Dark skies and dark thoughts in 'Galicia profunda'

(En español abajo).

I know, it's been a while. A combination of work, laziness, travel and lack of inspiration has kept me off these pages. But something's just made national headlines from here in Galicia, and it could not go unmentioned. Nothing like a bristling sense of indignation to get an Englishman's hackles up, and in the finest tradition of strongly worded letters to The Times, here's my tuppence-worth. 

Recently, a domestic case the like of which must pepper civil courts all over Spain and the UK, where the court must decide on custody of a child, raised alarm in Galicia thanks to part of the judge's reasoning for her decision. Here's a national newspaper's article on the incident. The auto-translated version isn't great, but it's good enough to get the gist. In explaining her decision to place the child in her father's care in Malaga, the judge explained that it would be better for him to grow up in a large city than in 'Galicia profunda' - 'deepest Galicia'.

While I can of course see the benefits of cosmopolitanism, such a phrase has no place in a judge's lexicon, displaying as it does a disrespectful lack of understanding of what Galicia has to offer and the compensatory benefits that I think a child would enjoy if they grew up here. Quite apart from the implications of that term, and even if you happened to agree with the wider ruling on a preference for a cosmopolitan upbringing, there are some simple facts of the matter which she appears to have ignored.

The area where the child's mother lives, as well as being visited by large numbers of tourists each year, is only 35 mins from Santiago de Compostela, a historic city of around 100,000 people, and a worldwide tourist destination thanks to the Camino, with an international airport, one of three in the region. It boasts a 526-year-old university, ranked fourth-best public university in the country. The region is home to large centres of the timber transformation, automotive, telecoms, electronics and banking industries. That good enough, judge?

No? OK. Crime in Galicia is among the lowest in Spain, with the province of A Coruña where the child's mother lives one of the safest in the country. That's got to play some part in your thinking about where you'd prefer your kid to grow up, right?

Galicians are commonly considered friendly and welcoming, with the food here having a superb reputation country-wide and the landscape - check out the video below - absolutely breathtaking. The kids in my village enjoy clean air, a swimming pool and other sports facilities, and neighbours who know and look out for them. We've got electricity and internet and everything(!), though the judge appears to believe people still point at passing aircraft around here.

This is, frankly, an example of the all-too common contempt for rural areas which are where most of the damn food comes from, and without which the cities would be screwed. The mother's lawyer is evidently going to appeal and you have to hope that any appeal decision is based on rather more informed and better-considered reasoning than leaning on insulting stereotypes.

Moving on to more positive stuff, and as if to further back up this region's offering, my missus and I just spent the weekend saying in a beautiful casa rural not far from here, as we attended the opening weekend of a spanking new observatory and planetarium in A Veiga, a village about half an hour from Viana.

The other side of the stone is the outer wall of the hotel bar.

Talks were given on black holes, the Islamic influence on modern astronomy, the detection of gravitational waves from a supernova millions of light-years away, and so on. I confess that the visiting Argentinian astronomer's accent, the scientific nature of the talk and my own standard of Spanish occasionally left me lost during that last one, but the fact that I followed them at all shows they were delivered in an accessible and engaging way, as good science should be. 

We were also able to sit on recliners in the planetarium to view an 'as live' shot of the night sky above our heads, with expert commentary on the constellations and galaxies visible to us from a resident astronomer, and watch spectacular animations of our solar system and beyond. We even climbed the stairs into the cupolas to check out the telescopes themselves. 

I'll see your mammary cupolas...

...and raise you a priapic weather station.

The video you saw above was shot from a viewing point next to the phallic meteorological installation pictured. That these installations are here at all is because the area has so little light pollution. The first night, we drove carefully through twisting mountain roads and a genuinely scary thick fog, then walking an unlit (obviously) path to the observatory itself from the car park. I was absolutely expecting zombie wolves or something to loom out of the fog. But the warmth of the welcome and the interesting talks made up for the freezing conditions and the lack of visible stars on the first evening.

