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Sunday, 8 March 2009

OLD BROTONIANS

We are back from our sojourn in the mountains. Poo, the little white Golf who brought us here and will soon be 25 years old passed her MOT and it was decided that we should get the hell out of here and seek solace there. I was hoping we would get snowed in and would have to stay for a few more days like the guests who are staying at the Balnearios de Panticosa. This is not the first time and they get to stay for free. The risk of avalanches is big and they have no choice but to stay in and enjoy the luxurious surroundings. I know what I will be planning this time next year.

While in the valley of Broto we spotted a Lesser Spotted Woodpecker and watched him for ages. Such a beautiful bird and one of many things to be found in this valley which lift the spirits and make you want to weep while you know why. The overlapping sounds of the river Ara and a couple of glasses of vermouth add to the joy and later Basque Jon cooked us beans from Asturias just to guarantee we would see fewer arseholes with a full stomach.

During the night I could hear the road gritter passing through the village because Henderson insisted we had the window open as after our binge the night before he reckoned the best air in Europe would clear our heads. Everytime the gritter went through I got a blast of salt in my mouth and the next day the whole street including Poo was covered in the stuff. This and his cold arse almost put a stop to an otherwise beautiful relationship.

Now we are back and the first person I see is the effing bleeder, my other next door neighbour, who I can't believe I have never written about, poking the letter boxes which is his favourite pastime and the community think it may be him who smashed them all in a while ago. They have been fixed again but some haven't got keys so he was probably just checking. I had a nightmare that the community meeting was all about who had done what to who and because everyone was guilty of something it was all resolved with a warning. The date is for Monday the 16th and I am dreading it. Henderson reassured me that during the dream I was muttering the words 'White Horse' over and over but I can't remember if it was whisky or a pub I had sought refuge in.

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