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