.
‘Of your kindness, dear friends! Do our poor hut the honour of entering.’ She bent her corpulent waist in a bow.
His head on one side, Pantaleimon flung open his arms and welcomed them: ‘We humbly invite you to come in !
He called for the horses to be unharnessed and went towards the newcomers. After exchanging greetings they followed their host and hostess into the best room, were a crowd of already half-intoxicated guests was sitting around the table. Soon after their arrival the newly married couple returned from the church. As they entered Pantaleimon poured out a glass of vodka, tears standing in hi eyes.
“Well, Miron Gregorievitch, here’s to our children ! May their life be filled with good, as ours has been. May they live happily, and enjoy the best of health.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

The Melekho farm was right at the end of Tantak village.

The Melekho farm was right at the end of Tantak village.
The gate of the cattle yard opened northward towards the Don. A steep, sixty foot slope between chalky, grass grown banks, and there was the shore. A pearly drift of mussels shells, a grey, broken edging of a shingle, and then - the steely blue rippling surface of the Don, seething beneath the wind. To the east, beyond the willow wattle fence of the threshing floor, was the Hetman’s high way, greyish, wormwood scrub, vivid brown, hoof trodden knotgrass, a shrine standing at the fork of the road, and then the steppe, enveloped in a shifting mirage. To the south a chalky range of hills. On the west the street, crossing the square and running towards the leas.
The Cossack Prokoffey Melekhov returned to the village during the last war with Turkey. He brought back a wife – a little woman wrapped from head to foot in a shawl. She kept her face covered, and rarely revealed her yearning eyes. The silken shawl was redolent of strange, aromatic perfumes; its rainbow hued patterns aroused the jealousy of the peasant women. The captive Turkish woman did not get on well with Prokoffey’s relations and ere long old Melekov gave his son his portion, The old man never got over the disgrace of the separation, and all his life he refused to set foot inside his son’s hut.
Prokpffey speedily made shift for himself; carpenters built him a hut, he himself fenced in the cattle yard, and in the early autumn he took his bowed , foreign wife to her new home. He walked with her through the village, behind the cart laden with their wordly goods. Everybody from the oldest to the youngest rushed into the street. The Cossacks laughed discreetly into their beards, the women passed vociferous remarks to one another, a swarm of unwashed Cossack lads called after Prokoffey. But with overcoat unbuttoned he walked slowly along as though over newly ploughed furrows, squeezing his wife’s fragile wrist in his own enormous swarthy palm, defiantly bearing his lint white, unkempt head. Only the wens below his cheekbones swelled and quivered and the sweat stood out between his stony brows.
Thence forth he went but rarely into the village, and was never to be seen even at the market. He lived a secluded life in his solitary hut by the Don. Strange stories began to be told of him in the village. The boys who pastured the calves beyond the meadow road declared that of an evening, as the light was dying, they had seen Prokoffey carrying his wife in his arms as far as the Tartar mound. He would seat her, with her back to an ancient weather beaten, porous rock, on the crest of the mound, he would sit down at her side, and they would gaze fixedly across the steppe. They would gaze until the sunset had faded and then Prokoffey would wrap his wife in his coat and carry her back to home. The village was lost in conjecture, seeking an explanation for such astonishing behaviour. The women gossiped so much that they had not time to hunt for their fleas. Rumour was rife about Prokoffey’ wife also; some declared that she was of an entrancing beauty; others maintained the contrary. The matter was set at rest when one of the most venturesome of the women, the soldier’s wife Maura, ran along to Prokoffey on the pretext of getting some leaven: Prokoffey crawled into the cellar for the leaven, and Maura had time to notice that Prokoffey’s Turkish conquest was a perfect fright.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

The smith thrust himself away from the sill

Clearing his throat, the smith thrust himself away from the sill with his shoulders the villagers opened a path for him, and with a deliberate rolling gate he went up to the chairman’s table, saying as he went.
‘I haven’t joined so far, it’s true, but I’ll join now. Seeing that you’re not joining. Yakov Lurich. I’ve got to join. But if you’d put in an application today I’d have mine back. There isn’t room for you and me in the one party. You and I belong to different parties…
Ostronov made no comment , an uncertain smile hovered on his lips. But Shaly went up to the table, met Davidod’s beaming welcoming gaze and, holding out application scribbled on a small sheet of old paper, said.
I’ve got no one to recommend me. I’ll have to get myself out of that somehow. Which of you will support, me lads? Write it down for me.
But Davidod was already writing his recommendation in a hurried ,sprawling hand. Then Nagulnov took over the pen..
So Ippolit Shaly also was accepted unanimously as a candidate for party membership. After the vote had been taken the members of the Gremyachy Communist Group stood up and clapped, and everybody in the meeting also stood up and clapped raggedly, awkwardly, with their work worn calloused hands.
Shaly stood blinking, struggling with his feelings. But when Ramiotznov whispered into his ear.: ‘You ought to say something, something that move the people, Ippolit,’ the old man obstinately shook his head.
‘There is no point in wasting words. And besides, I haven’t any words of that kind inmy pocket. Look how they’re clapping. It strikes me they understand already without any words from me.
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

