UNTITLED

Thanks to the heat and flies the decorum classes were put off for a rainy day. Instead we played, danced and had fun. I have done many summer camps in Spain and seem to be a dab hand so I don't like it when interference is felt in the form of being told what to do, especially if it means I have to teach kids manners and how to peel fruit. It is a bit rich inviting kids from Asturias, Madrid and Valladolid to of all places, Aragon, famous for its obstinacy and brutish ways, and then tell them 'we are going to teach you the right way to behave in polite society' when living here sometimes feels as though I have stepped into a time machine and gone back to the Stone Age. It is also a shock to be around kids who don't snatch the register out of your hands, address you as 'oye' or 'chica' or 'joder' or the dreaded 'queeee' which is emitted here 'eehhh?' I wonder if there is room for classes in 'why it's a good idea not to run people over while they are on the zebra crossing'.

So all is great and we are in an agricultural institute opposite 'La Granja' which is where George Orwell spent many an hour trying to figure the Spanish out. This place is mentioned in Homage To Catalunya and there is a palpable atmosphere here with an abundance of birds. As we drove over the little bridge behind La granja a Golden Oriole flew in front and landed in atree where we could see its beauty. Meanwhile about fifty storks looked as though they were grazing in one of the fields nearby. Many of them no longer migrate to Africa and have changed their habits and decided to stay here.