The way that the Spanish talk about their climate makes the British preoccupation with the weather look like a casual remark.  Each year that snow falls in Spain (as it does every year without fail) it is greeted as a unique phenomenon and one worthy of vast swathes of television time, showing presenters knee deep in the white stuff with a 'natural' background of snowball throwing kids.  The falling level of the reservoirs in the summer is painstakingly documented with drowned villages seeing the air again and spoken of in apocalyptic terms as if the rains of Februrary are never going to happen and fill them up again.  And so on for each season as highs and lows are lovingly relayed to appalled viewers who at least have a ready made topic of conversation for the rest of the day.
     This year we have, to be fair, had pretty bad weather.  At least we have if you are looking at the whole of Spain and not just at Catalonia and Castelldefels.
     Here in Castelldefels we usually get off lightly.  Snow in Barcelona (it does happen!) does not mean that anything falls on our little town.  Even The Beast from the East has not really had that much effect, though it has been cold and we have had torrential rain.
     In all the years that I have been living in Castelldefels I have never seen snow where I live, near the sea.  I have once seen snow on some of the surrounding hills, but in my front of back garden - never.
     It was therefore with something approaching shock that I looked out at the car park from my inside seat in the cafe in my local swimming pool and saw undeniable flakes of snow.  Not only did I note it down in my ever-ready notebook, but I took a (bad) photograph of it failing to stick on cars as proof that it actually did occur.
     It seemed fitting to note the occasion with a poem and the following is what, with the sun shining outside and the temperature at 16C or so, I have come up with.
     The last line is one of the main reasons that I live in Catalonia!


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Castelldefels, one winter’s day

Light touch weather,

fleeting, not to stay.

The hills greyscale in mist.

The ‘snow’ a gesture of thrown flakes:

they’re countable.

The kids’ gloved hands,

are raised in

supplication to the skies

to catch the drifting cold.

The stark-pruned spikey canopies

await the promised picturesque.

Lo!  They come again!

Rain’s ghosts!

Zigzags to blot

in spots so slight

the cold evaporates.

Beach side

no flurry fell.

White rain is for TV

and not for us.

And all too soon

the mundane wet will come,

and then, the sun.

It's all in what you mean

Week 1 of cycling – complete!

If progress is cycling both to and from the swimming pool without walking the bike up either of the two ‘hills’, then I have progressed.  I am rapidly developing contempt for pedestrians who will walk in cycle lanes, and a surprising respect for the majority of car drivers who actually do stop when I am waiting at a zebra crossing to get to the next part of the cycle pathway.

            However, let’s not get carried away, as soon as the car park is back in commission – I will be driving!

The loneliness of the 30 min swimmer

Cycling may make you a little more tired by the time you get to the pool for a swim, but there is nothing like an empty pool to reinvigorate you.

            When you want to swim, you do not want splashing people getting in the way, you want to concentrate on the rhythm of your stroke and have as efficient a time as possible.  Or at least I do, and having someone else in your lane lessens the pleasure.

            So it was with considerable delight that the only person who was in the pool when I arrived left it just as I was getting in!

            These pleasures never last, of course and soon – although later rather than sooner – other people selfishly intruded on my isolation.  However, by the time they arrived my swim was almost over and I therefore count myself as having had a good experience and an efficient work out.

            The composition of my post-swim tea appears to have regularized itself into a mixture that I like and I was able to drink and consider in sunshine which was unseasonably warm.

            The notes that I made in my Little Book are already the draft of a poem at http://smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es/ and, as ever, I welcome readers!

Bargain salmon

Lunch was in one of the few places in Castelldefels that doesn’t hike its prices over the weekend for a menu del dia.  Unfortunately my main dish will not be appearing in Toni’s blog because I was halfway through it before I remembered about the camera.  My starter of Caesar Salad was photographed and was delicious.

            We were very lucky to get a table and it was only because our timing was immaculate that we were able to segue our way into a table that became vacant as we walked in through the door.  We were also recognised by the owner and as reasonably good customers it was in his interest to see us seated.  An excellent meal.

Open season!

The forums in the Open University are beginning to become a little more strident as the range and quantity of work that is being asked of us increases.

            The End of Module Assessment is causing various levels of hysteria, especially as we are nearing the cut off date for the submission of a very detailed pro forma outlining what we intend to do.  This pro forma is not given a mark, but if you don’t complete it you fail the course!  That concentrates minds I can tell you.

            My choice of paintings and artist is a little off centre and the choice of critical documents that I have to use it a little difficult.  However, I am encouraged by recent comments by my tutor who seems to be fairly flexible in an approach will might see me subvert (a favourite word in this particular course) one piece which is feminist in tone and re-imagine it as a representative piece of Queer Theory polemic.  Gender criticism is amenable to twisting.  At least I hope it is.  Because that is what I am going to do.  And soon!