At sunset, when he reached the end of the furrow

At sunset, when he reached the end of the furrow Davidod unharnessed the oxen
And untied the reins from their horns. He sat down on the grass edging the furrows, wiped the sweat from his brow with his jacket sleeve, rolled a cigarette with trembling hands and only then he realized how terribly tired he was . His back was aching, he had a queer, twitching sensation behind his knees and his hands shook as if he were an old man.
‘Shall we find the oxen again at dawn ? ‘he asked Varvara.
She stood facing him on the upturned soil. Her small feet in worn, overlarge shoes were sunk up to the ankle in the crumbling earth. Pushing the dusty grey kerchief back from her face, she answered.
‘Oh, we’ll find them: they won’t go far at night.
Davidod closed his eyes and smoked greedily. He wanted to avoid looking at the girl. But she stood ’beaming with a happy and weary smile, and said quietly.
‘You’ve worm me out and the oxen too. You don’t rest enough’
‘I’ve worn myself right out,’ he said grumpily.
‘You should take more rests. Daddy Kondrat seems to rest quite a lot, he gives the oxen a chance to breathe, yet he always ploughs more land than anyone else. You’ve worn yourself out because you’re not used to it…’She wanted to add,’ my dear, ’but took alarm at the thought and pressed her lips firmly together.
‘That’s true; I haven’t got used to it yet, ’he agreed.
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

At he beginning of that June

At he beginning of that June, rain fell with a frequency unusual in summer time, but it was gentle, autumnally light, without storm or wind. Each morning an ashen grey cloud crept over the sky from the west, over the distant rises. It swelled and broadened until it filled half the sky; its dark underwings whitened ominously, and then it dropped till its lower fringes, as translucent as muslin, clung to the ricks standing in the steppe, to the burial mounds, to the windmills; thunder rolled somewhere very high and good naturedly, quietly and a copious rain began to fall.
The rain fell plentifully, as warm as fresh milk, on the earth waiting in the misty stillness. The drops danced in white bubbles on the foaming puddles, and so gentle and peaceable was the summer shower that it did no bent the heads of the flowers. Even the chickens on the yards din not shelter from it. They went on fussing busily around the sheds and the damp, blackened wattle fenced on search of food, an taking not notice of the rain, the cooks crowed their long drawn out calls. Their brave voices blended with the chattering of the sparrows boldly bathing in the puddles, an d with the whistle of the swallows as they dropped down in vehement fly to the graciously welcoming earth with its smell of rain and dust.
The village cocks produced an amazing variety of crows, The Liubishkins’ cock was the first to wake up, beginning the interchange at midnight. He crowed in a cheerful, flowing tenor tone, like a young and enthusiastic commander, the cock in Agafon’s yard answered him in a solid baritone like a colonel; then for a good five minutes the whole village echoed and rechoed with incessant crowing. Last of all, the Maidannikovs’ rufous and corpulent cock opened up, first muttering sleepy, strong beating his wings as he squatted, then in general’s hoarse bass, with a commanding croak. He was the oldest cock in the village
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

