If Graeme over at South of Watford is to be believed, El Mundo is little more than the Spanish equivalent of a Rupert Murdoch tabloid. If so, I don't know whether it had a more illustrious past. But I do know that Britain's Daily Telegraph did. And this makes all the more depressing its relentless slide downmarket towards tabloid status. So great is this, I've been forced to start reading Murdoch's Times. Anyway, I thought I'd seen incontrovertible evidence of the Telegraph's decline this morning when it printed the phrase after his whereabouts was discovered. But, I have to confess I was wrong. As this site says, this is a word that can be treated as singular or plural. And just because I've never seen or heard the former doesn't mean that the Telegraph is now rubbish. Other things do.
Although it doesn't matter to me - firstly, because I'm retired and, secondly, because I don't go to the beach - I've long held the suspicion that the weather, here in Galicia at least, is worse at the weekends than during the week. And now comes evidence that this is actually so. According to a UK report - "Scientists say the mechanism by which Spanish rainfall comes in weekend clumps depends on weekday cycles of atmospheric pollution." Which is no consolation, of course. No wonder you can't move on the coast roads for lemmings when the sun does actually appear at a weekend.
But, in fact, I did go to the beach today, as my visiting daughter wanted to visit one of the Islas Atlanticas. The day didn't start well as we parked at least a mile away from the embarcation point and so had to leg it to be sure of getting aboard the 12 noon boat. Then the heavens opened within five minutes of the boat arriving and we found ourselves sharing a small bar-café with several hundred shouting, smoking, table-and-floor- space-stealing Spaniards. But the sun finally emerged, things gradually got better and my daughter ultimately professed herself well pleased with the day. Three conversations worth relating:-
Me: [To two Spanish women near where we parked the car]. Excuse me. Can you tell me where we board the boat for the islands?
1st woman: Oh, what is your native language?
1st woman: Oh, I only speak French, apart from Spanish.
Me: Well, we can try it in French, if you really want.
2nd woman: It won't make a difference. We're not from around here. We haven't the faintest idea where the boat goes from.
Me: [To said daughter] It looks like another thunderstorm is coming on.
Daughter: We can shelter under these trees.
Me: Not a good idea when there's lightening.
Daughter: Well, we've both got rubber-soled shoes on.
As I stretch out on the sand with a piece of clothing over my face:-
Daughter: Are you having a siesta, Dad?
Me: No. I thought I'd just suffocate myself with this sweatshirt.
Daughter: Don't let me stop you, you grumpy sod.
The boat to the island left from Vigo and picked us up in Cangas. On the way back, it naturally stopped first at Cangas. So, the most amusing sight of the day . . . The various couples who got off at Cangas, walked to the end of the quay, looked quizzically at their surroundings, then at each other and then raced back towards the boat before it left for Vigo.
Finally - Tuesday's photo was identified by Maria [Not Martin, her husband!] as an anenome. Yesterday's is provoking a bit of controversy . . . Maria says it is an oleander [nerium oleander], whereas Midnight Golfer feels sure it's a bottlebrush [or callistemon]. Having been to the cited web page, I wonder whether the one below isn't, in fact, the said bottlebrush. Albeit without its very characteristic red flowers.