Clearly an alien craft disguised as a rock.

The second night was completely clear. Even bloody colder, but seeing a photograph taken of the 2.5 million light-year-distant Andromeda galaxy in real time and hearing the enthusiasm of serious astronomers for the opportunities that this new facility affords them, was inspiring. It was also clear evidence of the modern reality of even the most rural parts of Galicia, in stark contrast to the judge's preconceptions.

I love it here and, were I a parent, would absolutely be happy to bring my child up in so-called 'Galicia profunda'.

Lo sé, ha pasado mucho tiempo. Una combinación de trabajo, pereza, viajes y falta de inspiración me ha mantenido alejado de estas páginas, pero algo acaba de llegar a los titulares nacionales desde aquí, desde Galicia, y no podía dejar de mencionarse. No hay nada como un sentimiento de indignación erizado para levantar los pelos de punta de un inglés, y en la mejor tradición de las cartas enérgicas a The Times, aquí está mi opinión. 

Recientemente, un caso doméstico como el que debe salpicar a los tribunales civiles de toda España y el Reino Unido, en el que el tribunal debe decidir sobre la custodia de un niño, despertó la alarma en Galicia gracias a parte del razonamiento de la jueza para su decisión. Éste es el artículo de un periódico nacional sobre el incidente. Al explicar su decisión de poner al niño al cuidado de su padre en Málaga, la juez explicó que sería mejor para él crecer en una gran ciudad que en la "Galicia profunda".

Aunque por supuesto puedo ver los beneficios del cosmopolitismo, tal frase no tiene lugar en el léxico de un/a juez, mostrando como lo hace una falta de comprensión irrespetuosa de lo que Galicia tiene que ofrecer y los beneficios compensatorios que creo que un niño disfrutaría si creciera aquí. Aparte de las implicaciones de ese término, e incluso si estuviera de acuerdo con el fallo más amplio sobre la preferencia por una educación cosmopolita, hay algunos hechos simples del asunto que ella parece haber ignorado.

La zona en la que vive la madre del niño, además de ser visitada por un gran número de turistas cada año, está a sólo 35 minutos de Santiago de Compostela, una ciudad histórica de unos 100.000 habitantes, y un destino turístico mundial gracias al Camino, con un aeropuerto internacional, uno de los tres de la región. Cuenta con una universidad de 526 años de antigüedad, clasificada como la cuarta mejor universidad pública del país. La región alberga grandes centros de transformación de madera, automoción, telecomunicaciones, electrónica y banca. ¿Es suficiente, juez?

¿No? Vale. La delincuencia en Galicia está entre las más bajas de España, siendo la provincia de A Coruña, donde vive la madre del niño, una de las más seguras del país. Eso tiene que influir en tu idea de dónde prefieres que crezca tu hijo/a, ¿no?

Los gallegos suelen ser considerados amables y acogedores, la comida de aquí tiene una excelente reputación en todo el país y el paisaje – mira el vídeo – es absolutamente impresionante. Los niños de mi pueblo disfrutan de un aire limpio, una piscina y otras instalaciones deportivas, y unos vecinos que los conocen y se preocupan por ellos. Tenemos electricidad e Internet y todo(!), aunque el juez parece creer que la gente sigue apuntando a los aviones que pasan por aquí.

Esto es, francamente, un ejemplo del desprecio demasiado común por las zonas rurales, de las que procede la mayor parte de los alimentos, y sin las cuales las ciudades lo pasarían mal. El abogado de la madre evidentemente va a apelar y hay que esperar que cualquier decisión de apelación se base en un razonamiento bastante más informado y mejor considerado que apoyarse en estereotipos insultantes.

Pasando a cosas más positivas, y como para respaldar aún más la oferta de esta región, mi novia y yo acabamos de pasar el fin de semana diciendo en una hermosa casa rural no muy lejos de aquí, ya que asistimos al fin de semana de inauguración de un flamante observatorio y planetario en A Veiga, un pueblo a media hora de Viana.