At he beginning of that June

At he beginning of that June, rain fell with a frequency unusual in summer time, but it was gentle, autumnally light, without storm or wind. Each morning an ashen grey cloud crept over the sky from the west, over the distant rises. It swelled and broadened until it filled half the sky; its dark underwings whitened ominously, and then it dropped till its lower fringes, as translucent as muslin, clung to the ricks standing in the steppe, to the burial mounds, to the windmills; thunder rolled somewhere very high and good naturedly, quietly and a copious rain began to fall.
The rain fell plentifully, as warm as fresh milk, on the earth waiting in the misty stillness. The drops danced in white bubbles on the foaming puddles, and so gentle and peaceable was the summer shower that it did no bent the heads of the flowers. Even the chickens on the yards din not shelter from it. They went on fussing busily around the sheds and the damp, blackened wattle fenced on search of food, an taking not notice of the rain, the cooks crowed their long drawn out calls. Their brave voices blended with the chattering of the sparrows boldly bathing in the puddles, an d with the whistle of the swallows as they dropped down in vehement fly to the graciously welcoming earth with its smell of rain and dust.
The village cocks produced an amazing variety of crows, The Liubishkins’ cock was the first to wake up, beginning the interchange at midnight. He crowed in a cheerful, flowing tenor tone, like a young and enthusiastic commander, the cock in Agafon’s yard answered him in a solid baritone like a colonel; then for a good five minutes the whole village echoed and rechoed with incessant crowing. Last of all, the Maidannikovs’ rufous and corpulent cock opened up, first muttering sleepy, strong beating his wings as he squatted, then in general’s hoarse bass, with a commanding croak. He was the oldest cock in the village
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

Simenion Davidod the soviet farm chairman

Simenion Davidod the soviet farm chairman was oppressed by an irresistible longing to do some physical labour. All his strong ,healthy body dried out for work: for work which by the end of the day would make all his muscles ache with heavy yet pleasant weariness, and ensure easy, dreamless sleep.
One day he went along to the smithy to see how the repair of the communal harvesting implements was progressing. The acrid, bitter scent of heated iron and burning coal, the ringing song of the anvil and the hoarse, complaining wheezes of the ancient bellows made his heart beat violently. He stood for several minutes in the twilit forge with his eyes closed beatifically, silently, almost painfully, enjoying smells he had known since childhood. Then he could not resist the temptation any longer: he picked up a sledge hammer. For two days he worked from dawn to dusk, and did not leave the smithy. The smith’s wife brought him his dinner. But how could he do a good work when he was called away every few minutes? The shoe went blue and cold in the tongs, the old smith, Sidorovich, grumbled, and his apprentice openly grinned as he noticed that Davidod’s hand, weary with the physical strain, wrote absurdly squiggles instead of letters on the official documents brought to him, and sometimes even dropped the pencil on the earthen floor.
Davidov hated working in such conditions and, to avoid being a hindrance to the smith, swearing as jucily as any bo’sun, he went back in a foul temper to his seat in the collective farm office
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

He awoke after sunrise

He awoke after sunrise. In that short hour or so of sleep he had had many dreams, and all of them unpleasant.
When he woke up he sat a long time on his bed, staring idiotically with terror stricken eyes. ‘Such filthy dreams don’t bode any good. There’s some misfortune on the way,’ he decided , feeling an unpleasant weight on his heart and spitting with disgust at the very memory of his dreams.
He dressed in the gloomiest of moods, kicking away the cat which rubbed itself against his legs; at breakfast he called his wife a ‘little fool’ for not reason whatever, and when his daughter in law ineptly joined in the farm talk at the table, he even waved his spoon at her as if he were not a grown woman but a little girl. Siemion was highly amused at his father’s lack of control: he pulled a stupid, terrified face and winked at his wife, who shook with silent laughter. That put Yakov Lukich right out of humour: he flung his spoon down on the table and shouted in a voice quivering with rage:
’You’re grinning now, but before long you may be crying.’
To make things worse, as he demonstratively left the table without finishing his breakfast he put his hand down on the edge of his plate and sent his unfinished, hot beetroot soup over his trousers. His daughter in law hid her face with both hands and flew into the passage. Siemion remained seated at the table, his head in his hands; but his muscular back shook and his broad shoulders rose and fell with his laughter. Even Yakov’s everlastingly straight faced wife could not help laughing.
‘What’s the matter with you today, father?’ she asked. Did you get out of bed with your left foot first, or have you had a bad dream ?
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

After the rain the earth was swollen with moisture

After the rain the earth was swollen with moisture, and when the wind scattered the clouds, it languished in the dazzling sunlight and steamed with a dove gray haze. Of a morning, a mist arose from the stream and the swampy, muddy leas. It billowed over Gremyachy Log. Hastened toward the steppe uplands and there melted, dissolving imperceptibly into a delicate turquoise haze. As late as noonday a leaden – heavy . copious dew lay like shot scattered over the leaves of the trees, over the red-thatched roofs of the houses and sheds, and pressed down the grasses.
Over the steppe the quitch-grass rose above the knee. Beyond the pasture lands the melilot was in blossom. In the late afternoon its honeyed scent spread all through the village, filling the girls’ hearts with a fretting languor. The winter wheat extended right to the horizon in a solid dark green wall; the spring grain rejoiced the eye with its unusually close-sprouting shoots; on the slopes of the hillocks and the dry hollows the more recently sown millet was pricking through the ground . The sandier patches were thickly brushed with the spikes of young maize.
Towards the middle of June a spell of settled weather began; not a cloud was to be seen in the sky; and beneath the sun the blossoming, rain-washed steppe was marvelously coloured. Now it was like a young mother feeding her child at the breast: usually beautiful, tranquil, a little weary and beaming with the fine, pure and happy smile of motherhood.
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

