As the curtain falls on autumn, the icy cold of winter grips the landscape. The morning began bright
and sunny, with a fresh crispness in the air. Sugar coated fields sparkled in the sunlight as we trundled along the narrow country lanes towards Pablo’s farmhouse. His two guard dogs signalled our arrival with loud, ferocious barking. Like a call to arms, the canine population of the whole village echoed their support.

Alerted to our arrival, Pablo ambled across the courtyard to welcome us. A stern command from their master reduced the dogs to silence and before long, peace and harmony were restored to the village.  
 
‘Come look at this,’ said Pablo excitedly. 
 
He opened the gate and marched quickly across the lane; Melanie and I followed. Facing us was a small, stone-built stable. Its weathered granite walls were patched with bright-green mosses and the old mortar had long since washed away from between the stones. An old wooden door sat awkwardly in the
entrance, held closed with a looped piece of wire hooked over a rusty bent nail.

Pablo released the wire and slowly opened the door. A feisty sheep darted its nose into the opening. Instinctively, Pablo pushed it back into the stable with the palm of his hand. 

‘Come quickly,’ he whispered.

As he entered he flicked a bakelite switch on the wall. We stooped low and followed him through the doorway. The dim glow from a low-voltage bulb revealed a small flock of sheep huddled against the far side of the shed. The space was cramped and the air inside felt warm. On the ceiling, dusty cobwebs hung between thick wooden joists. Underfoot, clean, dry straw formed a soft, spongy-carpet. 

As Pablo stepped slowly towards the flock and the sheep parted nervously. Standing in one corner were two newly born lambs, feeding frenziedly from their mother. Their long woolly tails wagged with excitement as their heads jerked backward and forward, gulping down their mother’s milk.

Sitting silently in the opposite corner was a third, looking lost and alone. For reasons unknown, the mother of this cuddly new born lamb had rejected it at birth. Pablo walked calmly across the stable and picked it up, holding it firmly under one arm. He turned and brought it back to show us.

A tiny bundle of flesh and bones held together in an oversized coat of close-cropped wool. I extended my hand to stroke its head. Instinctively it tried to suckle on my finger. A soft, warm and toothless mouth sucked away on my index finger, but to no avail. At the time, this rejected and forlorn creature was just two hours old and faced an uncertain future. 
 
Two months on and Pablo has taken on the roll of surrogate mother. His wanting companion follows him around the village like a faithful hound and is never far from his side. Uncharacteristically, his whole family have become emotionally attached to this cute little creature. Pablo’s daughter has even given it a name: Missy. 

Missy’s future is now secure. When the butcher’s knife is sharpened, this family favourite will be passed over. Rejection at birth has brought this little creature a long, productive and happy life on the farm. 
 
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Would you like to experience the dream and sample the sights, sounds and tastes of Galicia? Then check this out http://www.getaway-galicia.com 
 
Craig’s book, Journey To A Dream, is available exclusively from Amazon, follow this link for your national store. http://bit.ly/188lOj2

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What a wonderful week of changeable weather: from the ordinary to the extraordinary. Each new day raises a curtain of unpredictability. Daybreak starts sluggishly from the east, revealing an ethereal mist clinging to the undulating landscape. Cold, damp air hovers motionless around the village houses. Plumes of smoke funnel upward from rooftop chimneys and the intoxicating aroma of wood-smoke fills the morning air.

Around the garden, gravity-defying water droplets hang like tiny glass bubbles from intricately woven webs. Natures delicately crocheted doilies draped between dormant grapevines and their rusting training
wires.

As the morning progresses temperatures slowly rise and the mist begins to dissipate: an exorcism of sunlight clears the ghostly shroud. Like the steam from a boiling kettle it rises, slowly at first, until the fierce sun pierces through its veil. Higher and higher it climbs before merging into the powder-blue sky.

A cold chill has gripped the earth, so tightly it refuses to let go. The sun begins its vain battle to warm the day. The only interruptions to this momentous struggle are wispy vapour trails from passing airliners. They linger in the air, broadening and contorting as they fade from view.

The window of time for the rise and fall of winter sunshine shortens with each passing day. Under its watchful gaze we revel in its brief victory against the wintry season. Although short and infrequent, its brief triumph reminds us of the delights of long, hot, lazy, summers.