Se dieron charlas sobre agujeros negros, la influencia islámica en la astronomía moderna, la detección de ondas gravitacionales procedentes de una supernova a millones de años luz, etc. Confieso que el acento del astrónomo argentino visitante, la naturaleza científica de la charla y mi propio nivel de español me dejaron perdido en ocasiones durante esta última, pero el hecho de que las siguiera demuestra que fueron impartidas de forma accesible y atractiva, como debe ser la buena ciencia. 

También pudimos sentarnos en sillones en el planetario para ver una toma "en directo" del cielo nocturno sobre nuestras cabezas, con comentarios de expertos sobre las constelaciones y galaxias visibles para nosotros de un astrónomo residente, y ver animaciones espectaculares de nuestro sistema solar y más allá. Incluso subimos a las cúpulas para ver los telescopios. 

El vídeo que has visto arriba se grabó desde un mirador situado junto a la instalación meteorológica fálica de la foto. El hecho de que estas instalaciones estén aquí se debe a que la zona tiene muy poca contaminación lumínica. La primera noche, condujimos con cuidado a través de retorcidas carreteras de montaña y una niebla espesa que daba auténtico miedo, y luego caminamos por un sendero sin iluminación (obviamente) hasta el propio observatorio desde el aparcamiento. Esperaba absolutamente que los lobos zombis o algo así surgieran de la niebla. Pero la calidez de la acogida y las interesantes charlas compensaron las condiciones de frío y la falta de estrellas visibles en la primera noche.

La segunda noche estaba completamente despejada. Más frío aún, pero ver una fotografía tomada de la galaxia de Andrómeda, a 2,5 millones de años luz de distancia, en tiempo real, y escuchar el entusiasmo de los astrónomos serios por las oportunidades que les brinda esta nueva instalación, fue inspirador. También fue una clara evidencia de la realidad moderna incluso de las zonas más rurales de Galicia, en marcado contraste con las ideas preconcebidas de la juez.

Me encanta este lugar y, si fuera padre, estaría encantado de criar a mi hijo/a en la llamada "Galicia profunda".

Fierce creatures

Growing up in Brighton and then living in London for 25 years, I haven't the faintest concept of how large a hectare is. Or an acre. I've only a vague perception of what a furlong, also originally a rural measure, looks like because of horse racing. So I'm just going to describe the smallholding - the finca - that I visit fairly regularly here with my partner's uncle as 'big'. Very big.

Placed on one of the valley's steep slopes, there are, variously, beehives, an orchard, walnut trees, potatoes, cabbages, lettuces, enormous tomatoes, courgettes, peppers, asparagus, French beans, spring onions the size of your fist, etc. I've no doubt missed some of it.

It's only about a five-minute drive from our house, and I only go, of course, with my partner's uncle Cuqui ('Cookie', to anglicise it). Now usually, in these pages, I abbreviate people's names just to single letters or only refer to them obliquely; it's just a courtesy to them in case they'd prefer not to have their name placed here in full. The people who know them will know them. I don't need to do that with Cookie - he's so universally known as Cookie that I can only use his nickname here. I've probably been told his real name but genuinely can't remember it. Everybody knows him here. His deep voice and splendid moustache are as much features of this village as the fountain in the main square.

He's an amiable fellow, of blunt and freely expressed opinion - often that if it's not Galician it's no good - who, like everybody here, really knows his food and wine. He's been nothing but friendly and helpful to me since the first time I met him, when he tried to get me shit-faced with his home-brewed liqueurs.

So, arriving at the finca with him, you're greeted by a mastiff the size of a horse laying just inside the gate. Fortunately I know this dog already so his low-pitched growling, most effective to any would-be interloper I imagine, doesn't bother me too much. Nonetheless he did his job, giving me the 'abandon hope all ye who enter here' growl when I approached the gate first. He quickly shut up, though, when Cookie approached and greeted him with a cheery 'sod off', and once we were inside the finca's walls, his new tactic seemed to be to drool me to death. A soppier dog you could not meet, once he knows you're no threat.