From Virginia’s airy situation

From Virginia’s airy situation one could look over a vast far-reaching panorama of mountain ranges and deserts; and whether the day was bright or overcast, whether the sun was rising or setting, or flaming in the zenith, or whether night and the moon held sway, the spectacle was always impressive and beautiful. Over your head Mount Davidson lifted its gray dome, and before and below you a rugged canyon clove the battlement hills, making a sombre gateway through which a soft-tinted desert was glimpsed, with the silver thread of a river winding through it, bordered with trees which many miles of distance diminished to a delicate fringe; and still further away the snowy mountains rose up and stretched their long barrier to the filmy horizon – far enough beyond a lake that burned in the desert like a fallen sun, though that. Itself, lay fifty miles removed.
Look from your window where you would, there was fascination in the picture. At rare intervals – but very rare – there were clouds in our skies, and then the setting sun would gild and flush and glorify this mighty expanse of scenery with a bewildering pomp of color that held the eye like a spell and moved the spirit like music.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

The island was a long hill of ashes

The island was a long, moderately high hill of ashes – nothing but gray ashes and pumice stone, in which we sunk to our knees at every step – and all around the top was a forbidding wall of scorched and blasted rocks. When we reached the top and got within the wall, we found simply a shallow, far reaching basin, carpeted with ashes, and here and there a patch of fine sand. In places, picturesque jets of stream shot up of crevices, giving evidence that although this ancient crater had gone out of active business, there was still some fire left in its furnaces. Close to one of these jets of steams stood the only tree on the island a small pine of most graceful shape and most faultless symmetry; its colour was a brilliant green, for the steam drifted unceasingly through its branches and kept them always moist. It contrasted strangely enough, did this vigorous and beautiful outcast, with its dead and dismal surroundings. It was like a cheerful spirit in a mourning household.
We hunted for the spring everywhere, traversing the full length of the island (two or three miles), and crossing it twice – climbing ash hills patiently, and then slidding down the other side in a sitting posture, plowing up smothering volumes of gray dust.. But we found nothing but solitude, ashes and a heart breaking silence. Finally we noticed that the wind had risen, and we forgot our thirst in a solitude of grater importance; for, the lake being quiet, we had not taken pains about securing our landing place, and then – but mere words cannot describe our dismay- the boat was gone!
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

Mono Lake lies in a lifeless

Mono Lake lies in a lifeless, treeless, hideous desert, eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, and is guarded by mountains two thousand feet higher, whose summits are always clothed in clouds. This solemn, silent, sail less sea- this lonely tenant of the loneliest spot on earth – is little graced with the picturesque. It is an unpretending expanse of grayish water, about a hundred miles in circumference, with two islands in its center, mere upheavals of rent and scorched and blistered lava, snowed with gray banks and drifts of pumice-stone and ashes, the winding sheet of the dead volcano, whose vast crater the lake has seized upon and occupied.
The lake is two hundred feet deep, and its sluggish waters are so strong with alkali that if you only dip the most hopelessly soiled garment into them once or twice and wring it out, it will be found as clean as if it had been through the ablest of washerwomen’ hands. While we camped there our laundry work was easy. We tied the week’s washing astern of our boat, and sailed a quarter of a mile, and the job was complete, all to the wringing out. If we threw the water on our heads and gave them a rub or so, the white lather would pile up three inches high.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

