The
(so called) Battle
of Salamanca
in 1812 was the beginning of the end for Napoleon and beginning of
the rise of Wellington's career. It really should be called the
Battle
of Arapiles
for this, about 10 km south of Salamanca, is where it actually took
place. David Jackson provides basic information here and I just want
to add that the mistake made by the French commander was to conclude
that the cloud of dust behind the “British” lines was the start
of a retreat, rather than what it really was - a supply train coming
from Salamanca. When he desàtched some of his troops to attack it, he
opened up a breach in own lines, allowing Wellington to chuck away
the chicken leg he was snacking on and to pronounce - “Gentlemen,
the day is ours.” The battle is commemorated in a lovely little
museum established in Arapiles through the efforts of a local Spanish
scholar. Two or three years ago, he told me the tourism folk in
Salamanca wouldn't include it in their literature because they didn't
want people to leave the city. Which is a great shame. So, if you're
anywhere near Salamanca, go and visit the museum and stand on the
exact spot where Wellington was gnawing his chicken leg. If you'd
like more details on the battle, click here.
If
you were to suggest that Spain's daily horario
was, at best, unproductive and, at worst, pretty damn stupid in the
21st.
century, I suspect most Spaniards would agree with you. Not that many
have a 'midday' zizz these days, leaving me in the minority. Anyway,
here's an article on how the crisis has impacted on the Spanish
institution of a 3-hour break between 1.30 and 4.30.
The
good news – insofar as there is any good news coming out of Spain
these days – is that, nationally, tourism so far this summer is 8%
up on last year. Here in Galicia, though, hotel occupancy was at a
disastrously low 40-45% in early July but has now risen to a
less-than-exciting 60%. The detail behind these numbers is that,
nationally, the Germans and Brits are coming to Spain's well-known
resorts, whereas Galicia is the summer playground of the Spanish. Who
are feeling pinched. And unhappy about the cost of petrol in getting
here from hotter parts of the country.
Which
reminds me . . . There's a bit of a controversy brewing in 'Galicia's
answer to Marbella', Sanjenjo/Sanxenxo. An empty block of flats has a
large sign on top of it, saying that the flats are available to rent
or buy. Also to gypsy families. Given how much Spaniards detest
gypsies, this smacks of a certain desperation on the part of the
owner. Anyway, there've been allegations that this is racist. Which
is odd, as I would have thought one could argue it was the opposite.
Having
a drink with a friend down in Veggie Square tonight, I was surprised
when she commented on how noisy it was around us. Coming from a
Spaniard, this really meant something. And then, suddenly, almost
total silence. One of the customer's had bumped into the waitress and
a heavy glass ash-tray had smashed on the concrete floor. So, I have
my solution. And just need to stock up on ash-trays.
I
spoke of God yesterday. Today, I feel obliged to give Him thanks for
the lovely ladies of Pontevedra and for their unique way of dressing.
If that's the right word. I should also thank Him, I guess, for the
eyes with which to observe them.
Finally
. . . Whether you have teenagers or not, I think you're going to
enjoy this poster, sent to me by my Vigo friends, Anthea and Phil.
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