Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
Spanish life is not always likeable but it is compellingly loveable.
- Christopher Howse: 'A Pilgrim in Spain'
Covid
The UK: Covid cases, hospitalisations and deaths plummet. BUT: From the Director of the London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine: The idea of ‘zero Covid’ is an illusion. The most likely scenario a year from now is seasonal outbreaks with lower mortality rates
The EU: The EU finds itself in the early stages of a deadly 3rd wave.
Cosas de España
Here's more on one of the 4 ways for 'non-residents' hit by the post-Brexit 90/180-day rule to legally circumvent it.
And here's Lenox Napier on owning a car in Spain.
Cousas de Galiza
Now I'm allowed to go into Pontevedra city again, I've noticed the first example of something I've waited years to see - an unneeded local(shop space) used as a home:-
This is in a street in which I've seen many small shops open and close over the years. Several have stayed closed, leading me to ask why these aren't converted into dwellings. Maybe Airbnb and the huge growth in camino 'pilgrim' numbers have finally incentivised this, and there'll now be a growing trend. If so, it might end the common (and ugly) sight of a block of flats with the entire ground floor of locales all boarded up.
And now that I'm allowed to sit on the terrace of my watering hole again, I noticed 2 things last weekend:-
1. There seems to be a growing custom/obligation for young women to carry a small, ugly dog. Usually in their hands but sometimes in a handbag,
and
2. Even when I'm sitting shirt-sleeved in the sun, many local folk are still sporting jackets, or even overcoats and scarves. It's always wise in Galicia to anticipate a sudden change in the weather but I do find this a tad extreme. I know the forecast was for a temperature of down to zero in parts of Galicia but, as far as I know, this certainly didn't happen. Not in Poio or Pontevedra at least.
Maria's Tsunami: Days 49&50. For poetry lovers.
The UK
British hoteliers fear that holidaymakers are “abusing” flexible booking policies to secure breaks at home and abroad for the same period to maximise their chance of a holiday. They fear they'll be hit with a wave of cancellations, if international holidays are given the green light, with people taking advantage of cancellation policies designed to offer peace of mind. Who'd have thought it? Arguably, you'd be daft not to do this.
The EU
The EU's vaccine nationalism is even more dangerous than it looks. In an age of pandemics, Brussels’ bid to disrupt global supply networks sets a disastrous precedent. So says an ex British PM here.
And another DT columnist sees the Commission's current actions as rather inconsistent with its 'founding myths'. Anyone really surprised? They are myths, after all.
Social media
At last, something to help deal with scammers.
Finally . . .
HT to Lenox for this. . . For political reasons, Spain has never recognised Kosovo, nor even its name. And now refuses to display its flag or play its anthem. The Spanish football federation has caused controversy by referring to Kosovo as a “territory”, as opposed to a country. So, how will an independent Scotland be treated, one wonders.
1 comment:
'olidays is orf da colander.#
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-9389921/Ban-leaving-UK-amid-new-coronavirus-laws-force-week.html
This would be amusing, if it wasn't so serious.
https://www.turbulenttimes.co.uk/news/front-page/defence-a-conflicted-review/
Lost in translation?
Se tivésemos o mundo suficiente e o tempo,
Esta timidez, señora, non foi delito.
Sentariamos e pensariamos en que dirección
Para camiñar e pasar o noso longo día de amor.
Ti ao lado do indio Ganges
Deben atopar rubis; Eu pola marea
De Humber queixaríase. Faríao
Quérote dez anos antes do diluvio,
E debería, se quere, negarse
Ata a conversión dos xudeus.
O meu amor vexetal debería medrar
Máis grande que os imperios e máis lento;
Cen anos deberían ir para eloxiar
Os teus ollos e na túa mirada na testa;
Douscentos para adorar cada peito,
Pero trinta mil ao resto;
Unha idade polo menos para todas as partes,
E a última idade debería amosar o teu corazón.
Pois señora, vostede merece este estado,
Tampouco me encantaría a un ritmo máis baixo.
Pero ás miñas costas sempre oio
O carro alado do tempo que se precipita preto;
E por aí todos mentimos ante nós
Desertos de enorme eternidade.
A túa beleza xa non se atopará;
Tampouco soará na túa bóveda de mármore
A miña canción eco; entón os vermes intentarán
Esa virxindade que hai moito tempo conserva,
E a túa pintoresca honra convértese en po,
E en cinzas toda a miña luxuria;
A tumba é un lugar fermoso e privado,
Pero ningún, creo, abrázao.
Agora, polo tanto, mentres a tonalidade xuvenil
Senta na túa pel coma o orballo da mañá,
E mentres a túa alma disposta transpira
A cada poro con incendios instantáneos,
Agora déixanos deportar mentres poidamos,
E agora, como rapaces amorosos,
Máis ben dunha vez o noso tempo devora
Que languidez no seu poder lento.
Rodemos todas as nosas forzas e todo
A nosa dozura nunha bola,
E rasga os nosos praceres con duras liortas
A través das portas de ferro da vida:
Así, aínda que non podemos facer o noso sol
Quédate quieto, pero farémolo correr.
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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