The ground was deeply carpeted

The ground was deeply carpeted with dry pine needles, and the fire touched them off as if they were gunpowder. It was wonderful to see with what fierce speed the tall sheet of flame travelled ! My coffee pot was gone, and everything with it. In a minute and a half the fire seized upon a dense growth of dry manzanita chaparral six or eight feet high, and then the roaring and popping and crackling was something terrific. We were driven to the boat by the intense heat, and there we remained, spell- bound.
Within half an hour all before us was a tossing, binding tempest of flame! It went surging up adjacent ridges - surmounted them and disappeared in the canons beyond – burst into view upon higher and farther ridges, presently – shed a grander illumination abroad and dove again – flamed out again, directly higher and still higher up the mountain side –threw out skirmishing parties of fire here and there, and sent them trailing their crimson spirals away among remote ramparts and ribs and gorges, till as far as the eye could reach the lofty mountain fronts were webbed as it were with a tangle network of red lava streams. Away across the water the crags and domes were lit with a ruddy glare and the firmament above was a reflected hell!
Every feature of the spectacle was repeated in the glowing mirror of the lake! Both pictures were sublime, both were beautiful; but that in the lake had a bewildering richness about it that enchanted the eye and held it with the strongest fascination.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

The station men wore pantaloons of coarse, country woven stuff

The station men wore pantaloons of coarse, country woven stuff and into the seat and the inside of the legs were sewed ample additions of buckskin, to do the duty in place of leggings, when the man rode horseback so the pants were half dull blue and half yellow, and unspeakably picturesque. The pants were stuffed into the tops of high boots, the heels whereof were armed with great Spanish spurs, whose little iron clogs and chains jingled every step . The man wore a huge beard and mustachios, and old slouch hat, a blue woolen shirt, no suspenders, no vest, no coat – in a leathern sheath in his belt, a great long “navy” revolver (slung on the right side, hammer to the front), and projecting from his boot a horn handled bowie knife. The furniture of the hut was neither gorgeous nor much in the way. The rocking chairs and sofas were not present, and never had been, but they were represented by two three legged stools, a pine board bench four feet long, and two empty candle boxes . the table was a greasy board on stilts and the tablecloth and napkins had not come – and they were not looking for them either. A battered tin platter, a knife and fork, and a tin pint cup, were at each man’s place, and the driver had a queens ware saucer that had seen better days. Of course this duke sat at the head of the table. There was one isolated piece of table furniture that bore about it a touching air of grandeur in misfortune. This was the caster. It was German silver, and crippled and rusty, but it was so preposterously out of place there that it was suggestive if a tattered exiled king among barbarians, and the majesty of its native position compelled respect even in its degradation. There was one cruet left, and that was a stopperless, fly speckled , broken necked thing, with two inches of vinegar in it, and a dozen preserved flies with their heels up and looking sorry they had invested there.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

By the door of the station-keeper’s den

By the door of the station-keeper’s den, outside , was a tin wash basin, on the ground. Near it was a pail of water and a piece of yellow bar soap, and from the eaves hung a hoary blue woolen shirt, significantly – but this latter was the station keeper’s private towel, and only two persons in all the party might venture to use it – the stage driver and the conductor. The latter would not, from a sense of decency; the former would not, because he did not choose to encourage the advances the advances of a station keeper. We had towels – in the valise; they might as well have been in Sodom and Gomorrah. We used our handkerchiefs, and the driver his pantaloons and sleeves. By the door inside was fastened a small old fashioned looking glass, with two little fragments of the original mirror lodged down in one corner of it. This arrangement afforded a pleasant double-barreled portrait of you when you looked into it, with one half of your head set up a couple of inches above the other half. From the glass frame hung the half of a comb by a string – but if I had to describe that patriarch or die, I believe I would order some sample coffins. . It had come down from Esau and Samson, and had been accumulating hair ever since – along with certain impurities. In one corner of the room stood three or four rifles and muskets, together with horns and pouches of ammunition.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

The station buildings were long

The station buildings were long, low huts, made of sun dried , mud colored bricks, laid up without mortar (adobes, the Spaniards call these bricks, and Americans shorten to ‘dobies). The roofs, which had not slant to them worth speaking of, were thatched and then sodded or covered with a thick layer of earth, and from this sprung a pretty rank growth of weeds and grass. It was the first time we had ever seen a man’s front yard on top of his house. The buildings consisted of barns, stable room for twelve or fifteen horses, and a hut for an eating-room for passengers. This latter had bunks in it for the station-keeper and a hostler or two. You could rest your elbow on its eaves, and you had to bending order to get in at the door. In place of a window there was a square hole about large enough for a man to crawl through , but the ground was packed hard. There was no stove, but the fire place served all the needful purposes. There were no shelves, no cupboards, no closets. In a corner stood an open sack of flour, and nestling against its base were a couple of black and venerable tin coffee pots , a tin tea-pot, a little bag of salt, and a side of bacon.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

