Dipping into the past again - Here’s a British soldier’s account I’ve just read of tribes people up in the Afghan mountains sometime in the 19th century:- I have been told that no great feast is ever given without two or three persons being stabbed. Among the men jealousy is a rage that nothing but the sight of blood can appease. These mountaineers are almost universally smugglers: they sometimes unite in pretty large troops from different villages, under the most famous of their chiefs, and they go down into the plains where they disperse to sell their goods, when they often resist troops sent in pursuit of them. They have always been famous for the dexterity with which they elude the watchfulness of the numerous excise officers under the crown; they know the most hidden caverns, the most rocky defiles, and the narrowest passes. While the men are constantly occupied with this kind of smuggling war, their wives remain at home among the mountains, and do not shrink from undertaking the most laborious employments. They carry heavy burdens with ease, and boast of the superior strength given them by habit; they have been seen wrestling together and striving who should lift the heaviest stones. When they come down to Kabul, they are easily distinguished by their gigantic size, their robust limbs, and their looks which are at once full of wonder and boldness. They are fond of dressing in the finest stuffs and veils, which they obtain by smuggling, and which form a curious contrast with their dark sun-burnt complexions and the coarseness of their features . . . . The very day on which we left Kabul, the mountaineers entered it by day-break, shouting with joy and discharging their pieces exultingly in the streets. The inhabitants of each village arrived together marching without order, and followed by their wives, only distinguishable from the men by their dress, their greater stature, and their coarser manners.
Actually, it’s not Afghanistan; it’s Andalucia. And it’s not Kabul but Ronda. It’s our old friend M. Rocca again, possibly getting a little fanciful about his 1809 adventures down south. And being rather rude about Andalucian women.
Talking of odd women . . . Here, at last, are a couple of photos of the Plymouth revellers a week or so ago. The first one was taken early in the evening, before we all got a little merry and took our breasts out.
And this is my old Frank doing what he does best – playing piano in a Plymouth pub he claims was Francis Drake’s local.
Apropos nothing at all . . . A couple of days after I got back to Spain, I received a Friends Reunited message from my first flame. Guess what city she turns out to live in.
Finally . . . I’d just like to briefly express my appreciation of and admiration for the Galician nationalists who use this blog to rail against Spanish imperialism. After all, how painful it must be to know that more than 85% of your fellow Galicians think you’re a bad joke. So that you’re forced to wage your campaign against Madrid in a blog written in an even more hegemonistic language than Spanish. And which is read mostly by people who don’t even have a vote with which to influence matters. What dedication to your cause it shows to see this as something other than a complete and utter waste of your time. I take my hat off to you all. The future is yours. If neither the past nor the present.
Footnote re Comments: If you read these, you'll know that some cretin is impersonating me there. I'd hope you could tell by the Americanisms and the poor English that it's not really me. I can't be bothered to delet the messages so, if you want to be sure of authorship, click the name. I imagine this 'Colin' is one of the group of imbeciles who call themselves Cade. But, of course, there is no profile offered when you click the name. Small minds.
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