A week or two ago I referred to the case of the Colombian woman called Darling who’d finally got the Spanish authorities to accept her name and not force her to find a saintly alternative. If she thought she had it tough, imagine what would have happened to a 17^th century Brit with the surname Barbon but the forename Unless-Jesus-Christ-Had-Died-For-Thee-Thou-Hadst-Been-Damned. For some reason, he preferred to go by the alternative of Nicholas. Needless to say, his father was a Vicar. Appropriately called Praise-God Barbon.

Writing in El País, the chap who has the Chair of International Relations at the Complutense University of Madrid opines that The Spanish autonomous communities – without limits between themselves and with sizeable and expandable competences – are a model for the whole continent. They synthesise respect for what is particular with the development of what is shared. I guess there’s room for alternative views. But I imagine there’s a lot of support for his belief in Brussels, provided it means the end of the nation state and the rise of Autonomous Supra-Regions. Iberia, for example. And The Basque Country, perhaps. Not to mention Greater Cataluña. It will all end in tears.

Meanwhile the Spanish Economy minister – a man with his feet planted firmly on terra firma – has answered the question raised in yesterday’s post by unceremoniously quashing the plans of his colleague, the minister for Housing, for tax measure to help the construction industry. He seems to share the popular view that people who made millions for ten years or more have no right to bail themselves out now with public funds. Though this is not to say it won’t happen when things get worse and ‘Something has to be done’.

Right now, though, the Spanish government appears to think its highest priority is modifying the Constitution and the electoral system so as to make life here less clerical and more secular. Perhaps it’s a distraction strategy. Or fiddling while Madrid burns.

Back in the real world, it’s now official – According to the relevant minister, the Spanish judicial system is not in chaos; it’s just rickety. Well, that’s a relief. Actually, rachitic is the dictionary meaning of the Spanish raqúitico, along with paltry, miserly and stunted. Take your pick. I’m sticking with rickety.

The interminable printer saga: Well, at least the Canon rep has sent me a nice [if pathetic] message – Estimado Colin. Primeramente quería expresarte mis disculpas, entiendo que te puedas sentir molesto por la tardanza en tu pedido, lo que ha sucedido es que el stock de este articulo en los almacenes centrales en Madrid está agotado. Tu pedido está anulado. Te ruego aceptes mis disculpas. Un saludo. Actually, I’ve now seen the same printer for 30 euros less in a shop in town. So Canon could have bought it from them and still made a profit selling it on to me. Four weeks ago.

Galicia Facts

If I read an article in Gallego correctly yesterday, there are around 1100 words for cow in this language. But I probably didn’t. Especially as one of the words quoted – xato – means ‘cat’, as far as I’m aware. Though cuxo might be nearer the mark. I need help here.

Widening the Gallego perspective, it’s reported that the lowest levels of everyday use of this language are in the hinterlands of the cities of Vigo, La Coruña and Ferrol. While the highest are up in the hills and in the coastal region west of Santiago up towards La Coruña. Which includes the Coast of Death, of course.

Which reminds me [twice over] that, if there ever was a year to remind you of this poem, this is it:-

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

If you don’t much like it, be glad you weren’t schooled at a place and a time when it was compulsory to learn it by heart. And if you get to La Coruña, take the trouble to seek out the grave of Sir John Moore. Where you’ll find that rather more than a stone has since been raised at his burial spot. And that the place is beautifully maintained by the city council, in recognition of British involvement in Spain’s War of Independence. From the dastardly Frogs, of course.

The Anglo Galician Association – open to all who speak English – now has a Forum on the web. If you have a query about Galicia, why not register and post it.