In contrite silence

In contrite silence, he put on the clothes that she’d torn from his body only an hour previously. ‘When can I see you again?’ He hated himself for asking, but he had no choice. He was besotted.
‘I’ll ring you.’
‘I can take time off work whenever you want.’
‘I’ve got neighbours.’ She was tight-lipped. ‘They’re bound to notice.’
‘Well, you can come to my place.’
‘I don’t think so.’
A silence followed.
‘You act like you hate me.’ He accused.
‘I’m married.’ She raised her voice, I have children. You’re ruining everything.’
At the front door, as he bent to kiss her, she said angrily, desperately. When they broke apart, his hand was inside her shirt, kneading a breast. Her nipples were as swollen and firm as cherries and he was once more erect.
‘Hurry,’ she urged, fumbling wit his fly, pulling him out and holding him silky and erect in her fist, She sank to the hall floor, clawing down her jeans, pulling him on top of her. ‘Quick, we haven’t much time.’
She flexed her buttocks, rising to meet him, desperate for him.
He entered her ant thrust with short, intense stabs. Instantly the ripples began to flood through her rising in intensity, spreading outwards and inwards, peaking into almost unbearable pleasure.
After he came, he wept into her golden hair.
From the book “Sushi for beginners” written by “Marian Keyes.”

Clodagh dug her heels

Clodagh dug her heels into his buttocks, banging him ever deeper into her. Every time he stroked himself up into her, a word was dragged in a hoarse whisper from her chest.
‘God’
He slammed into her again.
Harder!’
Another slam.
The bedhead slapped rhythmically against the wall and her hair was tangled and soaked with sweat. She clutched him ever closer, as the ripples of pleasure built and built. Into the vortex she spiralled. With each pulsation, she thought that that must be it, until another, even more beautiful, throbbed from her. She quivered on the top note, and she felt it in her fingerstips, her hair follicles, the soles of her feet.
‘God,’ she gasped.
He must have come too because, panting and drenched, he lay upon her, his weight pinning her to the bed. They lay still, gasping and spent, until she felt their sweat begin to cool, then she buckled beneath him and roughly pushed him off.
‘Get dressed’ she ordered. ‘Hurry. I’ve to collect Molly from playgroup.’
This was their third time together and she was always abrupt – cold, almost –when the sex was over.
Do you mind if I have a shower?’’
‘Be quick about it,’ she answered curtly.
When he emerged from the bathroom she was dressed and refusing to meet his eye. Then she froze, sniffed the air and exclaimed in disbelief, ‘Is that Dylan’s aftershave I smell?’
‘I suppose,’ he mumbled, furious at the mistake.
‘Isn’t enough that you’re fucking his wife in his bed? Have you any respect?’
‘Sorry.’

From the book “Sushi for beginners” written by “Marian Keyes.”

Galicians had been here for centuries before the Romans

Galicians had been here for centuries before the Romans. Galicia was rich in primitive iron and , even gold mines. It also had, and has, awealth of natural resources in the sea. Molluscs and other seafood are still basics of both diet and economy. On the inland side of Monte do Facho’s peak, the remains of a typical Galician Iron Age settlement - a castro – are being dug up by archaeologists. Living in round, stone, thatched buildings and protected by defensive walls, people lived in this castro until the time of Christ.
The castors, some five thousand of them, are dotted on hill tops and promontories across Galicia. Their inhabitants – who also had little workshop`s and stores –sought safety, from enemies, bears and wolves, in height. An information board on Monte do Facho explains that, some time in the years after the birth of Christ, ‘ the inhabitants went downstairs to get land near the sea’. Monte do facho, with its six foot long, granite aras lying here as if cast onto the mountain top by the Gods, must have remained however, a fine place for a sacrifice.
Like almost any Atlantic coastline, the weather here is unpredictable and unforgiving in equal proportions. To drive around the tips of the peninsulas between the rías when the storms are coming in, buffeting you with near horizontal rain and wind is to wish for athick set of walls to hide behind and a warm fire for comfort. To come here on a bright, sunlit day, or glimpse it when the clouds suddenly roll away, is to gaze with awe on dramatic landscapes counjured by sea, rock, wind and rain.
At Finisterre, the relative protection of the sea lochs runs out and the exposed coast starts turning east, gaining the spine- chilling name of the Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death. This is the point where Romans thought the world ran out and where , it is said, they would come to watch the sun being swallowed up by the sea at night.
The rias, with their calm waters, are homes ti neat rows of bateas, the large refts from which chains of mussels grow on cords hanging below them. Gangs of gumbooted woment, bent double at the waist and dragging buckets behind them, dig up winkles, clams, cockles,scallops, razor clams and oysters when the tide runs out on the long, shallow beaches. The exposed cliffs of the Costa da Morte, however, are the territory of the percebeiros who risk life and limb to scrape off the percebes, the prized goose barnacles, which cling like bunches or purple claws where the Atlantic waves crash in.
From the book ‘Ghosts of Spain’ By Giles Tremet

