After an excellent lunch of squid and Albariño today, I polled along to the regular Sunday flea market in Vegetables Square. Possibly because it’s winter, this has gone downhill since my last visit. Always something of a joke, it’s now dominated by gypsies offering the rakings from the house, garden and cow shed of the latest peasant to die in the mountains. Or, quite possibly, his or her rubbish tip. The place was overflowing with items that are not even at risk of being stolen in a billion years, let alone bought.
The precocious 9 year old I wrote about the other day appears to have been Spain’s contestant for, would you believe, Junior Eurovision. In fact, she won it last night. This explains why we were treated this morning to an extra dose of prepubescent groinding on the the TV.
En passant, just one person read my blog yesterday, against 20 or so in each of the previous five days. I considered shooting myself but then discovered that, when you type ‘Galicia Pontevedra’ into Google, you get 450,000 matches, of which the first two are my web page and blog. On such small threads does life hang in the balance. I must get out a bit more.