Lengthening shadows alert us to early evening; there’s just enough time to sample the progress of our maturing wine. Our evening tasting has transformed into a celestial ceremony. Taking due care and reverence, I dispense a generous measure of white wine into a small glass jug. 
 
We sit around a small table in the far corner of the garden: a patch of grass longest served by ultra-violet. Sipping delicately from tall-stemmed glasses, we savour the evolving colour and maturing flavours. Its current hue is that of mellow apple-cider; as for taste, it’s neither dry nor sweet and exhibits a fruity, heady flavour. As the sun descends over the western horizon, our evening ritual is brought to an abrupt end; a biting chill whistles through the air.

The waning sun heralds the rising of a red moon: a textured giant looking close enough to touch. Dark
silhouettes of wispy clouds float across the sky, framing the red moon like the eye of a tiger: a surreal, science-fiction landscape evenHollywood would struggle to recreate.

As the moon ascends its colour transforms from a fiery-red ball into a bright-yellow glow. The night is tinged with luminous silver rays casting jet-black shadows over the Galician countryside. The curtain falls on a stunning day. I’m mournful of its passing yet eager for another to begin.

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If you’ve enjoyed this slice of Galician life why not download Craig’s book, ‘Journey To A Dream’ it’s available exclusively through Amazon and for today only (20 November 2013) the Kindle ebook is
absolutely FREE just follow this link to your national store: http://bit.ly/188lOj2

Would you like to experience the dream and sample the sights, sounds and tastes of Galicia? Then check this out http://www.getaway-galicia.com 

Visit Craig’s website at http://www.journeytoadream.co.uk

Or join in the fun on Facebook http://facebook.com/craigbriggs.spain

Every year towards the end of October, time is stolen from us. We’re all aware of its occurrence but powerless to prevent it. The innocuous stealth of a thief in the night feels more like a smash-and-grab from a daytime mugger. From now until the winter solstice, the dark cloak of evening advances across the sky earlier and earlier with each passing day. 

On nights like these, when even the brightest moon fails to penetrate the concentrated cloud cover, dark desires occupy my thoughts: an irresistible urge that must be satisfied. I leave home and drive through the village. Early evening mist forms a luminescent cape around the streetlights. 
 
Once through the village I hit the open road. From this point on, my only guides are the two bright beams emanating from the car. These focused shafts of light slice through the blackness like a still canvas of moving images. 

Creeping over the hidden horizon is the glow of an approaching vehicle silhouetting the undulating countryside. Suddenly it leaps into view; terror fills the car. For a moment I’m blinded by the piercing light; floating along on experience and instinct. As quickly as it rose, the oncoming vehicle bows its brilliant beam and calm is restored.

My destination on this dark, miserable night is the town of Chantada. Cobbled streets and ancient porticos connect historic buildings, along a labyrinth of narrow lanes and dark alleys. Every footstep echo’s through the haunting alleyways. Dim streetlights form a theatrical backdrop to the fluorescent glow from shop windows. Distorted images of manicured window displays reflect off the damp cobbles. Purposefully I stride through this maze of narrow streets, confident of reaching my goal.

And there it is, shining through the gloom like a welcoming beacon. I push open the door and enter. The cheery jingle of a brass bell and the warm smile of a generous host greet my intrusion.

Floating on the warm air is the exotic aroma of roasted coffee beans. A boiling hiss of steam fractures the muffled chatter of the establishment’s clientele. The unmistakable rattle of cup and saucer and the
musical tinkle of metal spoons add to the atmosphere. 
 
I take a seat and stare at the bar, hypnotised by my Holy Grail. Atop its counter stands a clear glass caldron of liquid chocolate. Within its confines a heaving mass, writhes and undulates under the influence of two metal paddles.

‘What can I get you sir?’ asks my attentive host.

I scroll down the menu of tantalising treats and make my choice. The wait is short and the ritual preparation begins. 