Slippery, lime- green moss

Slippery, lime- green moss lined the rocks and boulders of the pathway as it snaked up the hill through the inevitable Galician eucalyptus wood. I was alone. A few sharp sounds, a dogs barking or doors slamming, ricocheted up from the village below. The only other noise came from the sea, the wind and the birds. It was easy to conjure up the images of the ancient Galicians who had walked this path from Iron Age times onwards. The view from the top of the mountain was breathtaking. He Cíes islands seemed close enough to touch and , to the north, the islands of Ons and Sálvora lay placidly in a deceptively calm ocean. I could see the mouth of the Ría de Arousa to the north. The view stretched beyond that reaching, at least in my imagination, to mainland Europe’s most westerly point – Cape Finisterre, the End of The World. The Atlantic. Almost bare of ships, stretched out towards America. Inland, meanwhile, chimney-smoke drifted across the lowlands and onto the glassy waters of the ría.

How could one not be owe struck by the mysteries of nature, or be given to thoughts of deities and spirits, in such a spot? Wide flat slabs of granite, very slightly hollowed out, are scattered on the peak here. There is also a tiny, round, weather beaten eighteenth century look-out post of grey, lichen-clad blocks. The little mountain gains its name from the fires that used to be lit here to guide boats home. The flat stones, or ara, of which 130 have been found, were used as sacrifical altars in Roman times. The God worshipped then was called Berobreo. Like Santa Marta, he could cure. Archeologists believe this, too, was a place of pilgrimage. Some aras still bear inscriptions asking for the gift of good health.

From the book ‘Ghosts of Spain’ By Giles Tremet

Galicians are not real Celts

Galicians are not probably not real Celts. But they would like to be.Many, thanks to some sel-interested tinkering with history by nineteenth century Galician Romanics, are fully convinced they are. ?Most of the Celtism found by local historians in Galicia is utter claptrap. It is decoration to cover the gaping holes in that particular story’, the philosopher Miguel de Unamuno wrote in 1931. The independent tribes that injabited this area in pre Roman times certainly had, from the sea, contacts with Brittany, Ireland and other Celtic areas. Modern genetics has shown also, that here is a shared gene pool around the European Atlantic in which the people of northern Spain, including the Basques , share. There is even an ancient Gaelic text, the pre-eleventh century Leabhar Gabhala ( The bool of the invasions) which claims that Ireland was once successfully invaded and overturn by Galicians. These were known as the ‘sons of Mil’ and , improbably , took Ireland in a single day.

Whatever the truth of the Celtic origins- and they do not shout out at you in the physical aspects of Galicians or in their language – people like them. Vigo’s football club is, for example, called Celta de Vigo. In front of the Tower of Hercules, the ancient lighthouse overlooking the ocean at La Coruña, a huge, round, modern, mosaic rosa de los vientos, a wind compass, bears the symbols of the world’s Celts – including the Irish, Cornish and Bretons, Bagpipe players are here a common as in Scotland. Some even make it as local pop stars.

From the book ‘Ghosts of Spain’ By Giles Tremet

I found work teaching English

I found work teaching English. I studied at the city’s university and at the Brazilian Institute on the top floor of the Casa Ametller – a beautiful modernist building on the Paseo de Gràcia. Looking out of the window I could gaze upon what some Catalans would describe as further evidence of their ?difference’ . Paseo de Gràcia is home to some of the best work of Barcelona’s emblematic architect, the turn of the century modernist Antoni Gaudí. I could see the strange organic forms and Darth Vader – shaped chimneys above the sculpted, soot-encrusted stone façade of Gaudís Casa Milà –long ago dubbed La Pedrera, the Stone Quarry. Gaudí’ s Casa Batlló was next door. Its scaly, undulating, ceramic tiled roof represents the dragon slain by Catalonia’s patron saint, Sant Jordi. It was, and is, breathtaking stuff – a lesson in how adventurous and imaginative the Catalan mind could be.
I walked everywhere. Stepping on Gaudí’s jellyfish, conch shell and starfish decorated hexagonal tiles on the Paseo de Gràcia, gravity pulled me down to the Ramblas. It was a short hop from there to the narrow, dark medieval, washing adorned streets, tiny squares and austere, voluminous stone churches of the Gothic Quarter.
From the book ‘Ghosts of Spain’ By Giles Tremet

Barcelona was, of course, different then in the mid-1980s.