Another dog, an English Setter, has to be kept inside one of the buildings when his owner's not there because if left to his own devices, unlike the mastiff, he simply fucks off. Released twice daily by Cookie, he charges around like a nutcase, trying to get the mastiff to join in his games and jumping up at any visitor to see if they fancy a run about. A guard dog he is not.

The half-dozen sheep are partly there to trim the grass, because the place is way beyond the size where any domestic mower, even those posh ones you sit on and drive about, could deal with, and much too steeply sloped in any case. Not knowing me, they keep their distance from me as they patrol the finca, eating anything green and trying to find a way in to the walled vegetable areas. They regard me with a cool suspicion, and if I didn't know better I'd say the one in the middle of the shot below is giving me the skunk eye.

Their other function, of course, is to provide lamb for the dinner plate. The one male who looks after the females for this task is distinctive because of his bloody great testicles. Christ, what a pair of nads. I mean, damn... they're like a couple of coconuts in a wet shopping bag.  

There are other animals working there too. The ones you really don't want to approach, which hang around looking like an LA street gang, are the cats. Feral, of course, they're all scarred and tough-looking beasts which scurry past you and look at you challengingly - "Don't touch me, man. I'll cut you. I'll cut you bad." Seriously, all that's missing are eye patches, tattoos and neck ties. One of them in particular, the boss-man, were he to appear on film, would be played by Robert Shaw. Bent-tailed, limping, scraggy and armed quite literally to the teeth, he was the feline embodiment of Quint from Jaws. 

These could hardly be described as belonging to Cookie. He's merely come to an arrangement with them, whereby he brings them food and they eliminate any rats and mice that may be foolish enough to venture into their postcode and don't savage him on sight. 

Cookie brings, to feed canine and feline alike, offal. An entire set, removed all too recently from a pig - tongue, lungs, heart, kidneys, liver, all still connected in one steaming string which he boils and cuts up for them. Not a meal, or a sight, for the faint of heart. In this, the cats do at least demonstrate characteristics which any domestic cat owner will recognise. While we were busy with something else, one of the cats stole a kidney from the bag and was busy gnawing on it when we came back. When prepared, cut up and served to them, she didn't want to know that same kidney. If it ain't robbed, it obviously tastes inferior. Cat gang culture, I suppose.

There was one other cat there, clearly not part of the gang, since they largely ignored her. This little lady;

Only a few weeks old, she at least was too small to prevent me petting her. Purely to accustom her to human contact, you understand, and not because I'm an absolute softy where kittens are concerned. When we got there, her eyes were fused together with sleep gunk, and her mother being nowhere to be found (she doesn't belong to the street gang), Cookie has to perform the job of her absent mother and wash them every morning to get them to open. She also, of course, gets fed. I hesitated to ask if there were others, but if there were, they've been taken by the eagle that can be seen every day hunting over the lake, or else by foxes. She's either the luckiest or the cleverest of however many of her siblings there were. 

I would, of course, with my English sentiment, take her home and make a pet of her, appalled at her chances. But this is another difference I've quickly got used to - between urban and rural attitudes as much as between Galician and British - such sentiments bemuse some of the locals. For all that Cookie cleans her eyes and feeds her, if she disappears, she disappears and that's how it is. It's certainly not for me to rock up and tell him to do differently. I don't need to learn how to be a local to know that.

(One important point of order in all this - if I get any of this wrong, if I say something here which simply isn't true, it's almost entirely certain that it's down to my language skills, which are sadly lacking. Much more likely than having been told a whopper is that I've simply not improved my Spanish sufficiently to properly understand what I'm being told. Therefore, to coin a phrase, any errors are entirely the fault of the author.)