A small white saucer is set on the counter and partnered with a glass beaker. With all the grace of a Bolshoi ballerina, my proficient host pours a generous measure of liqueur into the glass followed by an inch thick layer of liquid cream. This creamy liquid nestles comfortably in the base of the glass. Silently
the rich, milk-chocolate is added, kissing the surface of the cream. A regal delight crowned with soft, fluffy folds of lightly whipped cream and topped with a dusting of ground coffee.

Upon presentation I pause, admiring this delectably delicious work of art. My self restraint is brief and all too soon the masterpiece is devoured. 

For tonight at least, my dark desire is satisfied.  
 
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Would you like to experience the dream and sample the sights, sounds and tastes of Galicia? Then check
this out http://www.getaway-galicia.com 

Craig’s book, Journey To A Dream, is available exclusively from Amazon, follow this link for your national store. http://bit.ly/188lOj2

Visit Craig’s website at http://www.journeytoadream.co.uk

Or join in the fun on Facebook http://facebook.com/craigbriggs.spain

Golden-browns and rusty-reds: clear signs of autumn in Galicia. From now on, bright sunny days will be an infrequent luxury. Dark clouds and wet weather provide a vivid backdrop of shade and colour. Another year is drawing to a close and nature signals the way. Soon the temperature will fall, as quickly as the autumn leaves; but not just yet. I whisper my thanks to Mother Nature and raise my voice to Jack Frost.

Autumn brings few benefits: the kitchen garden is empty and the raincoat is always wet but there are a few. The lawn mower begins its winter hibernation and best of all it’s time to enjoy the Magosto fiesta.

On balance, Magosto is my favourite fiesta: crispy pancetta, crusty bread and that most seasonal of delicacies, roasted chestnuts. This pagan festival is believed to date back to the Celts who settled this land during the Iron Age around 500 BC. Like many pagan festivals, Christianity hijacked the idea centuries ago. 

Here in the village of Canabal, Magosto is celebrated on the 1st of November: All Saints day (El dia de Todo los Santos). It’s a busy time in the village. People come from far and wide to tend the graves of relatives, clean the family sepulchre, dress them with fresh floral tributes, and light prayer candles in memory of loved ones departed.

It’s customary for the village priest to hold mass at the cemetery but with rain forecast, he’d broken with tradition and chosen the church for this year’s venue: from Mass at 5:00 to Magosto at half past. 
 
Melanie and I left the house soon after 5:30; strolled into the village and on to the Local Social (village hall). Cars lined both sides of the street, a rare sight indeed. Villagers were leaving church and heading our way. For tonight at least, the gap between Christianity and paganism was a mere 15 metres.

Across the road from the Local Social, less devout neighbours were busy slicing crusty loaves, frying the salty pancetta and roasting the tasty chestnuts. We waited in the street chatting with neighbours. Tempting aromas of fatty bacon drifted through the crowd.

Buckets of crusty bread and platters of sizzling pancetta coaxed everyone into the hall. One long table stretched the length of the room with benches either side. We gathered around the table: one big happy family. The wine flowed, the volume rose, and the pancetta disappeared.

Pepe entered the hall carrying a large cardboard box and thumped it down onto the table. The scent of roasted chestnuts was unmistakable: rich, sweet and nutty. Everyone rushed towards the box, eager to taste this year’s harvest. Blackened fingers and piles of shattered husks were testament to their taste. 

Once the feast is consumed, mischief is in the air. Some believe that the chestnuts represent the souls of the dead and by eating them they are released from purgatory. To bestow good luck on the living, the charcoaled husks are smudged across the face. 

José made his way through the crowd to say goodbye. Earlier in the evening we’d spoken to him about his son who has moved to Manchester for work. He leant forward to kiss Melanie on the cheek and she reciprocated. Melanie’s naivety was José’s opportunity. He whipped his arm up and with a handful of blackened husks smudged her cheek. From eight years to eighty, everyone gets involved.

Community, neighbours, friends: the Spanish way of life.

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Would you like to experience the dream and sample the sights, sounds and tastes of Galicia? Then check this out http://www.getaway-galicia.com 
 
Craig’s book, Journey To A Dream, is available exclusively from Amazon, follow this link for your national store. http://bit.ly/188lOj2

Visit Craig’s website at http://www.journeytoadream.co.uk

Or join in the fun on Facebook http://facebook.com/craigbriggs.spain