Barcelona was, of course, different then in the mid-1980s. It still had a rough, port air to it. Quinquis, small time crooks and pickpockets, were a threat on Las Ramblas and in the old city. Transvestite prostitutes did nightly sentry duty on the street corners of the Rambla de Catalunya, the extension of the Ramblas away from the sea. Gypsies would set up a fold-out tables on street corners and rip you off with the timo de los trileros, enticing you to bet on which of three upturned cups of walnut shells hid a pea or a small plastic ball. You walked carefully, or not at all, through the Barrio Chino – the densely populated red light district on one side of the Ramblas. I spent my first couple of weeks in a rundown hostal in a charming but dilapidated square off the Ramblas. The Plaza Real had palm trees, peeling paintwork, a leaky fountain, a dozen drug dealers and a weekly market in what looked distinctly like stolen goods..
I was looking for a job, I wore my hair short, my shirts almost ironed and a suit. The plaza low life left me alone. In retrospect I realised this was because I looked like one of those clean cut young American evangelists who, even today, pound the streets of Spanish cities seeking converts.
From the book ‘Ghosts of Spain’ By Giles Tremet

At carnival time

At carnival time Las Ramblas ramps up its innate capacity for spectacle. The already colourful boulevard is swallowed up by a long procession of clowns, horse-drawn carts, floats, musicians, mounted police, acrobats, dancers, giants, strange creatures with monstrously large heads – the cabezudos, or ‘big-heads’ – and thousands of costumed revellers. These are accompanied by excited groups of children – and quite a few excited adults – scampering after the boiled sweets that rain down like confetti from carriages and floats. The first time I watched it, I found myself shamelessly fighting with four year olds for my share.
The best place to see the carnival procession when it comes down the Ramblas is from the windows of the Palau Moja. A solid, imposing eighteenth- century city palace, it is now home to the culture department of the Generalitat of Catalonia, the regional government. One year I watched from its wrought-iron balconies as, below my feet, the carnival procession dissolved under a sudden downpour of rain. The heavens rumbled. The skies opened. Sodden devils, tottering giants and wobbling big-heads ran for cover. It was a wash-out.
From the book ‘Ghosts of Spain’ By Giles Tremet

Barcelona’s bustling, tree-lined Ramblas

Barcelona’s bustling, tree-lined Ramblas boulevard is a boisterous fusion of noise, colour, and activity. Herds of pedestrians push their way past, the squawking menageries at the exotic bird stalls and the bright, sweet smelling flower stalls. Circles of spectators form around dancing, juggling and fire-eating street entertainers . Human statues stand silent watch as teenage Moroccan bag-snatchers weave through the crowds and, at the port end, a handful of dumpy, cheap prostitutes pitch for business.
I know of not other city where a single street is so important. From sex shops and souvenir stalls to the opera house and, in la Boqueria, the best fresh food market in Spain.. Las Ramblas caters – in one way or another – for the most elemental desires of life. This is where Barcelona celebrates, protests and riots. Built over the course of a stinking stream once known as the Cagalell – the Stream of Shit – it is, more importantly, where Barcelona meets itself. For it is almost impossible, in one of the densest cities in the Mediterranean, for one Barcelonés to walk down Las Ramblas without seeing another he or she knows.
From the book ‘Ghosts of Spain’ By Giles Tremet

Spanish jails are remarkably modern

Spanish jails are remarkably modern, well equipped and tolerant places. Some boast glass-backed squash courts, swimming pools and theatres. Most of the British prisoners in them do not apply to serve their time back home in Britain’s run-down, aggressive, Victorian built prisons. I’ve seen the inside of Brixton, the Scrubs and a cpouple of other’s , a prison-hardened East End drug trafficker in Salamanca’s Top Jail told me once. ”This is a million times better. I miss my mum, but I’m not going back.’
‘A country ‘s health can be measured by how it looks after its weakest member’s, a Spanish prison governor explained to me. If that is so, Spain in in fine fettle. Amongst other things, prisoners get private conjugal visits from their wives or girlfriends in rooms equipped with double beds. This jail, and others, are mixed, though the different sexes live in separate wings. Some couples even meete and get married in Spanish prisons.
From the book ‘Ghosts of Spain’ By Giles Tremet