Ever since I was a young man in Tehran, I've firmly believed that a siesta is a good thing, if only because it allows me to get by on an hour's less sleep than usual. And now Spanish scientists have come up with the evidence and with tips on how to do it. Twenty six minutes is the optimum, they say. And never in bed.
The curse of the blog . . . No sooner do I stress how un-violent are the drunken revels downtown after the bullfights than some youth is arrested for dragging a broken glass down another's face. But at least he wasn't from Pontevedra but from Marín next door.
Talking about bullfighting . . . Until the late 1920s, the average number of horses killed was 6 per bull. Or 36 per corrida. Around this time, protective cladding was introduced and equine deaths were eliminated. The motivation, however, wasn't humane. The measure was introduced after the guts of a horse had landed in the laps of the dictator, Primo de Rivera, and his elegant French companion. Better late than never, I guess.
A possible solution has emerged to the problems of pigeons under your feet and seagulls nicking your tapa. Get the gulls to eat the pigeons. As here.
The challenge appears to be in training the gulls. They're just not natural learners.
I was approached yesterday by a man wearing a T-shirt saying SYSTEM OF A DOWN. Suggestions as to its meaning welcome.
Talking of meanings . . . In a Vigo park today, we came upon a Parque Infantil de Tráfico. I thought it was a school to teach kids the drug business but am probably wrong. And here's a few fotos of said city.
More conch-blowing. Possibly by the offspring of a Viking raider.
Naked fishermen, dragging a net and clenching their buttocks. Or so our guide insisted. Whom I won't name.
This statue on Gran Vía used to display a flag in the mouth of the top horse and was called "The Landing at Iwo Jima".
And this is something you rarely see in Spain - an accurate English translation of the original Spanish. Albeit with a typing mistake.
And here's the view from the Castro towards the Atlantic Islands. Near the spot where George Borrow was arrested - briefly - for spying, back in 1838. Or thereabouts. When it didn't look much like this.
And, finally, here's the foto that was missing from the series of the graffiti alongside the drive up to the Pontevedra albergue.